#post wedding fic

[chicgeekgirl89]

Rating: T Words: 6,934 Summary: In the hours after their wedding Carlos struggles to balance his joy with his grief. A/N: Please accept this in lieu of Seven Sentence Sunday! Thanks for the tags @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut, @kiwichaeng, @carlos-in-glasses, and @strandnreyes! Read on AO3

The reception has been in full swing for three hours.

Carlos smiles softly as he watches Ana swing his nephew around on the dance floor to Kanye West’s “Gold Digger;” a song that he’d definitely put on the no-play list and apparently T.K. had taken right back off again. 

In the end, the hours they spent agonizing over the playlist for the DJ, the color of the napkins, and the font for the invitations don’t even matter. They’re not what he’ll remember from tonight.

When he thinks of this night for the rest of his life he’ll remember the tears in T.K.’s eyes as he said his vows, the way it felt to hold him during their first dance, and the joy on their friends’ faces as they smeared cake all over each other. He’ll feel the ache in his heart over the way his mother’s eyes had gone glassy while she pinned on his boutonniere, the way Luisa had clung just a little tighter than normal to her husband’s hand, the way he kept looking for his father in the crowd only to remember that he’ll never see him again.

The joy and the grief are twined together in his soul in a way that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to separate. And he can only hope that one day they bloom into something that feels like peace.

The day hasn’t been perfect; he’s not sure anything is ever going to feel perfect again. But it has been good. Their family, their friends, their love, it’s all so, incredibly good.

What’s not good is that he hasn’t laid eyes on his husband in nearly thirty minutes. Having T.K. by his side is the only thing that has made today bearable, and now that he’s not here Carlos feels adrift and exhausted.

His eyes search the crowd, taking in Nancy and Mateo who are slow dancing and both more than a little tipsy, his mom talking with one of the caterers about what to do with the leftover cake, Owen chatting with his brother and their family. But T.K.’s sweet face still eludes him. 

He’s about to get up and go conduct a physical search of the premises, but then a hand, its weight familiar even if the gold band on the third finger is still slightly foreign, squeezes his shoulder and T.K. drops into the seat next to him, a plate in his hands. 

His jacket and tie are gone, the top few buttons of his shirt open so that Carlos can see his medallion gleaming in the soft lights that illuminate the dance floor. His hair is a wreck, sweaty and all over the place, and there’s this glow about him, like the joy of the day has lit up his body from the inside out. 

He’s never looked more beautiful. 

“How many pieces of cake have you had?” Carlos asks, a fond smile on his lips.

“Three? Four? No idea babe,” T.K. says spearing another forkful. “It’s our wedding day, the calories don’t count. Want a bite?”

He extends his hand, but Carlos shakes his head. “I’m good thanks.”

Instead of eating it T.K. sets the plate and fork on the table then leans forward and puts a hand on Carlos’ knee, studying his face. “You’re tired,” he says softly.

“I’m okay,” Carlos assures him. “I’m—I’m so happy T.K.”

“I know you are. But you’ve barely slept this week,” T.K. says. “It’s okay to be happy and want today to be over.”

Leave it to T.K. to put what he’s feeling into words. He doesn’t want this day to end; he wants to stay here and dance and laugh and feel the sparkling joy of forever with those he loves. But he also wants to curl up in bed with T.K., wrapped in the quiet softness of his arms, and be alone together. 

Sometimes his husband knows him better than he knows himself. 

He must stay quiet for too long, because T.K. squeezes his knee. “Let’s leave.”

“We can’t leave,” Carlos tells him, checking his watch. “We still have another hour of the reception.”

“Is there a rule that says we have to stay for the whole thing?”

“Well we paid for the whole thing, so we probably should.” He looks out at the crowd again. Paul and Marjan are yucking it up on the dance floor while Asha laughs, Judd and Grace cheering them on. His mom is bringing drinks to his sisters who are watching the kids play with a bunch of glow sticks the staff just provided. It’s beautiful and bright and there’s no way they can leave it behind.

“It’s our wedding,” T.K. says. “We can do whatever we want.”

Carlos hesitates. It’s so tempting. It’s what he really wants. But T.K. is here, eating cake, and clearly having the time of his life. He can’t pull his new husband away just because he’s tired. “I’m really okay,” he says again. “Go back out there and dance.”

T.K. stands, but he doesn’t head back toward their family and friends. Instead he holds out a hand. “Come on.”

Carlos takes it and T.K. pulls him to his feet and then toward the building, away from where the party is. “T.K. where are we going?” he asks.

“We’re leaving,” T.K. says. “And before you say anything,” he continues, cutting off Carlos’ protest, “this is what I want. This day has been…it has been everything I dreamed it would be and more Carlos. But our marriage isn’t about today, it’s about the rest of our lives. And taking care of you is the most important thing I’ll ever do. So we’re leaving. Okay?”

He gives Carlos’ hand a squeeze and tugs him along down the hallway toward the rooms where they’d gotten ready this morning. It takes only minutes for Carlos to pack up his things. Everything is neat and tidy, just the way he left it. T.K.’s room on the other hand is a bit of a wreck and Carlos would tease him about it if he wasn’t so ready to get out of here. 

Instead he helps T.K. hunt for a missing sneaker, fetches his toiletry kit from the bathroom, and waits patiently as T.K. stuffs the clothes he came in into a duffel bag. 

He’s zipping it closed when the door opens and Ana walks in. She immediately yelps and claps a hand over her eyes, then drops it just as suddenly. “Sorry, sorry! I saw you two and assumed I was walking in on reception sex, but you’re both fully clothed so, obviously not. Or you were about to have reception sex and I interrupted. In which case sorry again.” 

“Ana what are you doing down here?” Carlos asks.

“The kids and I are playing hide and seek. So far I’m winning,” she says. “Why are you fully clothed? And packing a duffel bag? Are you about to make an Irish exit from your own wedding?”

Carlos looks at T.K. then back at his sister. “Yes,” he says.

Her eyes go soft with understanding. “Good. I’ll cover for you with Mom, okay?”

He opens his arms and she walks into them. She’s his big sister, but he’s been taller than her for years and he easily envelopes her in a hug. “Love you,” he mumbles into her hair.

“Love you too Carlitos,” she says, her voice a little rough, like she’s holding back tears. “And you T.K.,” she says when they pull apart, going in to hug him too. “Now go. Get out of here. Go start your life together.”

The Camaro is still where he parked it twelve hours ago and just remembering how long the day has been has Carlos sagging a little with fatigue. “I’ll drive,” T.K. offers, and Carlos hands over the keys without resistance.

They’re married now, the Camaro is half his anyway.

Funny how he thinks of everything they own as half T.K.’s except for his heart. That’s belonged to him fully since day one.

“Are you hungry?” T.K. asks as he starts the car. “We can stop and pick something up.”

“Not really,” Carlos says. “We can always order room service at the hotel when we get there.”

Owen booked them a room at some swanky place in downtown Austin where they’re staying for a couple nights before they leave for their honeymoon. They have the honeymoon suite which boasts a jacuzzi, a balcony, a king size bed, access to the hotel’s spa, and a butler. It’s incredibly generous of his father-in-law, and if it were any other time, Carlos would be looking forward to all the things they’re about to do in that hotel room. But tonight? He’s just so. damn. tired.

He must fall asleep on the drive because the next thing he knows T.K. is squeezing his bicep gently and he’s blinking gritty eyes open. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the emotions of the day, but he doesn’t recognize where they are until he stumbles blearily out of the car. He turns and looks at T.K. in confusion over the Camaro’s hood.

“My dad called the hotel and asked them to push the reservation to tomorrow,” T.K. says. “After he explained, they were more than willing to accommodate us. I thought tonight—“ He looks up at the brick building in front of them, “—it felt like you might just want to be home.”

This is what finally breaks him.

It’s as if the center of his chest rips open and he caves inward, wrapping his arms around his ribs to try and hold himself together. How is it possible to feel so elated and so anguished at the same time?

T.K. is there, his hands coming up to cradle Carlos’ face. “It’s okay baby,” he says. “You’re okay.”

“Thank you,” Carlos manages, his voice cracking over the words. “T.K. I—“

“Shh,” T.K. soothes. He presses a kiss to Carlos’ forehead. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Carlos leans heavily against T.K. in the elevator. They’re halfway up before he realizes they didn’t bring in their bags and says as much to T.K. “We’ll get them tomorrow,” T.K. tells him gently. “There’s nothing in there that can��t wait until morning.”

Carlos clings to him like a child, tears still streaming freely as T.K. rubs his arm and murmurs sweet things into is curls while they wait for the elevator to reach their floor.

“Why don’t you go take a shower?” T.K. suggests once they’re inside the loft. “I’ll make us some tea.”

It’s ridiculous, but the thought of being separated from T.K. for even as long as cleaning himself up feels impossible to bear. “Come with me?” Carlos asks. “Please?”

“Yeah, baby. Of course.” T.K. brings Carlos’ knuckles to his lips for a kiss and then guides him toward the bathroom.

Carlos doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until he starts trying to undo the buttons on his shirt. He only manages a few before T.K. takes over, strong, capable, and steady. When he finishes Carlos slides it off, letting it drop to the floor without caring that it’s not anywhere close to their laundry basket. His undershirt, pants, boxer briefs, and socks join it as T.K. turns on the spray of the shower. 

Carlos steps in, the water hitting him in the face, not fully warm yet. He closes his eyes and lets it pour down, holding his breath until his lungs feel like they might burst. He only releases it when he feels T.K. step in behind him, his husband’s hand finding the small of his back. Carlos leans into him as T.K. presses a soft kiss into the skin of his shoulder before reaching around Carlos for the shampoo. 

“I can do it,” Carlos tells him. 

“It’s okay,” T.K. says softly. “I got it.”

T.K.’s hands work through his curls first, soft and gentle, and then down the rest of his body. The water washes away the sweat and the tears, but not the ache that now lives permanently between Carlos’ ribs. It hurts more with every breath and he struggles to try and push past it. He doesn’t want to feel this. Not tonight. 

“Go dry off,” T.K. says when all the suds have been rinsed away. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Carlos towels off, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before sinking down on the edge of their bed. He should do something. It’s their wedding night. He should pour sparkling cider or sprinkle rose petals or find the leftover chocolate covered strawberries his sisters brought to their family dinner that are somewhere in the back of the fridge. But he can’t make himself move. All he can do is sit and try to remind himself how to breathe. In, out. In, out. In…

T.K. steps out of the bathroom in a clean pair of boxer briefs, the scent of their shower swirling around him. He’s gathered up their soiled clothes from the bathroom floor and Carlos watches as he sorts them out according to their laundry system. It’s this small act of love that causes tears to well and begin falling silently all over again. He’s married someone so good, so tender hearted. A man who takes the time to care for the pieces that Carlos can’t right now. 

“I love you,” Carlos says, the words somewhere between a croak and whisper. He wishes for all the world that there were better words. Love is not strong enough for the feeling that lives inside him because T.K. Strand is his. 

T.K. closes up the hamper and comes to him, his hands cupping Carlos’ face and wiping the tears away. “I love you too.” He looks into Carlos’ eyes, searching for something, though Carlos doesn’t know what. “Do you want tea?”

Carlos shakes his head and tilts his chin up. T.K. understands his wordless request and meets him, their lips coming together in a brief kiss. “Let’s go to bed,” T.K. says softly, brushing his thumb over Carlos’ cheek one more time before leaving him to slide beneath the covers on his own side of the bed.

Carlos joins him in the middle of the mattress, hands reaching to pull T.K.’s body into his. He’s desperate to close his eyes and succumb to the oblivion of sleep, but his husband deserves something more. Something better.

