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#THANK YOU for this...... i'm soft

zu-is-here · 8 months

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Hi :) Hi Hi Hi! Helloooo Sooooo I don't know if you do requests or not but JUST STAY WITH ME ON THIS- XD So.... what about... some Monarch Shattered Dream and Knight!Cross content ( ͡❛ ͜ʖ ͡❛) Just a suggestion XD

set them free

Monarch by @wishingstarinajar || Shattered Dream by galacii-gallery / galacii

Knight by stankychee || Cross from xtaleunderverse by jakei95

#zu art #comic #ask #monarch #shattered dream #knight #cross!sans #undertale #undertale au #utmv #hi hi hii! <3 #your ask was just in time *w*#I've been thinking about them for a while /// thank you for motivating! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)#these two are my guilty pleasure ♪#i love you mute comics i love you soft touches i love you bittersweet feelings i—#ALSO #thank you guys so much for 16 000+! ∑(°▽°)♡#your support is the greatest gift I'm so grateful for <3 #let's have more fun together! ☆

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canisalbus · 3 months

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Looking at your art summary your art has gotten a softness to it that it didnt have before (said positively). I hope this is, in part, because life has been kinder to you than it was before, if only because you deserve a good, kind life. I hope the new year greets you like an old friend.

#;n;#aw jeez anon #that's such a lovely thing to say #thank you!#I'm going through an unprecedentedly soft and merciful era it looks like #sorry about the clumsy banality and mushiness of it all #but suddenly I'm getting very invested in the concepts of healing forgiveness and self discovery

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prythianpages · 4 months

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in a field of dandelions, I was so ready for the y/n to say the dialogue 'Don’t talk to me like that' and I was ready for it to hurt. az saying it somehow hurt so much more

omg I didn't even think of having the reader say the dialogue! so I wrote this spin-off i guess? or au lol of y/n saying the words instead, which starts as soon as they get to her apartment. you can read below! you can find the original imagine here

The walk to your apartment is silent and you begin to wonder if you should apologize for your outburst earlier. It was not within your nature to raise your voice at anyone…or harbor anger toward someone. But Eris had tried to hurt you, hurt Azriel and then shamelessly sneered about it.

Azriel follows you into your home, watching as you set the ingredients you collected down. He expects you to bid him farewell and kick him out but as you turn to him and your gaze falls to his injured hand, you sigh.

“Come on,” you offer, reaching out for his hand and he recoils. You frown. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

You know he’s lying by the way his jaw clenches and you can’t help but notice that he appears to be repelled by your touch. You almost laugh, even though you want to cry. “I promise I won’t curse you. I actually never cursed anyone before.”

Azriel’s expression remains unreadable.

“Just let me see. I can help you.”

“I’m fine.” He says through gritted teeth.

And as his blood drips onto your floor, you burst into tears because it’s all your fault. That arrow was aimed toward you. It was meant for you and if you hadn’t been distracted, maybe you could’ve protected Azriel. He wouldn’t have gotten hurt. He wouldn’t be trying to hide his pain.

“It’s all my fault. You’re hurt because of me,” you voice your thoughts out loud. You’re crying, wiping hastily at your tears, but they keep spilling and no matter how hard you’re trying, they’re not stopping. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Azriel’s gaze softens and is bridging the distance between you both. The sight of you crying is more painful than the injury in his hand and he hates himself for every agonizing tear of yours. He uses his uninjured hand to coax your gaze to his. He wipes your tears for you and you blink up at him, finding yourself lost in his hazel eyes. They’re a beautiful fusion of earthy browns and grassy green and they ground you like a tranquil forest kissed by sunlight.

“This,” Azriel inclines his head toward his injured hand. “It’s nothing to me. I’ve been through worse and I’d go through worse for you. I will always protect you.”

“Please,” you’re begging and you close your eyes but you still feel his gaze burning into you. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s cruel and heartless and you don’t even realize.” Your voice drops to a pained whisper and Azriel has never beheld anything more breaking.

He can’t do this anymore. He can’t keep hurting you. His mate.

“y/n,” he calls softly, his gloved thumb brushing against your cheek. You reluctantly open your eyes. “You’re my mate and I pushed you away because I--fuck, I don't deserve you. I thought I was doing you a favor but now I realize, I only hurt you instead. Please forgive me.”

