#From the gentle way he handles Lance

[kismetconstellations]

Shiro in The Fall of the Castle of Lions

[uluvjay]

How I think F1 drivers would kiss you…

|LEWIS HAMILTON |. Lewises kisses make you feel like you’re on top of the world, the way he moves his lips against yours makes everything else fade away. His hands usually find themselves cupping your cheeks, cradling the back of your head, or resting on your waist. He’s also a lover of hand kisses, more specifically placing kisses on your ring finger with the promise of one day marrying you.

After a bad race this man doesn’t even give you the chance to speak before he has you pressed against him with your lips locked in a hot kiss. His large tattooed hand comes to tangle in your hair as his tongue fights against yours, and next thing you know he has you bent over his massage table…

| MAX VERSTAPPEN | His everyday kisses are the kind that have you blushing and butterflies fluttering in your stomach. He holds you by the chin or places a gentle hand on the back of your neck and pulls you in. He always dips back in for one more after initially pulling away because he can never get enough of you.

Now if he’s pissed after a bad race his grip is much stronger, there’s no escaping his bruising kiss. He enjoys nipping at your lower lip and allowing you no chance at taking over the kiss. He’ll keep you pinned against his body until he has you begging him for something more..

| LANDO NORRIS | His kisses are HOT, there’s never a time where he doesn’t slip his tongue in your mouth even when he’s rushing. His hands are glued to your ass, he’s gripping and groping the entire time, he feels like unless he works a small whimper from you then he didn’t kiss you good enough. Sometimes when he’s feeling cheeky he’ll allow his hands to travel up under your shirt to feel your skin and run his thumbs along the bottom of your bra. And while he’ll never admit it out loud he loves when you sit on his lap and he gets to kiss you and feel up on you for as long as he pleases.

Now if it’s after a bad race his kisses don’t change much but his handling does, his hands are tangled in your hair or resting at the base of your throat and he squeezes just enough to earn himself a moan from you. He has you pinned somewhere, either a wall of his drivers room or on the couch as he balances over you with his body rutting into yours.

| CHARLES LECLERC | Charles kisses you like you’re gonna disappear, he’s obsessed with loving on you, his lips move so softly against your own. His hands are usually tangled in your hair or cradling your cheeks, and he lovesss rubbing his nose against yours before completely pulling away. He is not a fan of quick pecks, he doesn’t care how late he’s running he will always have time to give you a proper kiss.

After a bad race he quite literally seeks out a kiss from you, he’ll hold you close with a firm hand cupping the back of your neck as he locks your lips. They move a bit more rough but still slow, he’s had to go all that time without being to kiss you and he’s not going to rush it.

| LANCE STROLL | This man’s hand placement is perfection, when he kisses you it’s slow and intimate, his hands are either both rested on your waist or one is settled there while the other cups your cheek. His kisses make you feel like it’s your first kiss every time, he doesn’t even have to say he loves you because you can feel it in the way he kisses you.

Now if it’s after a bad race his whole demeanor changes, his kisses become rough and fast, your teeth are clashing as his hand rests on the base of your throat and he purposefully places his thigh between your legs.

| ALEX ALBON | He kisses you with nothing but love, he absolutely loves to kiss your cheeks and side of your head, it’s his go to spot as you pull away from a hug. But don’t underestimate him, he leaves you breathless and chasing after his lips when he kisses you. He likes to hold and stroke your cheek with his thumb as he kisses you, he enjoys feeling your cheeks heat up under his hand.

Now if it’s a bad race he has you pinned to a wall as he kisses you hard, his hand has moved from your cheek into your hair as he tangles his fingers in your locks. His lips move feverishly against yours as he does his best to forget what just happened out on the track.

| OSCAR PIASTRI |. Oscar’s kisses are a bit more light but nonetheless loving, he enjoys placing a sweet kiss to your lips that makes your heart flutter and blush tint your cheeks. His hand placement is top tier, they always find themselves on your waist, hips, lower back, sometimes even slips a hand into your back pocket, and he always strokes your hair as you two finally pull apart.

After a bad race I don’t think he gets rough, he’ll definitely sit you on his massage table and stand between your thighs or pull you onto his lap as you fall into a small make out sesh. He’ll mark you up a little but it’s usually only where his eyes can see.

| LOGAN SARGEANT |. His kisses are soft but intimate, he pours all of his love into kissing you and doesn’t pull away until you are both in need of air. He loves kissing your forehead so much so that it’s become a pre-race ritual for you two and he looks forward to it every single race. He is also a big lover of hand kisses, he loves trailing his lips along your knuckles.