He kisses T.K. once, then again, trying to say without words what he’s feeling, like maybe if T.K. can feel it too he’ll be able to help Carlos make some sense of the tangled emotions knotting themselves around his heart. 

T.K. kisses him back, his hand coming up to rest on Carlos’ side, unusually still, just his thumb moving back and forth in a soothing motion. Carlos takes a breath and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss, the warmth of T.K.’s mouth a familiar comfort against his own. 

He finds the waistband of T.K.’s briefs and begins to slide them down his hip, but T.K. covers Carlos’ hand with his own breaking their kiss. “Baby no, not tonight,” he says quietly.

Carlos feels like he’s grasping at straws. There’s a script for how a wedding day is supposed to go, and T.K. has been nothing but gracious as they’ve improvised the whole thing instead. But there are expectations about how the night is supposed to end and Carlos can’t stand the thought of T.K. being disappointed if it doesn’t. “But it’s our wedding night. It should be special. You deserve to feel special.”

His voice breaks as he says it, the words coming out almost like a whimper.

“Oh Carlos. You are in the midst of unspeakable grief and you chose me anyway. That is,” T.K. swallows hard, his eyes growing bright with tears, “that is more than I could ever have asked for. I don’t need your body to make me feel special tonight.”

Carlos inhales a shaky, uncertain breath. “Are you sure?”

“You’re exhausted and grieving. This isn’t the moment. It will be. But not tonight. Tonight we both need to rest.” He gives Carlos a watery smile. “I’m not exactly in the right headspace either.”

Carlos’ heart squeezes in his chest. He’s spent the last few hours so overwhelmed with his own pain that he hasn’t thought of T.K.’s. “Your mom?” he asks.

T.K. nods, his mouth twisting a little, like he’s trying not to cry. “I miss her.”

“I miss her too,” Carlos tells him. “I wish she could see you. She’d be so proud.”

“I thinks she can,” T.K. says. “I hope she knows that I chose right. That you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I hope she knows how incredibly happy you make me.”

Carlos absorbs his words and feels them touch on a something he’s been feeling for the last week but hasn’t quite had the words for. “I’m sorry,” he says.

T.K. furrows his brow and brushes a hand through Carlos’ damp curls. “For what?”

“When your mom died, I thought…I thought I understood. I thought I knew how deep your pain was and that I could be a part of fixing it for you. I didn’t know,” he swallows down a sob that gets stuck in his chest where it aches and aches, “I didn’t know that it’s unfixable. I didn’t know how deeply losing someone breaks you. I wasn’t enough for you then. I didn’t do the right things or say the right things and I—“

“Carlos, Carlos stop,” T.K. soothes. “You were enough. You were everything I needed, even though you couldn’t understand.” He bites his lip, his soft gaze full of compassion and sorrow. “And I’m sorry that you do now.”

“It’s too much,” he says, his voice cracking. “I don’t know—god everything hurts. I don’t know how I can hurt so badly and feel so much love for you at the same time.”

“It’s okay,” T.K. tells him. “Don’t try to figure it out. It will ease.”

“It doesn’t feel like it will,” Carlos tells him, giving voice to the fear that’s eating inside him. He doesn’t want to be like this forever and he’s terrified that he’s just forced T.K. into marriage with a grief stricken monster.

“It will,” T.K. says. “You can trust me, it will.” He kisses Carlos’ knuckles. “Turn over. Let me rub your back.”

He’s too tired and sad to protest, so he does as his husband asks. T.K. moves his fingers slowly up and down Carlos’ spine. Carlos turns his head so he can see him, focusing on the feel of T.K.’s fingers against his skin and his eyes immediately begin to slide shut. “I love you,” T.K. tells him again and again and again, the only weapon he has to wield against Carlos’ exhausted grief. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Carlos says, his words slurring with sleep. “I love you.”

When Carlos wakes in the morning he feels rested for the first time in days. His head aches, his eyes feel gritty, and his face is stinging and raw from the salt of last night’s tears, but he doesn’t have that spinning, dizziness that comes with lack of sleep or the immediate feeling his gut that something is wrong. He remembers within seconds, he always does, that his father is gone. But it’s immediately followed by a second, much more welcome thought; he has a husband.

He shifts a little and reaches out blindly, his hand landing on T.K.’s thigh. When he manages to blink his eyes open he finds T.K. sitting up against the headboard, smiling fondly down at him. “Good morning husband,” he says softly, brushing his fingers through Carlos’ curls.

“Good morning,” Carlos says, smiling back. He rolls onto his back and captures T.K.’s hand, staring at the gold band encircling his finger. “You’re happy?” he asks, looking up to meet T.K.’s eyes.

“So happy,” T.K. assures him. “So, blissfully happy.”

“Me too,” Carlos says. He shifts a little, brow furrowing when he sees what’s in T.K.’s lap. “Are you reading my book?”

“I am,” T.K. says. 

Carlos furrows his brow. “You don’t read. And you definitely don’t read my smutty romance novels.”

“That’s true. But you’ve been asleep for a long time and I needed a way to entertain myself because you seemed very reluctant to let me go last night. I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

It’s crazy how T.K.’s words can light him up from the inside out. The level of care T.K. lavishes on him is unparalleled. “Thank you,” Carlos says softly. “What time is it?”

T.K. glances at the clock. “A little after eleven.”

“Eleven!” Carlos startles. “I slept for twelve hours?!”

“It’s good babe. You’ve barely gotten any sleep this week. You needed the rest.”

Carlos is still shocked. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since like eight.”

“You sat here with me for three hours?”

“I did get up and go to the bathroom,” T.K. admits. “But I was very quick. I wanted to get back and find out why Alex hates Henry so much.”

Carlos snorts. “He doesn’t hate him.”

“Oh I got that,” T.K. says. “The blatant horniness practically leaps off the page.”

“Don’t make fun of my book.”

“I’m not! I’m not!” T.K. chuckles. “It’s sweet the way they want each other.”

“That’s why I picked it,” Carlos says. “It felt like it might be fun to read before our wedding. Two young men falling desperately in love.”

“Just like us,” T.K. says, locking their fingers together. “I am desperately, desperately in love with you Carlos Reyes. Always have been. Always will be.”

“Soulmates,” Carlos says softly.

T.K. nods. “Soulmates.”

He pushes himself up so they can kiss, long and sweet. When he pulls back he grimaces. “Sorry. Morning breath. I didn’t brush my teeth last night.”

“Yeah I knew you were out of it because you skipped that and the seven step skincare routine,” T.K. teases lightly.

“Is this what marriage is going to be? You making fun of my books and my self care routine?”

“Absolutely,” T.K. says immediately. “It was a footnote in my vows. I vow to take care and nurture you heart for the rest of my life and also mock you mercilessly as is my right as your husband.”

“Damn,” Carlos snaps his fingers. “I knew I should have read the fine print.”

“Too late. You’re stuck with me,” T.K. says. 

“Stuck with someone who puts off our hotel reservation and stays with me in bed all morning. Not a bad way to be stuck,” Carlos says, partly to T.K. and partly to himself.

“How do you feel this morning?” T.K. asks.

Carlos considers this. “Better,” he says. “Lighter.”

“We don’t have to go to the hotel,” T.K. tells him. “We don’t even have to go on our honeymoon if you’re not feeling up to it. We can cancel the whole thing and just stay here.”

It feels overwhelming to try and make that decision. He feels okay now, in control of the grief instead of letting it consume him the way it had last night. But his hold on it feels tentative and he’s not sure what tomorrow or even the next few hours will bring.

T.K. seems to sense this. “One thing at a time,” he says. “Do you want to go to the hotel?”

“Yes.” Carlos is a little surprised by how quickly the answer comes, but the thought of spending time with T.K. in such an incredible space feels safe enough. They’ll be close to home, they can always come back if he falls apart. “Yes I want to.”

T.K. beams at him. “Me too. Let’s go.”

Their bags are still packed and in the car, they hadn’t planned on coming back home after the wedding at all, so they’re ready to go in a matter of hours.

Carlos drives this time, T.K.’s hand tucked into his most of the way. He keeps rubbing his fingers over the cool metal of T.K.’s wedding band. In so many ways it feels like they’ve been married since the day T.K. came home to the loft, but having this tangible, visible reminder of their love feels so incredibly special.

They pull up to the valet and Carlos brings T.K.’s hand up to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “All right, save it for the jacuzzi,” T.K. teases, making him smile. 

The joy he’d felt yesterday during the ceremony and the beginning of the reception feels like it’s rekindling in his chest. He’s married. For real this time. To a man who holds his heart and his body with care and love. It’s more than he ever could have dreamed of.

They check in and are immediately swept into five diamond luxury. Their bags are whisked away and they’re given fresh, fruit flavored water before being ushered upstairs by their personal butler Victor. It feels slightly ridiculous, they’re a paramedic and a police officer, not the Kardashians, and he catches T.K.’s eye more than once in the elevator, his husband looking like he’s about to burst into laughter at the poshness of it all. This absolutely feels like something Owen Strand would enjoy and is far too rich for the two of them.

“Mr. and Mr. Strand-Reyes,” Victor says as they reach the penthouse floor and Carlos bites back a laugh because of course Owen made sure the reservation went his way on the hyphenation, “welcome to your suite.”

The door slides open and they walk into a room so big the loft could fit in it three times over. There are floor to ceiling windows that highlight the downtown world of Austin, along with a king size bed covered in rose petals, a freaking chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a bottle of sparkling cider on ice, and a tray of handcrafted pastry treats. They can’t see the bathroom from where they’re standing, but Carlos has a feeling it’s equally as grand as the rest of the room.

Victor explains the call button to them and gives them a tour of the space (the bathroom is indeed huge and Carlos feels T.K. squeeze his hand when Vincenzo shows them how to work the jacuzzi), while a second hotel employee delivers their bags and begins to unpack for them.

It’s everything last night should have been and Carlos resolves to make up for ending their wedding night in tears. Tonight? Tonight things are going to be perfect.

“Well, your dad really outdid himself,” Carlos says when Victor takes his leave. “If Owen Strand was a hotel room, this is what he’d be.”

“My dad does enjoy going overboard,” T.K. says, hopping up onto the bed and bouncing a little. “How much do you think it’s going to cost if we break that chair over there?”

“More money than we’ll ever make in our lifetime,” Carlos says.

“That’s what I thought.” T.K. flops all the way down onto the comforter, rose petals fluttering around him. “Oh my god this bed is amazing. Babe, come here.”

He wiggles a hand and Carlos huffs a fond chuckle as he walks over to join him. They lie flat on their backs staring up at the crystals of the chandelier, sparkling with tiny rainbows as they catch the light of the late afternoon Austin sunlight. “We’re married,” T.K. says softly. He turns his head and looks at Carlos. “You kissed me in a honky tonk bathroom and then you married me.”

That night seems like a million years ago and yet Carlos can still feel every second of it in his bones. The instant he’d looked into those green eyes he should have known this was where they’d end up. It was inevitable. “This is a little nicer than that bathroom,” he says, his eyes dropping to T.K.’s lips. 

“It is,” T.K. agrees, leaning closer, that half lidded, wanting look on his face.

The kiss is soft, the perfume of the rose petals filling the air as they’re crushed beneath their bodies. Carlos doesn’t wait long before rolling so that he’s hovering over T.K. There’s an urgency thrumming through his veins, but he refuses to give into it. He doesn’t want to rush this moment. He wants it to be like that first night, so bright and sharp that it writes itself on his very soul so he can relive it over and over again in the years to come. 