“I know you're my mate." You confess and his breath hitches. “I’ve known since the moment I met you. I wanted to tell you right away but I didn’t want to scare you and when I was ready to tell you, you were avoiding me. I thought you hated me because–because, well, I’m a witch and not everyone is fond of them and I can’t blame–”

Azriel gently interrupts you with his lips. They’re soft and warm against your own and you’re kissing him back with a soft pressing need. You feel him smile against your lips and the butterflies in your stomach are dancing and fluttering all the way to your heart. He pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. You’re able to appreciate his smile and you’ve never seen anything more beautiful. You’re inclined to ask Feyre to paint it for you later.

“I owe you an explanation,” he breathes. “Where do I even start?”

You smile back at him. “How about we start with taking care of your hand?”

**the rest of the imagine would continue with Azriel still being hesistant to show you his hands but you accept him wholeheartedly bc who wouldn't?? <3 and it ends the same way*

#can you tell i'm so soft for them?#azriel imagines #azriel drabble #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel angst #azriel x witch!reader #az!dandelions #thank you for the ask!

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flowercrowngods · 1 year

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✨🤍 some steddie softness for @thefreakandthehair's birthday, i hope it's the very best so far! 🤍✨(please please your day comes first, read this whenever you have time and space to breathe 🤍)

Eddie is not a religious man — far from it, actually. But there are a few things that make him believe in higher powers. In angels. In destiny and luck and a love so strong it could conquer everything.

This very moment is one of them.

Stevie, soft and sleepy beside him in the back of the car as Nancy is driving, the dim light of the passing street lamps painting his face in hues of gold like the light itself favours Steve Harrington, caressing his features with the softest of shadows.

He’s beautiful. Ethereal. Perfectly angelic with his eyes closed, his whole body turned towards Eddie in the warmth of the car.

It takes Eddie’s breath away, his heart taking up space where before there were his lungs and ribcage, growing in size until he feels like he is about to burst. And even then he keeps looking, staring at that pretty face that looks so at peace with the whole world right now. Eddie has never seen Steve like this, but now he understands why people start wars. Why people defy gods and death itself to be with their one true love. Why Orpheus looked back.

He understands. Because Steve, his Stevie, warm and safe and perfectly fine in the backseat of a car? That is everything. He doesn’t even need to kiss or touch so long as he just gets to look. And be. Oh, to be at the same time that Steve is.

That might just be life’s greatest gift to him.

A tiny sigh falls from Steve’s lips and Eddie really, really might be about to burst.

“Hey, angel,” he whispers, because moments like this aren’t made for anything but hushed words, their truths too heavy, too sincere for the world to hear and keep on spinning. He doesn’t need the world to spin as long as there is Steve.

“Hi,” Steve whispers back, his eyes still closed but the smile lighting up, luring Eddie in like he is but a moth drawn to the flame.

Eddie leans in and rests his forehead against Steve’s, his hand coming up to cradle a light-kissed cheek. Steve leans into it, following Eddie’s hand like maybe they are twin stars pulling each other closer until there will be an explosion of light and creation. Steve nuzzles against his palm and leans further into Eddie’s body until they share the same breath — but still it’s not enough.

Eddie wants to say so many things now that their hands are entangled, their soft exhales mixing. But after a while he notices that Steve is humming before gently singing along to the song coming quietly from the speakers.

“Take it easy with me, please. Touch me gently like a summer evening breeze. Take your time, make it slow. Andante, Andante. Just let the feeling grow.”

Eddie knows the song, recognises it instantly, and his breath gets stuck in his throat once more. Because he has a secret. He loves it. He has imagined for the longest time that one day, someone would make it his song. Sing it for him, to him.

He’s never told anyone because he has a reputation to uphold and more than enough metal music to listen to, but of course Steve wouldn’t care about his secrets being secret, and just oh so casually make his deepest, most private of dreams come true.

He’s an angel, that one. A hero. Myths and fairy tales should be woven around that heart of his, folklore speaking of his name until history itself wouldn’t dare to forget. No one can convince Eddie otherwise. Not in that moment, not with Steve singing so quietly, so gently, so adoringly.

I think I love you. I think I can’t ever stop, not when I’ve seen you like this. Not when you’ve just shown me what life can be about, what it should be about. Gods, I love you and love you and love you.

That’s what he wants to say.

But all that comes out is a marvelled, “Shit, Stevie.”