After a bad race he allows you to take control, he’ll pull you on his lap and let you make everything better. He loves holding you close by your waist as you trail your lips along his face before finally attaching your lips in a slow and comforting make out.

| DANIEL RICCIARDO |. Daniel loves kissing you, it’s one of his favorite activities. He always finds himself smiling brightly into a kiss leading him to pulling away from your lips and trailing kisses all over your face instead. He loves holding you close by your waist and often times it ends up with you two hugging while he kisses your sweet spot and whispers sweet nothings in your ear.

Now after a bad race he switches, his lips are rough against yours as he has a tight grip on your hair, head pulled back as he trails kisses all over the column of your throat before trailing them back up and keeping you locked in a hot and heavy make out.

| CARLOS SAINZ |. Carlos kisses are typically soft and quick, he’s not big on making out unless you’re both in the mood but best believe his hand placement is good. He usually rests a hand on your waist or bum as he pulls you close and places a series of small pecks to your lips, sometimes he’ll pull you in close with a hand on the back of your neck but it’s not his go to.

After a bad race kissing your lips isn’t really on his mind, he’ll trap you against the wall of his drivers room and trail kisses from your lips down your body until he has you whimpering and withering for him.

[xspeter]

𖦹 part of the “dancing with our hands tied” collection. main masterlist

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇... Luke discovers the three times he denied his feelings for you, and the one time he accepted them.

W.C: 5K

Incident One: The Nurses Station

Luke knows that you’re annoyed with him, it was written all over your face. You wouldn’t say it aloud, of course not, you were too sweet, but you had no concept of a poker face.

He thought it was cute, the way your eyebrows knitted and your shoulders tensed. The way you avoided looking at him because you knew he could see right through you.

You suck in your bottom lip as you waltz over to him with a pack of bandages and alcohol. You sit on the stool in front of him, knocking his knees open with your own so you can roll yourself between them, the wheels screeching a little as you do.

You stare at him with an intensity Luke has only ever seen from you once, and it’s when he was in an all too familiar situation with Lance Tenning.

The situations were all too eerily similar- both involving something being said about you. It didn’t matter if it was to your face or behind your back, Luke just couldn’t tolerate it. He couldn’t listen to your name get thrown around in the mud because you rejected the Ares child, not when you were so sweet and kind.

So, of course when Luke heard Lance whisper to his dimwit friends about how, “That bitch just can’t stop slutting herself out for Castellan,” he had to intervene.

And it’s not Luke’s fault that Lance got all defensive, and it’s not Luke’s fault that Lance pushed him, and it definitely wasn’t Luke’s fault when Lance ended up on the ground with a fresh black eye.

Luke can’t help but grin as the sight of Lance writhing beneath him replays in his mind, and you glare up at him with that knowing look in your eye. “I don’t know what you have to be smiling about right now.” You spit.

Luke furrows his brows, allowing you to inspect his bloody knuckles, before he grins and uses his free hand to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m here with you, why wouldn’t I be smiling?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes with a shake of your head. “Right, of course.”

“It’s true!”

You don’t say anything, just beginning to clean his knuckles. The sting is so familiar to Luke that he barely even reacts, just placing his other hand behind him and leaning back.

It’s weird, because Luke knows you’re mad at him. But you still handle him with so much care, so much gentleness- as if he’s fragile and the slightest movement could shatter him to pieces. It’s sweet, and just another example of how much you care.

He doesn’t know what he did to deserve a friend like you.

Luke can see you itching to ask him something, from the way you keep glancing up at him and the constant gnawing on your lip. And Luke knows you won’t ask- not be your own volition, anyway. You didn’t like confrontation, in fact, you made it a point to stay as far away from it as possible, so unless Luke said something, you never would.

“What’re you thinking about in that pretty head of yours?”

Luke notices the way your breath hitches at the word pretty, but he doesn’t think anything of it. You’d always been particularly sensitive to compliments, not just the ones from him. You let out a brisk sigh, finally able to let out the question you’d been holding in.

“Why did you do it, Luke? Again? After I already told you to just leave it alone?” Your voice waivers slightly, and he can see the obvious distress in your eyes. It made him almost… regretful. He never wanted to be the reason you felt anything other than happy, but he knew you wouldn’t understand it. You were so quick to let people walk all over you- let them treat you like shit and then say it was all fine and dandy.

Luke couldn't do that, though. He’d honestly rather die than watch you break yourself for people who didn’t give two-shits about you.