“Let’s get this off,” Carlos murmurs, sitting back so that T.K. can push himself upward. They work together to remove his shirt and then he lays back down again while Carlos makes quick work of his sneakers and then undoes the button on his pants, slowly sliding them down his legs.

T.K. puts his hands behind his head, his eyes following Carlos’ every move. “Yours too,” he says when Carlos goes to rejoin him, still fully clothed.

Carlos shakes his head. “Let me take care of you first.”

But T.K. sits up again, his hands coming to rest on Carlos’ hips. “If you’re taking care of me, then you should give me what I want,” he says, tilting his head to the side and looking up at Carlos from underneath his lashes. When Carlos doesn’t move T.K. lifts the hem of his shirt with one hand and presses a kiss into the softness below his navel, causing the muscles in Carlos’ stomach to clench with want. He drops one hand into T.K.’s hair, tightening it when T.K.’s teeth scrape gently across his skin. “Okay,” he breathes. “You win.”

T.K. smirks up at him. “I usually do.”

Bastard. He always does. 

Carlos pulls off his shirt and throws it somewhere to be found later and then lets his pants join it. “Better,” T.K. says as he reclines once more, his eyes going dark as he drinks in the miles of bare skin Carlos has exposed. 

Carlos presses his knees into the mattress, straddling T.K.’s hips. He gazes down, memorizing the sight of him with a halo of rose petals scattered around his head. T.K.’s lips are already pink from their kisses, his cheeks flushed with desire even though they’ve barely started. He’s so achingly gorgeous that it takes Carlos’ breath away. 

T.K. reaches up to cradle his face. “You’re my husband,” he says. “We take care of each other.”

Husband. Carlos lowers his head and kisses T.K. once, then again. He breathes the word into his mouth, marks it into his skin with his teeth, paints it with his tongue into the lines of his stomach and hips until not a single part of him is unclaimed. Nothing about them has changed physically, but those two syllables make everything feel different. His mind knows and he ensures T.K.’s body does too. 

It’s soft and slow, the minutes melting into hours as they take their time finding their way through this new level of intimacy.

In between, when they’re catching their breath, they drink the sparkling cider and feed each other pastries in a tangle of bedsheets before falling back into each other’s arms again. By the time the sky turns pink with dusk Carlos feels boneless with pleasure. He never wants to leave this bed. He never wants to be separated from T.K. again. 

“I’m hungry,” T.K. says from where his head is pillowed on Carlos’ chest. He’s stroking his fingers slowly up and down in the space between Carlos’ hip and his ribs. “Let’s order room service.”

Carlos’ stomach rumbles in agreement, putting an end to his plans to stay in this bed forever. “Good idea,” he says, pressing a kiss to T.K.’s hair. “Go ahead and grab the menu.”

T.K. props himself up so he can look at Carlos. “Oh I have to be the one to leave the bed?”

“Well you’re on top right now,” Carlos reminds him. “And you did say you wanted to take care of me.”

“I believe I said we take care of each other,” T.K. reminds him, poking a finger into his stomach. 

“Well if you get up I promise I will take care of you any way you want when you get back,” Carlos says with a grin.

T.K. huffs but rolls off the bed, walking across the room without bothering to put any clothes on. Carlos sits up against the pillows, watching as his husband walks across the room and grabs the menu off the table. He smirks when he turns around and catches Carlos staring. “Like what you see?”

“Always,” Carlos says.

T.K. plops back onto the bed, turning the menu over and reading through it. “How do we feel about duck confit tacos? Or strawberry goat cheese crostini?” He looks up at Carlos. “Let’s get both. It is on my dad after all.”

“Whatever you want,” Carlos says and means it. God he would do anything for this man, his heart is so full he feels like he could burst.

T.K. orders half the menu in the end and insists on a glass of wine for Carlos even though he says he doesn’t need it. “We’re celebrating,” T.K. says firmly. “You should drink the fancy wine.”

“Okay,” Carlos agrees. “If it will make you happy I will drink the wine.”

“Good,” T.K. says. He sits back and looks at Carlos. “How are you feeling?”

Carlos’ heart twinges and he tries to push it away. He doesn’t want anything to poke at their little bubble of happiness. “I’m fine,” he says, smiling and settling back beneath the sheets. “I’m happy T.K. Really. I’m not…last night won’t happen again.”

“It would be okay,” T.K. says softly, “if it did.”

Carlos swallows hard. “I don’t want to feel like that anymore.”

“I know,” T.K. says, his face compassionate. He squeezes Carlos’ knee through the sheets. “I wish I could tell you that you won’t. That the worst of it is over.”

“I know you can’t,” Carlos says. “I know it’s…I know it’s going to take time.”

T.K. nods and then leans over and reaches into his suitcase. “I got you something.”

Carlos holds out his hand and T.K. drops a silver chain into it. It coils in his palm and Carlos looks up at him questioningly. “When I’m on shift,” T.K. says, “I’m going to wear my ring on the chain with my medallion. I thought you might want a way to keep our ring and your dad’s ring close too.”

Carlos looks down to where both rings rest on his fingers, one of them a blessing, the other a reminder of his loss. Tears clog his throat at the thoughtfulness of his husband. “Thank you,” he says. “God, I love you so much, you know that?”

Instead of answering T.K. leans forward and kisses him. “I know,” he murmurs against Carlos’ lips. “Always and forever I know.”

The warmth and weight of their bodies pressing together makes Carlos thrum with want all over again and he pulls back reluctantly. “We should wait,” he says. “Victor will be here soon and we don’t want to give him a show.”

“Are you sure?” T.K. asks, ever the bad influence in their relationship.

“Later,” Carlos says, giving him another firm peck on the lips to finish it. 

“Fine,” T.K. says with a roll of his eyes as he slides off the bed. “I have to go to the bathroom. Don’t do anything fun without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Carlos says as he disappears behind the bathroom door.

His phone chirps and he picks it up, his heart immediately squeezing with a lightning flash of pain. It’s a reminder about their flights tomorrow. They’re supposed to be on a two fifteen flight to Mexico. And they still haven’t decided if they’re going.

A second reminder pings onto the screen about their hotel reservation. He taps it and watches as it opens up to the hotel’s home page. His eyes drink in the sight of blue water, white sand, gorgeous pools, and stunning sunsets. It’s beautiful. The stuff honeymoon dreams are made of. 

He hears the toilet flush and the water run in the sink before T.K. reappears, now dressed in a massively fluffy white robe with the hotel’s logo embroidered over his heart. “I’m never taking this off,” T.K. says, holding out his arms so Carlos can get the full effect. “This is the softest thing I’ve ever put on. I feel like a WASPy woman from New England.”

He catches sight of Carlos’ face and cocks his head. “You okay?”

“Will you be disappointed if we don’t go to Mexico?”

“No,” he says immediately. “We can do it another time. Or never. It doesn’t matter to me. All that I care about is you feeling safe. If that means staying home then that’s what we’ll do.”

“T.K. the entire last week has been about me and what I need,” Carlos says softly. “What do you need? What do you want?”

“I want to do what’s best for you.”

“T.K.”

T.K. shakes his head and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Sorry babe. It’s all about you this time.” He flashes a smile. “Don’t worry, it will be all about me again someday.”

Carlos snorts. “I’m sure it will.”

“But for now you have to make the call. And if you can’t, then I’ll just tell you, we’re not going. I’m not taking you out of the country when you’re uncertain about it. If you barely made it through a vacation with your family out of state, we’re definitely not going somewhere that requires a passport to get back.”

Carlos’ heart tears a little bit. Hearing T.K. talk about them not going hurts. They’ve both used up so much vacation time, there’s no chance they’ll be able to go again in the next calendar year. “I think we should go,” he says, testing the words out to see how they feel.

T.K. looks at him intently. “Are you sure?”

Carlos glances down at the pictures again. “So much about the last few months has been us trying to scramble and fix things. We had to rush to plan the wedding and then we barely made it to the altar at all. This is one thing we can do that fits the script of getting married. I think it might feel good to do something normal. We need a break. We need time and space. I think,” he swallows, “I think that’s what my dad would want for us.”

“I think so too,” T.K. says.

It feels right. “Then we’re going.”

T.K.’s face breaks into that sunshine filled, elated grin that took Carlos’ breath away on that honky tonk dance floor three years ago. “Baby! We’re going to Mexico!”

He launches himself at Carlos, tackling him into the mattress and kissing whatever part of him is closest to his mouth. Carlos laughs and pushes him off. “Stop! Victor’s going to be here any minute.” He looks around and winces. “Maybe we should clean up a little.”

The room looks like they’ve been having a sex marathon. Their clothes are everywhere, the sheets and duvet are practically on the floor, and somehow they’ve knocked over the fake potted plant in the corner. 

T.K. rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure Victor knows what people get up to in here. It’s fine.”

Carlos starts to get up. “I’m just going to move—“

T.K. grabs his hand and forces him to stay. “Do not get out of this bed. We only have so many hours left and we are not wasting time cleaning up.”

Carlos gives him a look. “Fine then. What do you want to do while we wait that doesn’t involve sex or cleaning?”

T.K. flops onto his side of the bed. “Read me some more of your smutty book.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes seriously. I want to know what happens on New Year’s Eve.”

Carlos laughs as he reaches down beside the bed and retrieves the book from his bag. “I’ll make a romance reader out of you yet,�� he says as T.K. snuggles into his side.

“One book,” T.K. says. “I’m not committing to liking an entire genre. Don’t invite me to your book club.”

“That’s how it starts. One book and then another and then another…”

“Not happening babe.”

Carlos smiles fondly. “Good thing I have the rest of our lives to try and convince you.”

#Crowd Me With Love #Tarlos #Post Wedding Fic #Husband Era #Tarlos Husbands #Tarlos Wedding #911 Lone Star #911lsfic #911 Lone Star Fic #Tarlos Fic

[filthy-mudeoki]

Together

It’s their first weekend in their home as a married couple and Sang Zhi could not have asked for a more perfect start to the day. 

Tagging: @kairadiamond She comes up with the ideas. I just write them! Thank you for sharing and trusting me with your ideas!🤍

Sooo it's a lil steamy ...

She feels the weight of something across her and she knows it’s not the blanket. It’s Jiaxu’s arm and she feels it even more when he tugs her closer. Instinctively, Sang Zhi snuggles closer. It’s a cold Saturday morning and she is going to take full advantage of the warmth her husband is giving her. 

That makes her smile, even in her sleep. 

Husband. 

He’s been that for nearly two whole weeks now and she can barely stop herself from grinning like a loon every time she hears it. It’s the first weekend back since their honeymoon, and she wants nothing to interrupt the solitude that has been just the two of them for the last couple of weeks. Of course, Jiaxu had tried to convince her to extend their stay, but she has her work and he has his, awaiting them. His company has become very successful over the years. Her job, much like the one she first has as an intern was going very well and while she might be sad that their honeymoon is over, she’s not to upset about going back to work either. 

“I like it when you smile like that,” she hears him mumble into her hair. 

She blushes because his voice is deep and riddled with sleep and it still does things to her. So, she hides her face into the crook of his neck, hitching her cold feet up onto his thigh. He hisses in surprise and she giggles. 

“What should we do today?” she asks. 

“Hhm, we could stay here …” he teases. 

She pulls back slightly and chuckles when she sees the flirty little smile on his lips. “Tempting, but it’s our first weekend.” 

He frowns. “It’s not.” 

He’s right of course. Their home is one that they’ve taken care to getting ready over the course of many months. Jiaxu for the most part has been staying in it. It was only recently that Sang Zhi moved most of her things into the empty drawers and filled her portion of their home. But over the course of those months, she’s stayed over of course. Not as often as either (or propriety) would have liked. 