It has the desired effect of a huffed breath, an even wider smile, and Steve cuddling further into Eddie’s side, eyes still closed. Eddie brushes a kiss to Steve’s forehead and feels like maybe his love can make it into the fairy tale, too.

It will. Oh, it will, when Steve finally lifts his head from Eddie’s shoulder and looks at him through hooded eyes, all soft and sleepy and safe. A moment passes like this and Eddie can’t breathe, maybe he can never breathe again — but it only lasts until Steve slowly, so very slowly begins to lean in to claim Eddie’s lips with a kiss so gentle it could bring him back from the dead.

Eddie kisses Steve back just as slowly, because in moments like this there is no rush, no hurry. There’s only them, there’s only this. Only a kiss until there is another.

And with Steve, there is always another.

Nancy smiles as she is taking the long way to Steve’s house, rounding Loch Nora twice because she knows how comfy Steve gets in cars at night when he doesn’t have to drive and there is soft music playing.

Eddie kisses her goodbye on the forehead, fully aware of what she’s done. He doesn't tell her about the sun and the myths and all the wars he would start for Steve.

Nights like this are not meant for telling anyone about them. They can hardly be believed as it is. They can only be lived, hand in loving hand.

#steddie fic #steddie #eddie x steve #steve x eddie #dio words #hi lex happy birthday i hope you like this bit of incoherent softness i hope you like the sleepy feeling in the back of a car at night #when all the lights go whoosh you know?? with some music? idkidk but writing this was fun anyway :D #also because sincerity is for tumblr tags let me just say thanks again for being in my dms sometimes and listening to my whumpy rambles #here you have some fluff to make up for it :D no but seriously you deserve nice things so i'm happy to see you getting some today 🤍

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artist-in-space · 2 years

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Thank you... for not giving up on me. Thank you.

(Finally watched through In Space with Markiplier! That was a beautiful, amazing trip. The last part gave me the feels.

Life has been hectic, but Mark’s videos alleviate my days. Somehow, it’s magical, how when I need to be cheered up, Mark would always do so, compared to everything in Youtube. I’ve been quiet but being able to witness such creativity and love has ignited my will to draw.

So while Engineer Mark thanks us, I thank you, @markiplier, for being an inspiration.)

#markiplier #markiplier fanart #iswm #engineer mark #iswm part 2 #i love iswm so much #especially that ending song #but this made my heart burst the soft smile!!!!#it's been a while since I drew Mark and I'm happy to do so #thank you so much :'D #in space with markiplier #Thank You

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sergle · 6 months

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has the huggable twee irritation always been a Thing or did it evolve in response to like, "you're not ugly. i'd fuck you" type comments? like in your personal experience

god, I'm not well spoken enough to describe it exactly the way it Registers In My Brain... but like. It's not the "you're not ugly, I'd fuck you" genre, and that type of comment is so easy to immediately dismiss because it always comes from a certain type of man, and it's like yeah yeah, I could throw a sandwich and you'd fuck it before it hit the floor. But also, that one's so specific, it's a bottom-of-the-barrel "compliment" that dudes will give when a woman has actively said something about feeling like she's unattractive.

The HUGGABLE THING. The oooh squishy marshmallow somft huggable mom shaped 🥺🥰 She looks like she gives GREAT HUGS. Those comments are UNPROMPTED. I'm immediately like. Every keyword you say, I kill another hostage. I will blow up this whole building and everyone in it. Because it is SO FUCKING WEIRD. And I have heard it one million times. And I see it on every drawing of a character who's even remotely plus sized. These comments would not fly for a thinner person, they'd be rightfully received as weird. People aren't gonna comment on a picture of Ariana Grande going omg she's sooo huggable mom friend shaped. WHAT. Simultaneously are desexualized and sanitized to a weird degree in that uwu language way, WHILE also being creepy. Like, why are you describing what you think I'd feel like if you hugged me? Like the only positive thing you can think of to say is that I look like I have some give. As strangers. I'm not going to hug you, I think you're a creep and I think you're giving yourself a big pat on the back for complimenting a fat person. What are we doing I'm arguing at the air. Where am I And you're just supposed to go oh thank you that's so nice, because as a fat person, you gotta take whatever compliment you get, even if it is actually not a compliment. And that's the thing, there are SO MANY ACTUAL COMPLIMENTS TO PICK FROM. But people settle on huggable and somft. Was this person pretty? Were they hot? You could say gorgeous? Handsome, beautiful? Elegant? Stunning? Sharp? Sexy? Stylish? Are you trying to say that you're attracted to this person's body? Are we being horny? Do you think they just look nice in general? Can't we think of anything else to say? Or are we just gonna sit here and say they fuckin look like Santa Claus. Huggable like a pillow. Girl what the fuck