His lips thin, and he watches as you avert your gaze from his face and back to his hand, beginning to wrap a brown bandage around it.

“You didn’t hear what he said about you, Sweetheart. I couldn’t just listen to those awful things and pretend it wasn’t happening!” He sucks in a breath, waiting for your response.

You tense slightly, eyes darting between his face and his hand. “I never asked you to do that. I can handle myself-”

Luke snorts, interrupting you abruptly, “Can you? Because the last time this happened, you were going to let him get away with it. And that time he’d said it straight to your face!”

You finish tying his bandage swiftly, immediately dropping his hand and practically sprinting as far away from him as you can get.

You run the bridge of your nose, “Because I don’t want to start any problems! Lance isn’t just going to stop because you hit him a couple times, so there’s no point to it!” You scoff out a laugh, running a hand through your hair. “I mean, why do you care so much anyway?”

Luke goes silent at that. You were his best friend, of course he cared, but…

Why does this feel different? He wouldn’t beat someone for any of his other friends. Hell, he’s not sure he would do that for anyone. So why did he do it for you?

The answer is on the tip of his tongue, itching to be said and confessed, but he just can’t figure out what it is, and it’s driving him mad.

“‘Cause you’re my best friend!” He says it with a wince, like the words are foreign and wrong. And you flinch back at the phrase too. It makes him nauseous.

He watches as you swallow, hard. Eyelashes fluttering as you blink back the glossiness forming in your eyes. “I know that.” You mumble, “I’m just so sick of watching you hurt yourself and other people for me. I’m not worth getting kicked out of camp.”

Luke’s heart breaks a little bit when you say that, because he couldn’t believe you would even think that. To him, you were worth everything. Getting kicked out of camp, getting exiled by the gods, fuck- you were worth the world. All you had to do was say the word and Luke would be on his knees in front of you, praising the altar that you so graciously allowed him to admire.

He risked taking a step towards you, and he let out a small, relieved sigh when you didn't take a step away. “Do you seriously think that?”

Your eyes trailed his body, all the way from his lower stomach to his eyes, and Luke couldn’t help but shiver as they did. He closed the distance between you until you were nearly chest to chest, your breathing slowed and eyes wide. You were so goddamn beautiful, it was almost painful.

“Do you really think… I wouldn’t betray the fucking Gods if you asked me to? That I wouldn’t do anything for you?” His voice was low and husky, fingers grazing your arm and trailing up to your cheekbone. “I would rather I got kicked out of camp before I let some piece of shit like Lance Tenning speak a single word about you.”

You were nearly speechless, unable to move as the space between you got smaller and smaller. “Luke..” You whispered. And Luke felt it, that familiar twist in his gut, the one he couldn’t name.

And just as he was about to understand it- to accept it- some little kid ran into the room, crying about a cut they got on their hand. You didn’t even spare Luke a second glance as you rushed over to them and whispered sweet nothings in their ear, crouching down and kissing their hand better.

But, even as he excused himself and began the walk back to his own cabin, the strange feeling never really did leave him.

Incident Two: The Lake

Percy Jackson is the most oblivious person Luke has ever met.

It was seriously obvious to anyone with eyes that Annabeth was in love with him, especially after their quest last year. Her lingering touches, smiles a bit too wide, eyes glued to him anytime they were within ten feet of each other. It was completely obvious.

Even now, as Annabeth and Percy chase each other in the lake, hair sticking to their skin and water dribbling from their eyelashes, Annabeth's crush is noticeable in the way she looks at him.

Luke thinks it’s cute, honestly. He wants his little sister to find someone that loves her just as much as she loves them, and Percy Jackson was definitely that guy. He just needed to stop being an idiot and realize it.

“Hey, Luke?”

Luke’s ears perk up at the sound of you behind him, and he looks away from the two teens and towards you.

You and your light pink one-piece swimsuit. You and the little bow in your hair, watching intently as you tug it loose and let your hair cascade down your shoulders. You and your perfect lips and nose and-

“Can you help me tie this, please?”

You turn your back to him, and Luke swallows hard once he realizes your swimsuit is open back, which allows him to see the curve of your spine and the pretty freckles and moles that dot your skin like stars.

He watches as you struggle to tie the bathing suit strings around your neck, fingers moving around with zero coordination.

So, despite the obvious burning in his cheeks and the unexplainable feelings that brew in his stomach, he says: “Um, yeah. ‘Course I can.”