“It is. Now that we’re married. This is the first weekend we’re here, together and married,” she tells him. 

“You’re right,” he agrees and Sang Zhi almost believes that he’s forgotten that fact if not for the way he’s struggling to hold back his smile. “We should find some way to celebrate that, don’t you think?” 

Before she can say otherwise, Jiaxu shifts her so she’s beneath him and he’s kissing the space beneath her ear and all the way down her neck. She sighs contently and moves, melting into him effortlessly. Her hands reach up to anchor him to her and it falls down his back and she grazes the edge of his boxers. 

For a moment she’s brought back to the first time she saw them. In his cupboard when she had to pick up clothes for him because he was sick in hospital. It’s an absurd random thought and it makes her laugh. 

Surprised, he looks at her with a raised brow. 

“Why are you laughing?” he asks in disbelief. 

She wonders if her face is pink because of her stray thoughts or his attention. She thinks it might be the latter but she’s going to tease him over the former. 

“Just thinking about the first time I saw these,” she says as her fingers dance over the edge of his boxers. 

He raises a brow, a smirk already playing on his lips. “I believe that was in our first home together.” She shakes her head and he tips his to the side in thought. “It wasn’t?” 

“No. Don’t you remember? When you got sick and I brought clothes for you to the hospital.” 

Jiaxu visibly blushes which is all always a welcome sight to her. “I guess you’ve always liked them off me.” 

She guffaws and smacks his arm. Jiaxu is quick to grab her fingers with one hand. He leans in a little more, the strain from holding him above her taking some effort now. Jiaxu intertwines their fingers before turning her hand over and placing a kiss over the wedding band that now joins her engagement ring. She’s still smiling when he takes their joined hands, placing it slightly higher up on their bed before kissing her. His other hand is pulling up the shirt (his shirt) that she is wearing and she’s helping him. 

He swallows a throaty moan of hers and she knows they’llprobably make good on his idea of staying exactly where they are all day. 

Only, a beat later, just as Jiaxu is tugging the shirt up a little more, a phone rings and they both freeze. She looks at him with wide eyes and he’s already shaking his head, leaning in to kiss her again. 

“Ignore it,” he mumbles against her lips.

She chuckles. “I shouldn’t. It could be important.” 

“It’s not,” he says and he’s almost got the shirt off when the call ends unanswered. “See? Not important.” 

Sang Zhi is about to concede to that when it starts ringing again. She knows it’s better to answer it and deal with whatever interruption it is so she can go back to enjoying her time with her husband. He’s not seeing her logic though. 

She tries to reach for the phone, even as he kisses her along her neck, making her heart jump a little. She’s barely got her fingers on the edges of the ringing phone when it’s pushed from her reach. His obvious height playing to his advantage here. 

“Jiaxu! Don’t be naughty!” she playfully scolds. 

He huffs. “How can it still be naughty? We’re married, Sang Zhi!” 

She laughs, and pushes against him. He relents and she manages to grab her phone. Holding it up, to show him the caller ID. 

Māmā. 

He nods without complaint and flops back onto the bed. 

“Wéi, māmā,” Sang Zhi answers. She still sounds a little breathless and hopes her mother of all people doesn’t notice.  

They can both hear her mother’s enthusiastic response on the other end of the line. To be fair, she has not heard from her parents in a few days. She knows they are doing their best to respect the change that comes with her being married now. 

Jiaxu places a kiss to her forehead and leaves her to catch up with her mother. Phone still to her ear, Sang Zhi watches as he pulls on a sweater and pants. He throws her another smile before leaving the room. 

Sang Zhi finally joins into the conversation with nearly one hundred focus and manages to fill her mother in on everything she can. 

“Why don’t you and Jiaxu join us for dinner tonight?” Her mother asks and Sang Zhi pauses long enough that her mother picks up on her hesitation. “Zhizhi?” 

“Ah… māmā, well I think we wanted to stay in tonight,” She starts explaining. “It’s our first weekend at home.” 

Her mother’s little laugh reassures her almost instantly. “I understand. It’s … important to celebrate all the little moments. But still you bàba and I haven’t seen you in a while.” 

She knows her mother is right. They haven’t seen each other in a while. At least not since before they left for their honeymoon. She’s not sure what to say to appease her mother without feeling worse herself. 

“Why don’t we have brunch, tomorrow?” her mother kindly offers. “You and Duan Jiaxu should join us for brunch tomorrow. Your brother will be here too. It will nice to have the whole family together.” 

Sang Zhi beams at that. And not just because her mother understands her so well but because the idea of them all having a meal together like a family fills her heart with warmth. Its everything she wants Jiaxu to have. 

“Zhizhi?” 

“Hmm māmā,” Sang Zhi finally responds. “That sounds perfect!” 

“Alright, see you two tomorrow!” 

They bid each other goodbye and suddenly Sang Zhi is eager to re-join her husband; wherever he may be in their home. 

She finds him in the kitchen, armed with an apron and spatula in hand. Not wanting to disturb him, she leans against the door frame, watching as he goes to work making what she believes is pancakes. It’s a treat for sure. 

Jiaxu is the stronger cook between them but she has been working on her culinary skills. She likes cooking for him and spoiling him just as much as he does for her. She’s gotten better at it too. But if this is the sight she’s going to be treated to, she’s going to let him take the reins a lot more. 

He’s flipping a pancake over when he catches sight of her and immediately holds out his hand for her to take. She goes all too easily. Closer up, she can smell the coffee waiting for her and sees the small stack of pancakes he’s already made. Without a word, he hands her a mug and she sips it contently. 

“Zhizhi, I was thinking, maybe we should go see your parents today,” he says slowly. 

Sang Zhi hides her smile behind her mug. Of course, he would have thought of that too. Sometimes his thoughtfulness leaves her completely astounded. 

“Hmm, māmā had the same idea,” she tells him. Jiaxu only smiles but she knows he’ a little disappointed their day together is cut short. She doesn’t blame him. They’ve grown exceptionally - unapologetically greedy for each other.  

“Oh?” 

“Hmm she wanted to have dinner with us tonight, but I said no.” 

He turns to her sharply. “Sang Zhi, you should go see your parents. I know you miss them as much as they miss you.” 

She has to reach up a little to grasp his cheek in her hand. She likes the way he automatically leans into her touch. 

“I know. And that’s why I told her we’d join them tomorrow. For brunch, with Sang Yan too.” She’s pleased to see Jiaxu smile a little more at that. “I thought we should spend our first weekend at home. Just the two of us.” 

“I like the way you think,” he teases, leaning in to kiss her. 

They can’t forget about the pancakes on the stove so eventually she lets him move away. He expertly flips it once more. 

“Where are you going?” Jiaxu asks and she pauses in the middle of their kitchen. 

“To help you,” she answers gesturing towards the fridge. 

Jiaxu playfully pouts and shakes his head. Laughing she mocks his action but before she can have more fun with it, he grabs her around the waist, all but twirling her around. 

“You better not turn it off this time. I’m starving,” she jokes. 

He laughs, grasping her face in his hands. She can smell the sugar and sees the flour on his fingers. Jiaxu slowly walks her backwards without saying anything. She wants to ask what exactly his plan is but before she can, he hoists her up and places her on the empty countertop. Sang Zhi gives a small shriek of delight before she’s settled on the countertop. He takes advantage of her added height now and steps between her legs. They’re at the same eye level and she likes it nearly as much as when he leans down to her. 

“Jiaxu,” she warns, quickly glancing to the stove. 

“Let it burn,” he whispers. She opens her mouth to object but he doesn’t allow it, kissing her. 

Let it burn, she thinks as he cages her in on the countertop. She loops her arms around his shoulders as her legs twist around his waist, dragging him closer. She matches his fervour easily and for a moment it’s so easy to forget the rest of the world exists. 

He pulls away slowly at first, then leans back in to press another kiss to her lips. Sang Zhi takes a moment before she opens her eyes again, meeting his gaze head on. 

He reached up to caress her cheek before he reluctantly steps away. They both turn their attention to the now very burnt pancake. Jiaxu laughs as he scrapes it off into the trash. They have plenty more perfectly good ones to eat. 

For a moment it’s just them, in perfect harmony in their kitchen. Jiaxu hands her a bowl of strawberries and she nibbles on them from her perch on the counter. 

“Your brother called while you were on the phone with your mother,” Jiaxu tells her as he finishes up the pancakes batter.

“I think he’s missing you,” Sang Zhi says. 

“He’ll get sick of me soon enough, again.” Jiaxu waves her off. “Besides its not me he’s looking forward to seeing.” 

“Well maybe we should think about making Sunday an official family brunch day?” Sang Zhi offers. 

There is something about the way that Jiaxu smiles when she says that which makes her heart soar. Because while her family had accepted Jiaxu as part of their family long before their actual wedding, there is something so decidedly official about it now. He turns down the stove and goes back to Sang Zhi. “I think that sounds like a really good idea.” Sang Zhi beams at this. Unexpectedly, Jiaxu goes a little serious, “Wǒ ài nǐ, Zhizhi.”

There is nothing more left to say so she tells him the only thing that matters. “Wǒ ài nǐ, Jiaxu.” 

Wéi – hi

Māmā – mum

Bàba – dad 

Wǒ ài nǐ – I love you 

#hidden love #hidden love fanfic #duan jiaxu #sang zhi #this is really jiaxu and his zhizhi #duan jiaxu x sang zhi #fanfic cdrama #romance cdrama #must watch cdrama #post wedding fic #chen zheyuan #zhao lusi

[yabakuboi]

Robin has a love-hate relationship with Steve-and-Eddie. Love, because those are her best friends and her best friends are in love with each other and they never leave her out of anything. Hate, because sometimes she wishes they would because she keeps accidentally third-wheeling herself.

She doesn't hate it that much though, if she's honest. It's just fun to complain, especially because it riles the both of them up.

But right now, she's being quiet so she can witness one of her secretly-favorite Steve-and-Eddie rituals—of which there are many, but this one is silly and endearing.

It starts like this:

The waitress sets down their drinks, lemonade for Robin, coca-cola for Steve, and a cherry soda for Eddie.

"Don't you dare," Eddie says, even as Steve reaches for Eddie's drink, slipping his straw in next to Eddie's and slurping obnoxiously. Eddie doesn't even pretend to stop him anymore. "Unbelievable."

"I just want to taste it!"

"You could just get a whole glass of it! All for yourself!!"

"It's too sweet, I don't want a whole glass."

"What, so you think you can just help yourself to mine?"

Steve's grin is far too smug, even for Robin, even when Steve slides it to her so she can take a sip. Steve is right, it is really too sweet and she wrinkles her nose, but it's worth it for the offended gasp Eddie makes when she slides it back to him.

The diner is their favorite, because everyone who works there has given up on understanding their weird dynamic: Robin and Steve squished into on side of the booth while Eddie's spread out on the other, Robin making gagging noises whenever Steve brushes against her, even though they never sit in any other configuration. The staff has long since stopped asking which of them was her boyfriend, and that's perfect for her.

Besides, she knows that under the table, Steve and Eddie have their ankles locked together like the disgusting love-sick dorks that they are.

The Steve-and-Eddie show continues when their meals come out. Chicken fingers and fries for Steve because he's an actual child, and breakfast for dinner for Eddie because he likes to be contrary. And then the real performance begins.

They "fight" over the ketchup bottle, which really means that Eddie picks it up and Steve snatches it out of his hands—only for Steve to spread it over Eddie's scrambled eggs (gross) for him before he adds a disgusting amount to his own basket.