#every time I see or hear it my eyes roll so far back in my head that I can look at my thoughts #I accepted about a thousand of these compliments as haha thank you before I gave up on pretending I think it's a compliment at all #people say this shit ALL THE TIME and I KNOWWWWWWWWWW I'm not the only bitch who hates it.#I hear this from others too. I'm not completely insane right here #or maybe I am. FUCK AUGH #can someone explain it BETTER AND LESS LENGTHY #sergle answers #People don't say any of the outdated plus sized compliments anymore either. you only hear them from old men #Like I would rather be called full figured or curvaceous or a whole lotta woman before I get called MOM FRIEND SHAPED???????????????#what's that post.I'm going to kill myself in front of you and forever change the trajectory of your life #It would be different to be described as soft by like a partner. combined with compliment-compliments. like yeah you OBVIOUSLY know #what I feel like

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blaithnne · 4 months

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if I had a nickel for every time Hilda became teary eyed because a close family member was forced to chose between staying with her, or returning to live with their parents in the magical otherworld they're native to, and came THIS close to leaving her only to come around at the last minute, condemning themselves to potentially never see their parents again because the life they've built with Hilda is more important to them, their bond is unbreakable and their love eternal, and they'd move mountains to make her happy, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

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glitchtricks94 · 6 months

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did you know that gyutaro kisses your knuckles but his pointy teeth accidentally scrape you. every time it happens, he grumbles and insists on kissing it better :3 (you are stuck in an infinite loop of him kissing you better)

Reece, darling, I don't think you fully understand how much I needed this. After the last few days, I honestly feel like this is just what my poor little brain needed. I'm sorry I'm taking so long with all the other goodies you sent me. I'm making something fluffy now with this.

Gyutaro tries to be a gentleman like he's seen with the humans, trying to treat you the way he felt you should be, which was like royalty. He knew he wasn't much, or at least he felt that way, but he had given you his heart, and you gave him yours in return and he had to ensure that he cared for it with the upmost importance. He would only discard your heart if you became a threat to him and his sister. Which is why a mix of frustration and guilt bubbled away in his chest. Gyutaro had decided to try his hand at being more romantic, greeting you when you stepped out of your work room to the private area that he and Daki had made within the Kyogoku house. "Welcome back, little star." Gyutaro crooned, a lazy Cheshire smile on his features as he took your much smaller hand in his. He held it for a moment as you chirped your greetings back to your love, the Upper Moon distracted by how tiny and soft your hand felt in his. Such puny fingers slotting against his own calloused hands, filling the spaces between his own fingers in a cute and clumsy yet still perfect manner. His gaze softened further, smile smoothing at the edges as he moved his attention to your face, your eyes granting the warmth he had always craved for all his years of living. You felt like home. He couldn't stall any longer, the moment felt to perfect to waste on more pointless words. Gyutaro was never really for pretty words anyways, actions always rang louder for him. He tugged you closer by accident as he raised your hand to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to your knuckles- "Ow-!" He froze, eyes going wide as your soft yelp registered in his mind. You looked slightly pained, yet didn't shove him away. The demon frowned as his eyes flicked to your hand, the sight of little dots of blood greeting him. "M'sorry, little star, didn't mean to hurt ya." He grumbled, instinctively pressing more kisses to the wound. He had told you he liked when you kissed where his wounds were whenever he got hurt, despite the regeneration, and he wanted to return the favor to you. You always did say he gave you the best kisses of your life. Gyutaro unwittingly added more damage to your skin, trying to kiss the pain away but only making you whimper. He pulled away with a growl, to which you sprung into action, seeing his frustration coming to a boil. "Gyu, sweetie, it's okay." You cooed, his attention flicking to you instantly. "Why don't we go bandage up my hand, yeah? You can help me with that, right?" Gyutaro nodded, but refused to let your hand go, deciding to skip the bandaging and simply utilize his abilities. Slowly sliding his thumb over your now marred, petal soft skin, the injuries faded, amazing you.