His breathing slowed as you whispered a quiet thanks, allowing Luke to softly brush your hair over your shoulder and take the strings from your fingers.

He tied it effectively, probably taking much longer than he should have, but he couldn’t help it. Not when you were so close and he could smell your perfume- lemons and vanilla. It was honestly the most intoxicating thing he’d ever smelled.

He tightened the bow around your neck, touch lingering on your back as his hands ghosted over your skin. He sucked in a breath, watching as his fingers trailed to your shoulders, as if they weren’t his own. And maybe they weren’t.

Slowly, he placed a small kiss on your shoulder, relishing in the way your breathing hitched and your spine shuddered.

And then there was that feeling again, the one he doesn’t quite understand. The one he just can’t place his finger on.

You turn around as Luke’s plush lips leave your shoulder, eyes a bit wide and lips parted, like there’s a question you’re dying to ask but you don’t allow yourself to.

You giggle nervously, glancing at Luke’s pink cheeks and tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear, the way you always do when you’re nervous. “I, uh, thanks. For tying it! Not for… anything else. Obviously.” You ramble.

Luke just nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was no problem. I mean, what else are friends for?”

He pretends he doesn’t notice the way your eyebrows furrow and your shoulders deflate a bit at the word friends. Because, that's what you were, right? That’s all you were. Luke couldn’t understand why you’d ever be disappointed because of it.

You blink a couple times, doing your best to hide the way your voice shakes. “Yeah. Friends.”

Luke grins, happy that you’re both on the same page, and gently taps your arm. “Good. Look, I have to go make sure nobody drowns, but I'll see you later, alright?”

You nod, waving him off with a small mhm. But, even as Luke walks away and the smile returns to your face as you greet one of your sisters, the disappointment that lingers in your eyes doesn’t leave his head.

Why would you be dissapointed? And… why did he feel the same?

Incident three: The Bondfire

Luke wasn’t one to get jealous. He had no reason to be, he was perfectly content with where he was in his friendships and he didn’t have any girl he was involved with.

So why did the sight of you giggling with an Aphrodite boy make his blood boil?

The boy, Carter Rhodes, was notorious around camp for dating around. Almost every girl had a story with him, and Luke had thought you knew that, so why were you talking to him?

He watches as Carter leans into you, his lips inches away from your ear. You throw your head back and laugh. Actually laugh. Not the fake giggle you usually give people, no. It’s the laugh you give Luke when he visits you in the nurses station. Or when you spend the night with him. Or even when you’re just with him!

It's his laugh. So why were you letting Carter fucking Rhodes hear it?

“Uh, Luke, are you okay?”

Luke’s head whips to Percy, who’s giving him a disturbed look. It’s then that he notices he was gripping his plastic cup so hard, it had crushed in on the sides.

Luke swallows, blinking a few times to try and clear his mind, but the image of you and Carter doesn’t leave. “Uh,” He sniffles, eyes darting between you and Percy, “I’m all good.”

Percy nods, a sarcastic uh-huh falling from his lips. His blue eyes trail to you, and a smirk creeps onto his face.

Sure, Percy was oblivious when it came to his own love life, but yours and Luke’s? He was basically an expert.

Percy takes a seat on the log next to Luke, watching as the brunette boy struggles to keep his eyes on the ground and not on you. It’s amusing, honestly, the fact that Luke thinks he’s anything but obvious with his feelings for you.

“I get it, man. It’s hard watching the girl you like flirt with other dudes.”

At first, Percy’s comment doesn’t register in his brain and he agrees that, yes, it is hard watching the girl you like flirt with other dudes. And then he think real hard.. the girl you like..

“What? I don’t like her! I mean, I do like her as a friend but, I don’t like like her.”

Percy watches with amusement as Lukes cheeks turn a shade of pink and he trips over his words, practically shaking as he tries to shut down the accusation. The blonde sighs, shaking his head with a tut. “Oh, Luke. Sweet, innocent, Luke.” He claps a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it obnoxiously. “You are absolutely whipped.”

Luke scoffs and shrugs Percy off of him, shooting him a glare. “Right, like you’re any better. I see the heart eyes you and Annie give each other. But, me and Y/N aren’t like that! We’re just- just friends.”

The word feels like poison on his tongue, practically burning as he forces it out. It was true, you’re his friend! So why did he hate saying it?

He thinks back to that odd feeling he gets in his stomach when he’s with you, wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was some truth to Percy’s words.