Eddie makes a game of stealing Steve's fries when he thinks he isn't looking (Steve is, he's tallying each one up in his head, Robin knows this because she's doing it too), and when he finally "catches" Eddie in the act, he steals Eddie's last piece of bacon—the one that's sat untouched for the last five minutes for this very reason.

Then, Eddie's "forcing" Steve to try his grits, like he does every time, and game eats a spoonful of it, every time, and then complains at length how much he hates it (and he actually does hate it, the texture is just not for him, Robin knows because it's the same for her too).

And then they do the worst, most disgusting thing ever: they split the pancake in half. Without fail. Without argument. Every time.

Robin, slurping on her strawberry milk shake that she will NEVER share with anyone ever, thinks that stupid pancake is like the symbol of their love or something. Sh's sure if they weren't in public, they'd be feeding it to each other.

"What?" They say it in unison, and Robin hates when they do that to her.

(Eddie complains about it right back at her, because she and Steve do the same thing to him all the time. They should blame Steve, since he's the common denominator, but he just looks so pleased about them both that they can't rag on him for it, so Eddie remains Robin's sworn enemy and vice versa.)

"What what?" she sneers at them, voice quiet. "You two are disgusting, it's like you're making out right in front of me right now."

"What are you, homophobic?" Eddie hisses back, just as quiet. "I'm in love with your best friend, Buckley. I'm making out with him in front of you for the rest of your life."

"Ugh! I hate you so much."

"Right back at you."

And then they start kicking at each other beneath the table, no doubt catching Steve's ankles in the crossfire. He doesn't tell them to stop though, and Robin can see that pleased, sappy smile on his stupid face out of the corner of her eye, so she lands an exceptionally harsh blow to Eddie's shin in retaliation for making her best friend so happy. He digs his heel into her toes in return.

#steddie #steddie fic #this was originally meant for a steddie love month prompt but i missed posting it up LOL #when will i write steddie without robin??? never #their three musketeer-ism is so important to me #they probably fight over her for best man at their wedding #and they are joint best man at her's #the robin eddie rivalry for steve's love but also they are steve protection squad and steve gossip mongers and steve hecklers #steve 'affection-starved' harrington absolutely thriving having two ppl obsessed with him rn #my fic #dribble drabble #my steddies

[starrystevie]

eddie’s going on a tinder date with a cute guy named steve.

he likes his freckles, brown eyes and cheeky grin. they don’t have much in common but the conversations they have in the app messages flows suspiciously easily. he’s a bit in love and antsy at the table as he watches the door anxiously for his date.

he sees person after person walk into the bar and his beer is dripping condensation onto his hand as he grips it, nerves shooting through the roof. eddie glances at the table and then back up to the door when a guy walks in and if eddie wasn’t waiting for his date, he’d want to go talk to him.

he’s cute, hot even, floppy brown hair and a charming grin, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as he looks around the bar. his shirt clings to him in just the right way and his jeans fit him a bit too perfectly. eddie can’t help but stare and then the guy is staring back while he waves, ducking his head as he walks over.

“hey, eddie,” the man breathes out, his cheeks tinged pink from the wind. “sorry i'm late. parking was a bitch.”

and eddie’s confused. because this guy has brown eyes but not the ones he expected. freckles that are more spread out and distinct, trailing down to his neck instead of blanketing his face. his smile is perfect and he’s looking at eddie like he knows him. eddie’s a bit stunned, gaping at the guy with a slack jaw, because he’d remember someone as handsome as him if they’d met before.

“…hi?” he says like it's a question, taking a sip of his beer to do something with his hands.

he watches as the man’s eyebrows crease in confusion and the way his shirt stretches over his chest as he takes off his jacket. “it’s- i’m steve? you are eddie, right?”

eddie can feel his own eyebrows raising, wiping off his damp hand to fish his phone out of his pocket. he quickly finds steve’s profile, ignoring the messages they've sent each other over the past weeks that leave his stomach filled with butterflies, and pulls up the profile picture steve uploaded.

looking at it closely, he glances at who he thinks is steve, at the freckles dusting over his face and the toothy grin he's flashing at the camera. he's not exactly they type eddie usually goes for, but he's witty and sweet and knows about dnd, apparently, so what's not to love?

but then he looks at the other person in the picture that's slightly out of focused next to ‘steve’. looks at the two moles stark on the side of his neck, his pink tinted cheeks. the floopy brown hair and the pretty brown eyes and-

“steve?!” eddie exclaims, looking between the man in front of him and the picture on his phone. “you’re steve?”

the guy- steve- grins sheepishly, leaning on his elbows over the table to look at eddie’s eyes phone. he’s close, too close, close enough that eddie wants to-

“ohh,” he says and scratches at the back oh his head, eyes downturned with a blush trailing up his neck. “yeah, maybe i shouldn’t have used a group photo for a dating app.”

“so who did i think you were?”

their eyes meet and even in the dim bar light, eddie finds himself falling into the specks of green he sees. steve looks at the phone quickly then back up with a smirk. “my best friend, tommy. he’s kind of an asshole, though. you’re better off with me.”

“is that so?” eddie leans back, taking a sip of his beer, and really takes in his date that he now knows is steve. his toned arms, his broad shoulders, his pretty pink cheeks and pretty pink lips.

“what, are you disappointed?”

steve smiles gently and it lights up his face in a way eddie isn’t expecting. between the way he looks in a dingy bar and the way talking with steve is easier than any date he’s had before, he can’t imagine what disappointment he could ever possibly feel knowing that his date is who he is.

suddenly there’s a foot hooking around his ankle and it sends goosebumps tingling up his spine. steve’s smile softens just a bit and eddie can feel himself mirroring it back, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“i don’t think disappointed’s the right word.”

crossposted on twitter!

#my writing #wrote this yesterday randomly on a twitter threda so i wanted to post it here too #ignore how unrealistic this is i just think steve would suck at dating apps #he absolutely would be that guy that uploads a pic from a friend's wedding and hopes that ppl know which one in the pic is him #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie drabble #steddie meet cute #steddie fic #long post #ignore typos as i wrote this while tipsy #stranger things #stranger things fic

[demigods-posts]

i have this weird headcanon of percy and annabeth getting married. they says their vows through sobs, hard for the audience to understand, but they hear each other clear as day. the words tattoo on their skin since they kissed underwater all those years ago. chiron officiates and announce them newly weds. they kiss. percy cries into her shoulder and annabeth holds him amid the crowds tearful applause. sally's awaiting by the door with a pistol in her hands in case a monster wants to try her. it's a beautiful sight really. and i should write this.

#percy jackon and the olympians #pjo text post #pjo #pjo headcanon #percy jackson #annabeth chase #percabeth #percabeth headcanon #percabeth fluff #percabeth wedding #percabeth fic #percabeth being the cutest couple to ever not exist #anyway i love these two to my core #yes grover is the best man and thalia is the maid of honor #yes frank and leo are up there with grover and piper and hazel stand right behind thalia #don't think i forgot

[2018-01-20]

hiii i heard you wanted some requests 👀 and I'm super glad you're back !! I missed you a lot lot <3

My head has been so full of post-dinner date Gojo ideas. The domesticity of getting unready with him and cuddling in bed right afterward. It's just so simple but so cute. oh oh and doing nighttime skincare with him :( having him sit down and rubbing in the different creams into his skin and the way he would lead into your hands. ahhh he has me so weak (_ _)

Feel free to use any of these ideas to write or take inspo from if you want! Gojo is such a cutie :3

Anyways, have a lovely day, and remember to take care of yourself!!

pairing. gojo satoru × gn!reader

content. bunch of fluff + comfort, reader has smaller hands than gojo (in case that bothers anyone!!) & sits on his lap, sappy reader + gojo!! read slowly for maximum enjoyment <3

sticky-note. nonnie u are so goated for this idea, i think this might be my fav gojo fic so far 😭 I MISSED U MORE!! hope u have a wonderful day and thank u for sending this in 🫶

satoru thinks your hands are pretty.

they’re smaller than his—of course they are. he can’t think of a single person who has bigger hands than him. he enjoys it, though. your touch is stimulating in a way; fingertips completely gentle as you rub the latest lotion that you bought onto his face.

“can’t keep your hands off of me, huh?” he leans back and grins, but you can’t even be annoyed by his teasing. there's a shine in his eyes that you haven’t seen a very long time—and you are more than happy to see it now.

“mhm,” you hum, softly kneading his cheeks like you would with a baby. his blindfold is off and his demeanor seems so relaxed, his face basking into your soothing touch. it’s hard to hold back your own smile. “you just have that type of charming effect, y’know?”

“you’re being awfully nice today,” he remarks suspiciously, peeking an eye open to look closely at you. you pinch his cheek in return. “what’s the occasion baby?”

you roll your eyes, pulling back your hand for a moment to scoop up a bit more lotion. you swipe it lightly onto his forehead. “what? i can’t give you attention? can’t i spoil my boyfriend for once?”

the tips of his ears redden at your words, making you giggle at the rare but pleasant sight. “....i mean, you can, but—”

“shh,” you shush him. he closes his mouth instantly. “no more talking! this is the most important part because i have to smooth out all the wrinkles in your forehead.”

he lets out a big gasp, being playfully offended—narrowing his eyes with an indignant look. the smile you didn't even know you were sporting grows wider at how cute he is. you wouldn't say it that out loud though, of course.

it is so beautifully quiet and peaceful. you can’t think of the last time you spent time with satoru like this: seated on the living room floor of his apartment as you slap your whole skincare routine onto his face. his back is against the couch with his legs sprawled out, but not too sprawled out so you are more than comfortable on his lap. it’s nighttime so the curtains are draped over the window, but you love the warm, dim lighting of his living room. gojo satoru is gorgeous, but is especially pretty in this lighting; with his head comfortably tilted back and eyes closed, but not forcefully or harshly shut as if he’s in pain.

for the longest time, you've been used to seeing satoru in pain. not in a physical way—but in an emotional and mental way that tugs at your heart strings just seeing him in that state. you know the burden that comes with being the strongest: there will always be a significant power divide between you and the people you love, which will never not be difficult for the other party to ignore. it also doesn’t help that he is so happy-go-lucky all the time, despite the jujutsu sorcerer duties that keeps piling rocks onto his shoulders.

but now in this moment, he is all yours. he isn’t the strongest, nor is he Gojo Satoru. he is just yours—just the lover boy who melts into your open arms whenever given the chance. just a boy who had to give up being a boy so he could be a man for others to look up to him. just someone you would want to depend on you, the same way you lovingly depend on him.

“i love you,” you suddenly whisper, in the midst of just simply applying lotion onto his skin. your slow, comforting movements make him want to fall asleep, but your words make him wide awake.

“out of the blue?” his head shoots up, eyes wide and visible despite being behind his messy bangs. he sits up and stares at you, the same glimmer back in his eyes. “i mean, i’m not complaining—”

you interrupt with a huff, “i say it everyday, jerk.” you place your hands on his chest to wipe away any of the lotion moisture left on your palms. he doesn’t bat a single eye. “what do you mean ‘out of the blue’?”

“i know, but...”

your jaw drops a bit. you actually cannot believe your eyes as satoru tilts his head a bit to the side, shyly averting his eyes as you see a tint of scarlet on his cheeks. “it just feels so intimate right now, so...”

good lord. you want to baby him so bad. you want to shrink him and keep him in your pocket and always protect him wherever you go.

“you’re too cute for my well-being,” you breathe, going back on your earlier words. “you know i always mean it when i say i love you, ‘toru.”