He felt disappointed at his failed attempt, something you noticed immediately. Running your free hand down his arm, you trailed your touch to his other hand, the Upper Moon eying you curiously. Taking his hefty hand in yours, you brought it to your own lips, planting one of your infamously tender kisses to his cold skin. His heart leapt to his throat, face heating up at your gesture. He felt a tinge of jealousy in himself too, wishing he could be as smooth with his idea of romance as you were, and yet, you always managed to reduce such thoughts to dust. "I love you Gyutaro, and it was really sweet of you to kiss my hand." You spoke softly, looking up at him like he had hung the moon and stars. In your opinion, who didn't need them since you consider him to be your night sky. "You're always so sweet and romantic, constantly trying to look out for me and make sure I'm happy. I love you for that." Gyutaro felt himself melting under your honeyed words, his soft smile and loving gaze returning to his sharp features as he leaned further into your space. "I love you too, little star. You always know just what to say to me, what I need to hear, not what I want to, what I expect to. You truly are a star from the sky, love." He crooned, making your own smile widen as you stood on your toes to press a love infused kiss to his chapped lips, the gesture being returned instantly. This time, he made sure to really watch his teeth.

#glitchwrites.notepad #glitchfriends.reece💜#demon slayer x reader #gyutaro #gyutaro x reader #kny gyutaro #demon slayer gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro fluff #demon slayer fluff #kny x reader #kny fluff #This was a nice thing to write tonight #It's soft and sweet and really need that since I'm tired and feeling soft #Plus hands can have such neat meanings #Twining fingers are so intimate and the cheesy romantic aspect of a hand kiss is cute #Thank you so much Reece #This means a lot to me

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suddencolds · 1 month

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The Worst Timing | [5/5]

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was I out for long?”

“A couple minutes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves blinks. “Where are you going?”

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

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

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

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

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I already finished eating,” Vincent says.

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

“Take the bed,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

“The bed’s warmer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vincent says nothing, to that.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep,” Vincent says, firmly.

And Yves—

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

—

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

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

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

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

“How’s the book?” Yves says.

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” Yves says.

It has the opposite effect he intends it to.

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

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

“What things?”

“Kdowing my limits.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a proposition?” Vincent says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Distracting is a bit disingenuous.”

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

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

“I don’t think that’s true.”

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

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

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

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

“I’d already finished eating.”

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

“Because you’re ill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves doesn’t say anything, to that.

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

Yves’s heart twists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reading Hemingway,” Yves adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But when he allows himself to look, he sees—

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

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

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

—

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

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

Yves opens his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

EPILOGUE

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

“Yes,” Yves says. It’s not a lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since when has Aimee been your spokesperson?”

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

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

This time, Vincent smiles. “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves nearly drops the pillow he’s holding.

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

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

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

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

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archangeldyke-all · 4 months

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What if sevikas chihuahua and the readers dog start playing with each other at the park while their both walking their dog (like in legally blonde when elles chihuahua went up to that big Rottweiler) and then sevika and the reader end up going on a date?

CUTEEE

men and minors dni

zaun is a dangerous city, especially for someone like you.

a single woman, who lives alone on a first floor apartment? you're a prime target for muggings or burglaries in the undercity.

so, after a particularly scary walk home alone one night, you decide to get a dog.

you go to the shelter and ask for a big dog, something that will protect you and scare off potential attackers.

the attendant smiles and nods and takes you to a small room, then introduces you to sugar.

sugar's a gray pitbull, 60 lbs of pure muscle, and she's wearing a muzzle as the attendant brings her in.

he explains to you that sugar's nervous around men, hence the muzzle, and the second he leaves the room, her low growling and nervous expression melt into pure joy as she waggles her tail hard enough for her butt to shake and the two of you play together.

sugar steals your heart. she's a playful, loving, nervous wreck of a dog, and when she's not busy tapdancing at your feet with excitement, she's resting her chin on your lap and begging you for pats with her big, glossy, puppy eyes.

you take her home with you the next day.

you and sugar become inseparable. your boss lets you take her to work to sit behind the counter while you work alone, in an extra effort to keep your customers in line.

nobody gives you shit anymore. drunk customers don't try to steal, old men don't try to flirt, you don't get catcalled on your walk to and from work, and it's all thanks to your sweet baby, growling and baring her teeth whenever someone gets a bit too close to you.

sugar's nothing but smiles and cuddles when kids or women come into work, turning on her back and waiting for belly rubs, licking kids faces as they giggle, and nudging customers with her cold wet nose, gesturing to the little container of treats you keep on the counter, begging for them to sneak you one.