“stop,” he whines. he raises an arm to cover his face, eyes still unable to look at yours. “don’t compliment me. i don’t think i’ll be able to handle it right now.”

you can’t help but laugh, squeaking in surprise when satoru pokes at your sides with a little pout. you want to tease him, you think. you might as well with a smile permanently on your face now.

these are the type of moments you crave: moments when satoru tears down his walls and lets himself act like he’s a little boy all over again in front of you. it’s not like he necessarily had walls up with you in the first place, but being a jujutsu sorcerer has always meant protecting and guarding yourself at all times no matter the cost.

but now, you have him. and he has you in his arms, the one that sneak around your waist and warmly wrap around you to keep you close to his chest. it's cuddly but protective, both of your laughs drowning out any other background sounds.

and you are more than willing to protect him yourself.

#no post tmrw bc its my bday 🥳😞 (thoughts on a gojo fic where u celebrate ur bday w him. I NEED HIM SO BA) #he gets u a three tier cake as if its a wedding #and uses icing to draw himself all over it i hate him #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo drabble #A GR HHHHHH #I CAT #XANT #I CANT ANYMORE #S2 BROEJFJJA #the manga prepared me but s2 gojo has me in a chokehold #i neednsomeone to slap me out of this gojo kissery

[thecitybee]

Five pizzas and a wedding ring...

Y'all this man's SWEETEST dream for the past six years has just been getting to meet her, share a meal with her, and fall in love with her in a world that never died.

Like real people do.

#towl spoilers #towl #twd #twd spoilers #richonne #rick grimes #michonne grimes #text post #the ones who live #nobody touch me #i cant breathe #yes im ALREADY writing a fic about it and it'll be my next piece #five pizzas and a wedding ring #Rick Grimes didnt invent loving your wife but he did perfect it #dont nobody love anybody like Rick Grimes loves Michonne #dont nobody love anybody like Michonne Grimes loves Rick #Ive already seen episode two and i promise you you will not be disappointed #the reviewers all said ep 4 is the Big One for Richonners #but if eps 1 and 2 are like this #what in the hell is s4 going to be??? #oh my heart

[scuderiahoney]

🍓 the 1 // a strawberry wine blurb

you all asked for a strawberry wine blurb, and so here we are- the blurb that made @theemporium put me in the doghouse. sorry in advance, enjoy this very non canon alternate ending to Empty Space

In the car, in a parking lot somewhere in Monaco, you turn to Daniel in the seat next to you and drop his hand. He’s just offered to take you to Max.

“Can you take me to my friend Audrey’s?” You ask quietly. “I can give you directions.”

His face drops. Your heart is sinking. You think his might be too. He says your name, softly, and you know. This could be your last chance. If you don’t go to Max now, Daniel is going to tell him that he gave you the choice, and you said no. Max has tried twice already, has extended the olive branch and the white flag. He brought your favorite dinner to your apartment, he found you on the rooftop patio and begged you to talk to him. He won’t keep reaching out. It’s unfair for you to expect that.

You swallow tightly and close your eyes. “Please, Danny. Take me to Audrey’s.”

He does, though he seems less than thrilled about it. When he pulls into the parking lot, he pauses one last time and stares at you. There’s this deep sadness in his eyes, matching the feeling in your chest.

“I’m sorry.” You say.

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” he answers.

You fall onto Audrey’s couch when you get up to her flat and cry yourself to sleep. You wonder if Max is doing the same across town, or if he’s already past this stage. You feel a sense of impending doom.

Four days later, he calls you. When you don’t answer, he texts. We need to talk. Your world drops out from under you.

You meet him at your shared apartment, knowing it’ll likely be the last time you share anything with him. You feel numb the whole drive there, and the walk up to the front door too. Max is standing in the kitchen, pouring water into two glasses from a pitcher. His face is blank. Something heavy settles on your chest, like a tight weight across you.

You stand across the kitchen from him. It’s like neither of you feel like you’re allowed to sit down. For a moment, you just stare at him. You should just tell him what’s been eating you up inside. Why you asked for a break in the first place, why you feel like you’re falling apart. But you think it’s a lost cause, now. He’s made his mind up. You pushed him to that point.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice so so loud in the silent apartment. “I…”

He nods slowly. “I am too.”

It’s not a hopeful apology. You don’t even think he’s apologizing for what’s happened. He’s apologizing for what he’s about to do.

He rubs his thumb against the counter. “I can’t keep doing this, you know. I agreed to space, and a break. But it’s been over a month now. And I…”

He scoffs, shakes his head. He’s not looking at you, staring at the countertop. You wish you could tell what he was feeling- normally, he’s an open book. Now he’s a blank slate. You feel unsteady on your feet, like the room is swaying.

“I love you,” he says, and your stomach lurches. “And I thought you loved me but you won’t even tell me what’s going on, you won’t talk to me-“

“I do love you,” you insist.

He looks up at you, and finally, you see it- just a flash of anger. “This isn’t love. You might feel it but you’re not showing it.”

You shrink in on yourself and shove your hands in your pockets. You have this awful urge to get angry right back, to yell and fight and claw tooth and nail to hold on. Because maybe fighting would mean this isn’t a lost cause.

He interrupts you when you open your mouth. “I don’t want to argue.”

You blink. “What if I do?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a little late.”

Your ribs are caving in, you swear. Shame burns bright in your stomach. You stare at the man you love and realize you’ve hurt him more than you ever could’ve imagined. Max forgives, always. He gives second and third chances. But you’ve fucked it up so badly that you used them all up.

“I can… explain. I know I won’t change your mind but-“ you shrug. “If you want.”

He shakes his head again, brow set in a hard line. “I don’t need to know what was wrong to know that we could’ve gotten through it. Together.”

You cast your gaze to the ground, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You hear his slow, soft footsteps. He makes his way towards you, and you grow more tense with every inch he gains. His feet come into your field of vision. He’s wearing the slippers you bought him for Christmas. An ache swirls through you. Things were good, then.

He reaches a tentative hand out and cups the side of your face. When you don’t pull away, he tilts your head up towards his.

“I do love you,” he says, warmer than you deserve. “And I hope that whatever is going on, you figure it out, because I hate to see you like this. But I can’t… I…”

You search his eyes for a sliver of something, anything. You don’t find it. And that’s when you decide. You’ve fucked this all up, but you can save him this one bit of agony. So you reach up, wrap your hand around his wrist gently, and bite the bullet.

“I think we should break up,” you say, though the alarm bells are ringing in your head. “I’m sorry, I-“

“It’s okay,” he says, thumb brushing across your cheek. “It’s okay.”

He kisses you one last time, his hand cradling your face, his nose against yours. You try to memorize the feeling, try to burn it into your brain. You rub your thumb against the soft skin of the inside of his wrist and wish you could go back in time.

He doesn’t cry. Neither do you. Not until after you’ve left, after you’ve stumbled back to your car in the parking garage. Then you collapse against the steering wheel and bawl your eyes out. This is what it feels like, to lose the one person you love the most. It’s an ugly feeling, one that turns you inside out and upside down. Like you’re falling through a bottomless pit, waiting to hit the ground. You cry until you’re all out of tears, and then you call Audrey to pick you up, because your hands are shaking so badly that you can’t get the key in the ignition.

There will be things to figure out, of course. The apartment is in both of your names, the things inside it are shared. But right now you both need space. Funny, it’s all you thought you wanted, and now you have it in excess. You have space from him, forever.

….

It tears you apart.

But eventually, as all things do, it dulls. It’ll never really go away, you suppose- the pain you feel when you think of him, or your apartment, of strawberries and the million other things that remind you of him. But it goes from a deep stabbing pressure to an ache that you can live with.

You move- as far from Monaco as you can possibly get. You got a job offer, and everything in Monaco was Max, so you took the opportunity and ran. You build a new life on the other side of the world, in a city where not everyone knows about F1 and Max Verstappen and all the rest of it, too. You move forward.

Max does too. You see it from afar, hear about it from your friends. There are times you think of reaching out to congratulate him, or even just to check in. But you think about an unanswered text, or a changed number, or even a girlfriend of his seeing it, and you never send the message. He probably doesn’t want to hear from you anyways. If he did, he’d have reached out.

You and Max just aren’t the type of exes who are meant to be friends.

The day you hear he’s engaged, you break down into tears and spend the next 48 hours locked in your bedroom.

When you hear they called off the wedding, you finally call him. You’re not sure he’ll answer, or if he even has the same number, but you have to try. It rings and rings, and then-

“Hello?”

a/n: sorry I promise they’re married this didn’t happen it was all just a dreammmmm

taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @ggaslyp1

#yesterday: posts the wedding today: posts angst #sorryyyyyy #strawberry wine verse #max verstappen angst #max verstappen series #max verstappen blurb #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 blurb #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 angst #formula 1 fic #formula 1 series #f1 fic #x reader #mv33

[walkingstackofbooks]

The Garashir wedding: Lower Decks style

Mariner's called into her mom's office. Freeman informs her that something very special but currently classified is going to be happening in the next week, and she knows Mariner is going on leave tomorrow, but she might want to consider postponing it. Mariner declines - "Nah, my thing is more important".

Mariner and Rutherford are left at the space station to go on leave. It transpires that Mariner has been invited to Julian's wedding, and taking Rutherford as her plus one because Julian Bashir is one of his heroes. (augment-cyborg solidarity, anyone?)

Boimler, Tendi and T'Lyn are all trying to find out what the mission they're being sent on is. Boimler reports that Shakx seems pretty unhappy. Tendi suggests it's just because T'Ana has apparently discovered a drink she prefers more than Bajoran springwine.

Mariner and Rutherford encounter Hijinks and Troubles as they try to hitchhike their way to the wedding.

Freeman is stressing over what to wear for the occasion and has dragged Ransom in. Dress uniform, obviously, but can she get away with accessorising a little? And if so, how? She doesn't want to be a regular Starfleet officer, she wants to be a cool Starfleet officer. ("I literally cannot help you I don't even know what we're doing because you STILL haven't TOLD me." "It's classified." "You told Shakx!" "Have you tried keeping a secret from Shakx? He's terrifying!" "I can be terrifying!" "Nice try, Jack... Is a scarf too much do you think?")

Mariner and Rutherford have managed to trade his engineering abilities in exchange for passage on a merchant ship. Unfortunately, he is too good, and the ship now want to keep him.

Boimler is on navigation. They're approaching their destination but Freeman still wants the information to be known only to Bridge crew for as long as possible. (Boimler: "But what are we doing on--" Freeman: "Shh. Even the walls have ears, you know.")

The merchant ship have arrived and reluctantly agree to let Mariner and Rutherford go. They change into their fancy wedding stuff ready to be transported down. They are in the middle of a desert. "Screw you!" Mariner shouts uselessly at the sky.

Boimler is in the mess with Tendi and T'Lyn. Boimler is sweating profusely and tapping anxiously on the table. He cannot keep a secret this big. Tendi looks at him curiously. "Why do you keep tapping out "Cardassia" in Morse Code?" she asks, just at the moment when the room has gone silent. All eyes are on Boimler.

Mariner and Rutherford are hot, sweaty, bedraggled and exhausted. The doorkeeper reluctantly lets them in. "It's just started," he says. They sit down quietly in the back. Rutherford think his UT is playing up. "Did they just wish them many happy arguments?" he whispers.

Captain Freeman is nervously playing with her red scarf. "I wouldn't wear that if I were you," Ransom says. "I hear his reputation is quite formidable." Someone gestures that she's up.

We see her begin to walk out, and begin the "Since the days of the first wooden vessels, all shipmasters have had one happy privilege..." speech. The happy couple have their backs to us, and are silhouetted.

The camera zooms further back, and we are now at the back of the building. "Mom?" Mariner whispers to Rutherford.

We finally get to see the couple's faces as the camera pans back to Freeman and looks over her shoulder. Julian and Garak are facing each other. "...Of course, the legal part of this marriage has just been taken care of by the Cardassians -- but it is my privilege to bring this very human tradition to a Cardassian wedding ceremony and tell you that, Julian, you may kiss your husband."

Garak and Julian smile at each other, but the camera cuts away to the crowd. Federation guests are clapping and cheering; the Cardassians tend to be trying to avoid eye contact with anyone else in their vicinity.

We cut to the reception. Mariner's asking Julian "It all seemed so... Federation? Even the Cardassian bit?" Julian shrugs. "When you end up making every compromise in the book in the name of interstellar relations, it turns out all you get is a nondescript, bureaucratic service." He winks. "This is going to be when the fun starts."

Garak is complimenting Freeman on her scarf, and we can see in her face that she is totally lording it over Jack. Garak returns to his husband. "But you hated that scarf?" whispers Julian. "The things I do for diplomacy," replied Garak sorrowfully.

T'Ana is downing Kanar like it's nothing in the background to Shakx's distinct disapproval.

Mariner's managed to sneak Boimler, Tendi and T'Lyn into the party. "I can't believe we could have just come on the Cerritos," she moans, "but anyway, go wild."

Of course, her deeply uncool friends go wild by fangirling over their DS9 idols. At the end of that montage, Rutherford finally gets the chance to say "Thankyouforallyou'vedonefortheaugmentcommunityDoctorBashir". It's sweet.

Aaand endings are hard so sorry, I don't have one to neatly wrap this all up 😅 I will leave it to your wonderful imaginations.

#Lower decks #Garashir #Garashir wedding #Beckett Mariner #Julian Bashir #Elim Garak #Captain Freeman #Samanthan Rutherford #post-Canon Cardassia #BYOE fic (bring your own ending) #This episode does actually just exist in my head now XD #I feel like I could write it better but eh this is fine and fun #Andi Writes #my trek musings #wsb

[moireia]

lost and led by stars — the titles of alyssa snow

"I’ve been given many titles throughout my life. Bastard, Lady, Princess. I have no desire to add Queen amongst them." —Alyssa Martell, 302 AD (inspo)

taglist ✨: @dragonsbone @lorettastwilight @dio-nysvs @julianblackthcrns @arrthurpendragon @endless-lilach @drbobbimorse @luucypevensie @the-witching-ash @megdonnellys @emilykaldwen @ocappreciationtag want to be added/removed? click here!

#fyeahgameofthronesocs #fyeahgotocs #ocappreciation #asoiaf oc #ochub #allaboutocs #alyssa snow #got oc #game of thrones oc #oberyn martell x oc #oberyn martell x ellaria sand x oc #fic: lost and only led by stars #that is grey wind in the last gif he survives the red wedding for reasons and alyssa adopts him in her north arc I love that gif so much #this set literally took months lmao #honestly it was the quotes that were the trickest but I'm so pleased with them now #finally posting this so joey stops yelling at me (affectionate) #but seriously thank you dear friend for all the help! #rei edits

[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

[leverage-ot3]

silly episode idea but hear me out

okay well the first part isn’t silly! so the episode is based around a con they are doing where a polyam triad wants to get married and have been writing to senators and stuff for years but nothing has happened. maybe there is a time element that leeway has to happen soon (not sure what that would be yet, maybe someone is sick???)

(obviously polycules aren’t only and are often more than just a closed three-person system, but I’m saying triad right now bc I feel like that would be an easier and more ‘socially acceptable’ gateway into more accepting legislation for diverse relationship dynamics)

the leverage crew, of course, can’t outright change the public perception of poly marriage, but they can use the ‘enemy’s’ tactics against them and slip stuff into legislation without people noticing like they do. it’s slimy and it’s not a permanent fix, but it’s a start, and it gives people the opportunity to see poly marriage in action and that it isn’t as terrifying or pearl-clutching-inducing as they think it would be. there’s a long way to go, but the seeds of change have been sown and they will make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible

this is one of the cases that they will monitor on the back burner over time. some cons can finish within a few hours (the bottle job), and some things they will follow over time and make adjustments when needed- amplify voices and expose corrupt politicians etc

and then it’s just after 3/4 of the way through but the con has been finished? what is going on? this is where the silliness comes in

the camera turns to the ot3 and…

hardison, pulling out three individualized rings: I know it’s not legal yet, and we have the necklaces, but I think rings would be a nice touch

eliot, pulling out an intricately carved box that also has three self-handcrafted rings: dammit hardison (with feeling and tenderness, and damp eyes)

parker, pulling out three very stolen rings from her pocket: does this mean we’re getting triple married if we all have three rings???

harry pops into the conversation (practically vibrating) excitedly just casually mentioning that he’s a notary and would be honored to marry them to each other if they wanted to

(they do)

wait, did I say silly? I meant unwaveringly tender and heartwarming

#this started out as a funny proposal headcanon but it just turned into sweet and cute #I had a version where eliot proposed first and then hardison went to get his but parker pickpocketed him #but this is more sweet #I know she loves pickpocketing but I feel like she wouldn’t take that moment away from him if she thinks it matters that much that way #but also. have you considered it would be hilarious #and omg they have such a good wedding!!! so many people invited!!! sophie has a ball organizing it #(hardison and eliot get veto power of course. parker does too but she only really cares about the cake. as long as she has her boys and her #family she’ll be happy with whatever the wedding looks like. eliot though has Thoughts on catering & hardison stresses about color schemes) #breanna and harry kick their feet and giggle like schoolgirls they are SO HAPPY the ot3 gets their moment #they have been (quietly) (unsuccessfully) shipping them for forever this is VINDICATION #I should link the post about who is invited to the ot3 wedding (list ever expanding) #I’m literally posting this at midnight but I didn’t want to schedule or queue it. I want it out now. instant gratification babey #eliot spencer #parker #alec hardison #leverage ot3 #parker x hardison x eliot #leverage #leverage redemption #episode ideas #fic ideas #I know I’ve written a proposal post/ficlet before but I was too lazy to find it #polyamory #ot3 marriage #marriage #weddings #harry wilson #thiefsome #hitter hacker thief #mine

[thetangycheesemanwithaplan]

Hen: Okay who gave you a clipboard ?

Buck: It was Chimney

Eddie: After last time? No way

Chimney: Way. Buck and his clipboard have special powers; ones that I shall be harnessing for Operation Wedding. Is that clear?

*Eddie and Hen look at each other*

Hen: This can't be good

Eddie: I'm not sticking around to find out

#911 #911 abc #evan buckley #911 incorrect quotes #eddie diaz #chimney han #henrietta wilson #based of my own post: Give me Interim Captain!Han and Clipboard!Buck planning the perfect Madney wedding 😂 #i might make this a fic im ngl

[faillen]

a little conversation I imagined happened before the bachelor party/wedding

---

"Hey," Tommy said, twisting his index finger into the hem of Buck's t-shirt sleeve. "Been meaning to ask—"

Buck tipped his head back against Tommy's shoulder to make eye contact. "Mhm?"

"How do you feel about PDA?"'

"Oh, I'm fine w—" Buck found himself stuttering to a stop, and his own hesitation had him flushing, stomach turning. "I—Actu—"

"Hey, no, you don't need to answer right now," Tommy said. "I just wanted to make sure I asked."

"Yeah, no, th—" this angle was shit for eye contact. "Actually, can we—" he lifted Tommy's arm off his shoulders and over his head, twisting so that he was sitting with his good leg tucked underneath him, facing Tommy and meeting his kind, open eyes. The thing that had threatened to topple loose in Buck's chest resettled.

"Evan," Tommy said, adjusting so that he was sitting the same way. He reached out and pulled Buck's hand into his lap. "There's no wrong answer, I promise."

"Right," Buck replied. "I know, it's just."

He liked PDA, he liked the easy affection of slinging his arm around someone's waist, or dropping a quick kiss. PDA was really, really nice when it came from feeling secure with who he was with.

But at the same time, there was still—when he and Tommy were in public together, there was still a part of him that was almost expecting someone to jump out from behind the bushes and yell that he was a "faker, fake! This guy isn't bisexual, he's a FAKE! Look at this asshole, pretending that he's a que—"

"Evan?"

"Sorry." Buck said quickly, snapping back into focus. Tommy's brows had dipped together, but he didn't say anything, just squeezed Buck's hands. "Sorry, I—" Buck took a deep breath. "I don't want to, y’know. Stick you back in the closet. But."

"Not being comfortable with PDA is not sticking me back in the closet," Tommy replied. "It's just you not being comfortable with PDA."

"But I am comfortable with PDA," Buck protested. "I just—" he hunched in on himself, unable to finish the sentence in a way that didn't inadvertently sound like a personal indictment of Tommy. Or suggested that he wasn't ready. "I think I need more time. And that doesn't feel fair to you."

"Evan," Tommy said slowly. "There's no expectation here. We can take it slow, I don't mind letting you lead."

Tommy's patience, Buck was beginning to fear, was endless. Which made him feel all the worse for saying things with the expectation that Tommy would interpret the worst out of them.

"You've been letting me lead with everything though." Buck swallowed. "Don't you want things, too?"

Tommy looked momentarily taken aback. "Of course I do," he said. "But I don't want things that make you uncomfortable."

"Right. But I know I hurt you," Buck pointed out. "On our first date, when I was uncomfortable. I know you said it was—but—I mean, I know it must've hurt."

Mouth pursing, Tommy sighed. "Alright, it did," he admitted. "But that's different. It's not like this—I don't. Okay, I actually don’t really know why this feels different, but it is. I suppose it’s because I know that you want this. And not wanting PDA doesn’t mean that this doesn’t feel real.”

“Unlike me acting like we were going to go pick up girls.”

Tommy tipped his head to the side, shoulders shrugging up. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I did say that I didn’t want to push you. And I think it was both. I was hurt, and I didn’t want to ask for more than you were ready to give.”

“And get more hurt.” Buck exhaled heavily. “I want to give you things,” he said. Because he did, he really, really did. “I’m not going to make you wait forever.”

The corner of Tommy’s mouth ticked up. “I know,” he murmured, the words laden not with a sense of expectation, but with a sense of surety that Buck would catch up with him eventually. “I’m not worried about that, Evan. Promise.”

“But if you ever are,” Buck said with a pointed look.

“I’ll tell you,” Tommy replied. He smiled. “So, temporary hold on the PDA?”

“Temporary hold,” Buck agreed. Then paused. “Wa-wait, does that mean hugs, too?”

Tommy laughed. “I think that’s up to you. Do you want to hug me, Evan?”

Buck grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

And then he tackled Tommy into the couch.

(And then they did a little more than just hugging.)

#i will stick this on ao3 eventually i just wanted to get it out of my brain #and i'm debating if I actually want to link this with a piece on the wedding kiss #i don't usually post things on tumblr but this was fully formed and i'm too impatient to wait and take a second pass + post on ao3 #911 fic #bucktommy #911 on abc

[bellysoupset]

Bella was really tired and ready to call it a day by the time she made it home. She desperately needed to shower after nearly getting puked on twice by Vince, but all she had the energy for was to collapse on the couch and close her eyes.

Vaguely she registered the noise of the TV in her and Luke's bedroom... Then soft footsteps... "Hey," Lucas shaking her awake, gently. Light green eyes right in front of her.

"Uhmmm..." Bella groaned, closing her eyes again, "let me sleep."

"Yeah, but in bed, how about?" Luke whispered, grabbing her arms, "c'mon, baby..."