when you're not working, you're cuddling with sugar at home on your couch or in bed, curled around each other as a tv show plays or you read.

sugar loves chicken, tug of war, and cuddles. but above all else, sugar loves the dog park.

tonight, you're tired and grumpy. you've had a long fucking week, and all you want to do is curl up in a ball and sleep until you have to clock back in on monday. so when sugar wakes you up from your after-work nap by pressing her cold wet nose against her face, you almost turn over in bed and go back to sleep. but when her sweet, excited whines start up and she runs to the living room and fetches her leash for you, you can't deny your sweet baby.

grumbling and throwing on a robe, you hook sugar up to her leash and shuffle out of your house, beginning the quick walk to the park.

when you get there, you let sugar off her leash and she immediately starts doing her laps, sniffing and digging and barking with glee. you laugh and shake your head at your furry baby, before pulling a joint out and lighting up.

you relax against the bench, chuckling as you watch sugar run to and fro. behind you, the gate to the dog park clinks, and before you can look over your shoulder to see whose coming in, a teeny, tiny chihuahua runs up to your feet, snarling and yapping at you.

you giggle, and reach down to ruffle the tiny dog's floppy black ears. this seems to satisfy the puppy, and she gives you several licks before running off to mark her territory.

the little dog seems to think that she owns this park, because she barks at any dog who gets within a ten foot radius of her. this doesn't deter sugar, though, and she chases the chihuahua around the perimeter of the park, before the chihuahua turns around to chase sugar. you chuckle. it seems like sugar's made a friend.

"'s that your dog?" a low voice asks. you blink up and jump when your eyes land on a beautiful, tall, broad woman, standing beside your bench. you nod and laugh.

"sugar." you say, introducing your dog. the woman laughs. "you're the chihuahua's mom?" you ask, chuckling. the woman smiles and nods.

"slayer." she says. you cackle.

"seems like our dogs should swap names." you say. the woman chuckles.

"i'm sevika." she says, holding a hand out for you to shake. you smile and introduce yourself, scooting over on your bench to make room for the woman to sit.

you and sevika chat for hours as sugar and slayer play, sniff, and explore together. it's only when the park ranger comes by to kick you out that either of you realize how much time has passed. it doesn't matter, though, because after that night, you and sugar run into sevika and little slayer almost every evening.

sugar and slayer become best friends. you and sevika do too.

once you finally start dating (sevika invited you and sugar over for a 'play date' but then locked sugar and slayer in her bedroom, and turned the play date into a regular date with you, cooking you dinner and splitting a bottle of wine with you) sugar and slayer become inseparable.

for the first few months of your relationship, before the two of you move in together, any time one of you visits the other at their place, you bring your dogs along, so the two can cuddle and play while you and sevika also cuddle and play ;)

but once you guys move in together, sugar and slayer become a package deal.

slayer cries every morning when you and sugar leave for work, until you just give in and start taking both dogs with you.

if sugar's laying somewhere, you can bet your ass you'll find little slayer cuddled right up against her, or on some occasions, right on top of her.

both sugar and slayer are bed hogs, and there have been several occasions when you and sevika finally turn into bed, only to find your sleeping fur babies cuddled up on top of your spots. (you're both suckers, so you always let them sleep, pulling out the pull out couch for the two of you to sleep on for the night as the dogs sleep in your bed.)

cuddled up in bed one night beside sevika, you laugh as you watch slayer lick sugar's ear clean, grooming her best friend. you nudge sevika and she smiles at you.

"what're you laughin' at?" she asks. you gesture to your dogs on the foot of the bed.

"they're so cute. they're just like us." you say. sevika laughs.

"right, because i'm so petite and you're definetly the guard dog between the two of us." she teases you as she rolls her eyes. you just giggle.

"no, dumbass, you're sugar, i'm slayer. you've got the bite, and the scary claws and teeth and stuff, but you're really just a softie on the inside. and i'm your slayer, cute as hell and always bossin' you around." you say. sevika considers this and then smiles.

"you do yap a lot." she says. you giggle and elbow your girlfriend, and she pulls you against her side, kissing your scalp as she scratches your back. you relax into her, and in minutes, all four of you are asleep and snoring on the bed.

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #i'm SOOOO glad someone brought up baby slayer again i have so many thoughts about her and sevika sdjlksdls #this is so cute thank u for such a cute prompt anon <33

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