He wrapped her arms around his neck and Bella's head floated as she felt him lift her up. She let out a little groan at the movement, curling up further around him.

A couple more steps and then they were in bed, "help me here, Bell, you need to change out of these clothes."

Bella let out a whine, but forced her eyes to open. Lucas looked wide awake, which was surprising given it was nearly 10 PM and he now fell asleep at 8 most days.

He opened a smile, "back to the land of the living?"

"Just barely," Bell groaned, rubbing her eyes and letting Lucas help her strip down her clothes.

"Where were you? I thought you were only gonna have lunch with Wendy..."

"Still at Wendy's," Bella yawned, curling up under the blankets as soon as Luke helped her inside one of his old t-shirts, that she always used as pjs, "Vince was there."

Luke's soft smile all but fell as he cringed, "Bell you didn't do anything stupid, did you?"

She glared at him, yanking at the front of her husband's shirt for him to join her in bed, "it's not stupid, he hurt you. He hurt Wendy-"

"Wendy literally took him back," Lucas said, turning off the lights and rolling on his side, illuminated just by the television, "and he didn't do anything, baby, I'm just... I'm just sad, it's not Vin's fault."

"Part of it is," Bella scoffed, moving so much closer their noses were almost brushing, "whatever, I didn't do anything."

"Not sure I believe you," Lucas chuckled, wrapping his arms around her, "so you were there until now doing what exactly? Having tea?"

"Uhm... Vinsssick..." Bella slurred, sleep pulling her under as Luke held her to his chest, her favorite spot in the world. She heard him say something else, but whatever it was, her brain completely tuned it off as she fell asleep.

She woke up around 6 AM, still in Luke's arms, but now shivering violently. Bella groaned, blindly reaching for the blankets, only to find that she was already wrapped up in them.

She let out a whine, pressing against Lucas even more and causing him to groan, "Bell, you're suffocating me-"

"I'm freezing," she answered, pressing her nose to his neck. He was so warm.

"Uhm-" Luke mumbled, sleepily planting a hand on her back, but not doing anything besides that. She could feel his deep breaths...

Suddenly she was burning up, like all the cold was out of the window. Sweat made her hair glue to her nape and Luke's hold was suffocating. She pushed back, kicking the blankets, causing her husband to let out a groan.

"Isabella, really?" he whined, turning his back to her, and Bella sat up on the bed. The room seemed to tilt as she did that, her head suddenly really heavy as it hit the headboard.

Bella gulped down the sudden queasiness, rubbing at her face and slowly pushing out of the bed and making her way to the bathroom, slumbering like a drunk.

Her face was a weird shade of olive-white. Bella wasn't snow white like Luke or Leo. Her tone was naturally darker, a light brown shade with golden undertones, that got even tanner during the summer. The gold in her skin tone had turned to green now.

She washed her face, brushing her teeth and slumping over the sink when the toothbrush caused her to gag fruitlessly. Her stomach squeezed, but nothing came up aside from the foam of the toothpaste and some tears stinging her eyes.

"Morning," Luke said gruffly, a minute later as he slipped into the bathroom still half asleep and patted her ass on his way in, not paying any attention.

Bella dried her face, clutching the hand towel, "morning..."

He lifted up his head from the sink bowl, the cold water running down his neck and soaking his shirt, a lot more alert, "everything okay?"

"Yeah," Bella nodded, which was a bad idea because her head swam at the movement. Lucas straightened up, much more awake now.

"You're a little pale, babe," he noted, reaching for his toothbrush but still watching her intently.

"I know, I'm not feeling too hot... I think I caught Vince's bug."

"Oh yeah, you mentioned that last night," Luke made his best to sound nonchalant, but failed miserably. Bella smiled at that, he was so transparent in his concern, "is Vince okay?"

"Well, he's sick as a dog," Bell pointed out, "but Wendy's with him, so he'll be fine."

She really wanted to sit down. Her legs were starting to feel like jelly.

"What sort of bug?" Luke sounded suddenly much louder and Bella startled as she realized she had let her eyes drift off and that he had stepped closer. He wasn't holding his toothbrush anymore, it was nowhere in sight, "Bell?"

"Stomach flu," Bella mumbled, her face feeling all tingly, body suddenly cold again, "Luke..."

"You definitely caught it," he sighed, a big hand coming to feel her forehead and stayed there once Bella leaned against the comforting touch, "you've got a fever there, Bells."

"Vince is such an asshole," Bella grumbled and he chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her back to bed.

"How's your stomach?" Lucas raised the blankets so she could slip under them once more and Bella gladly fell against the pillows, sighing in relief.

"It's okay..." Bella forced her eyes to stay open, "how are you...?"

Luke frowned at the question, flicking a curl away from her eyes, "I'm fine, baby..." he tucked in the blankets around her, "if you're feeling alright, I'm gonna get you some meds for this fever, ok?"

She nodded, not bothering to answer and closing her eyes again.

Not even a second later Lucas was shaking her awake. Bella groaned, curling up. She was freezing and she only wanted to sleep, "leave me alone."

"Sorry, baby, but I can't," Luke, cupping her nape and holding her slightly up, almost sitting, "big swallow."

"Uhm-" she scrunched up her nose as a sweet liquid met her lips, trying to turn her face as the smell made her stomach churn and Lucas let out a huff.

"C'mon, one gulp-"

Bella swallowed down the shot of medicine, before coughing and forcing her eyes open. Their room was much brighter, the sunlight slipping through the curtains. She was clammy with sweat and Luke was wearing a completely different outfit.

"Did you give me children's medicine?" Bella groaned, gagging at the overtly sweet taste and Luke blushed, shrugging.

"I was scared you'd choke on the pills," he said, his ears turning pink, "how are you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by a truck, twice," Bella curled up again, "sleepy. My head hurts. I'm freezing."

"It's a low fever, baby," Luke said, brushing her hair and Bella let out a scoff.

"I'm dying of plague," she grumbled, hiding a smile against his wrist as he petted her hair, "be sympathetic with my plight and come cuddle me."

He let out a surprised chuckle, "you? Dying of plague? Bella, please," Luke rolled his eyes, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her brow, "you severely downplayed Vince's illness, by the way."

"Did I?" Bella scoffed, scooting on the bed so she could press her cheek to Luke's thigh, "he's a big guy, he'll live."

"I called Wendy and she said it hit him pretty hard, he's been pretty unresponsive..." Bella could hear the crystalline concern in Lucas' voice, "Jonah's over there to help though..."

"So you were ready to leave your sick, dying wife, to go coddle Vince?" Bella dug a finger on Luke's ribs, causing him to squirm and try and bat her hand away, "you're terrible. I want a divorce."

"I wasn't gonna leave you," Luke chuckled, stroking her cheek, "I was just worried, I would swing by if they needed meds and-"

"Oh shut up," Bella groaned, turning her face away, "go away," she rolled on the bed, kicking Luke weakly, "I don't wanna talk with you anymore."

The bed shook as Lucas jumped on it, grabbing her wrists and forcefully rolling Bella back to him, grinning the whole way, "green isn't your color, Bell."

"I'm a ginger, of course it is," she glared at him, but then grimaced, as the room continued to spin since Luke had pulled her so suddenly. She pressed her eyes closed, breathing through the nausea that churned in her stomach.

"Bella?"

"Give me a minute," Bella moaned, grabbing on his shoulder to push herself up on the bed, in a sitting position. Luke's playful smile had all but vanished, worry coloring his face.

"Are you gonna throw up?"

Bella shook her head no, but she didn't dare open her mouth. It was as if she was in a funhouse, everything distorted and weird. She gulped down nervously, "Luke-"

"Okay, okay, I got you," he cupped her face, pushing her curls back and forcing Bella to look up at the ceiling, "deep breaths, babe. You just moved too fast."

Her stomach rolled and Bella pressed her lips tightly together, before a gag shook her frame and she darted a hand up, shielding her mouth- "Bucket-"

Luke let go of her in a second, skipping away. Bella gulped down as another gag sent the super sweet medicine up and she was forced to swallow it back down. She whimpered, curling up-

"Here, I-"

Bella lurched for it, all but burying her head in the plastic bowl and easily coughing up the medicine, with a horrible gurgling noise.

"Shhh, I got you-" Luke whispered, pulling the hair away from her mouth and bunching it up in one hand, the other one steadying the bowl, "calm down-"

Bella panted over the bowl, groaning loudly as her stomach continued to churn, "now I'm dying."

"Nah, nowhere close," he answered her playfully, "done? Do you think you can handle some water?"

"Do- done," Bell punctuated the word with another empty heave, but all that came up was some purple colored saliva, "water sounds great."

"I'll be right back, lie down," Lucas instructed, helping her against the pillows and Bella groaned as a fierce cramp hit her. She pulled her knees to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut and shivering in disgust as she could still taste the sweet liquid in the back of her throat.

She felt utterly miserable and, sadly, completely awake. Despite feeling drained and woozy, she couldn't fall back asleep. Bella was still curled up, trembling, when Luke came back into the room, holding now the packet of pills and a bottle of water.

"Bottoms up and if it stays down we can try the pills in an hour," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and handling her the plastic bottle, "small sips."

"I'm not a child," Bella grumbled, taking one tentative sip and making sure it settled, before taking a bigger one, "did you take your meds?"

"Quit worrying about me, you've literally just thrown up," Luke rolled his eyes, "that's probably how you got sick in the first place."

"How are you making this your fault, Atwood? You cannot have given me the flu," Bella raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"No," he pushed her back against the pillows, "but you've been worrying about me since November, it's no wonder you'd crash. That's one hell of a honeymoon."

Bella let out a frustrated huff, rolling on her side, "nu-uh, as soon as you're better we're going to the beach. I want to get so fucked up on mojitos I'll forget my own name."

He let out an amused scoff, "you already don't remember your name most days, Isabella Martinez-Atwood."

Bell opened a pleased smile at that, "I love it when you say it..." her smile morphed into a grimace, "I'm gonna puke again."

"You're so romantic," Luke teased her, reaching for the now clean bucket.

#mywriting #sickfic #emetophilia #emeto #isabella martinez #isabella martinez-atwood #using her new name so i can easily tell which fics are post wedding #stomach flu #some sickee bella for all the people asking for my girls to suffer

[poepill]

happy belated valentines day quodo upon thee! originally posted on ao3 for the quodo minifest, this was my valentines for @chacusha, who organized the event! i had a ton of fun drawing them and im definitely looking forward to next year <333

+ bonus art based on the comic by Kate Beaton, Javert is in Slash Fiction:

#quodo #quodo minifest #star trek #star trek ds9 #Quark/Odo Kiss ///REAL NOT FAKE/// CLICK HERE>>>>> #did someone say quodo rights night??? either way Here it IS <3 #i added image descriptions to the alt text but let me know if you need them visible under the post as well! #initially i was going to post this to twitter months ago but alas. re: the state of things and life in general #anyway this was so much fun !! it literally got me motivated to draw...i couldn't stop i had to keep going and did another...then another.. #i should compile all the other drawing i did of them bc oh Boy there were a Few #also getting odo's features just right was harder than i thought. meanwhile quark was like BOOM! there he is :) #also did u see the shoe. did u see the shine did u see it. bc i swear im never coloring shoes again #all the refs i had to use.....and if you think i exaggerated quark's fat ass well Think Again i only took from Reality! it's all there bby #my obligatory one art post a year....what was my art tag again.......oh well time to revamp it #myart #also pls go read the other fics!! i know i made a post of this before but i cant believe the one i received back...kisses them. #it was perfect! literally made for me! in fact im reading it right now! wedding of the century by sirenoftitan and Boy was it ever!!!