But he immediately shoots the idea down. Even if Luke did see you as anything other than a friend, you’d never feel the same. You’d seen Luke at the lowest point in his life, right after his quest. You’d seen him angry, you’d seen him cry. How could you ever love someone so… unloveable?

Percy goes a deep shade of red, eyes widening as he immediately deflects. “Annabeth and I are not like you and Y/N! I don’t even- even like her. Gods, gross..” He pretends to gag, but Luke sees the way the blondes eyes immediately trail to where Annabeth sits talking to her siblings.

Luke lets out a chuckle, standing and ignoring the pop in his knees. He claps Percy on the back, “Keep telling yourself that, Lover Boy.” And swiftly finds his way over to you.

It’s ridiculous, yes. Luke knows that, but he wasn’t doing this out of jealousy. No, it’s because he’s worried- just like he usually is. He can’t help it! You’re just so naive and trusting, someone’s gotta be there to make sure you don’t get hurt!

Carter spots him first, and Luke pretends the immediate frown that falls onto his face as he does doesn’t make him proud. Like Carter knows that as soon as you see him, whatever bullshit he was trying to do with you would immediately be discarded.

Luke walks up right behind you, placing both hands on your shoulders and rubbing them just the way you like it. “Hey, Sweetheart.”

Your neck cranes as you look up at him, a wide, toothy smile on your lips. “Luke! Where’ve you been?”

He shrugs, sitting on the log next to you and continuing his massage on your shoulders. His thumbs move to rub circles into your back, on the places he knows you get tense the most, and you let out a low moan of approval, eyes falling shut. “‘missed you.” You breathe.

Luke chuckles, watching as Carter pretends to not be as angry as he really is. “Sorry, baby. Had to give lessons to some of the younger kids today.”

He doesn’t miss the way goosebumps rise into your skin despite the warm fire, or the way your spine goes completely rigid at the nickname. A proud smirk spreads onto his face as he finished his work with a chaste kiss to you shoulder, making sure to let it linger for longer than he normally would.

When he comes up, he pretends to finally notice Carter, putting on his best shocked face. “Oh! Carter, my bad, I didn’t see you. How’ve you been?”

Carter gives him a mean mug, jaw rippling as he nods. “Sure you didn’t, Castellan.”

You look at Luke with confusion, and then back to Carter, obviously being able to sense the thick tension between them. “Carter, what’s wrong?”

Carter blinks a few times, before his face relaxes and the sultry smooth smirk returns. “Nothin’ babe,” He places a gentle hand onto your thigh, thumb tracing small circles into it. “Just can’t believe how pretty you look.”

Luke doesn’t miss the wink Carter throws his way, or the way your cheeks flush as you giggle nervously. It was nearly unbelievable the audacity Carter had! To touch you right in front of him- to make you blush and giggle like a schoolgirl in love?

Luke sighs, leaning close and whispering in your ear. “Let’s go back to my cabin, yeah?” Immediately turn to him, and Luke knows he’s won. Honestly, did Carter ever even have a chance? It was almost cruel to let him think he had.

You swallow, eyes trailing Luke as he stands and offers a hand to you, a casual grin on his face. You say a quick goodbye to Carter without even sparing him a glance, and take Luke’s hand.

You let him lead you away, but Luke looks over his shoulder and smirks at Carter’s look of disbelief. He sends him a wink just as he did earlier, and then turns back to you.

You're looking at the ground in front of you, lips parted as you glance towards him. Your hands stay connected the whole way back to his cabin, but no words are exchanged between you.

He's not surprised to find the cabin empty, instead he relishes in it. The Hermes Cabin had so many residents, moments of solitude in it were hard to come by. So when they did, he always made sure to enjoy them as much as he could.

He drops your hand as soon as the door closes behind the two of you, plopping onto his bed with a sigh. He watches as you wrap your arms around yourself, maintaining a large distance between the two of you which he finds strange.

Normally, you always join him on his bed, allowing him to play with your fingers or hair and having deep conversations that he always enjoys. But, no, tonight you’re looking at him like there’s a question you want to ask, like it’s practically burning in your throat and you need to spit it out, but you don’t. You let it burn, gnawing on your lower lip.

His eyebrows furrow and he stands, walking towards you. You don’t move back, but you don’t look at him either. Not until his hands are on your upper arms, holding you in place gently. He tilts his head slightly, “What’s the matter?”

You suck in a breath, finally looking up at him through your lashes, and then your gaze finds the floor again, as if it hurts to look at him for more than a second. You stumble a bit as you talk, “Is there a reason you were being so weird back there? I mean, you’re never… never really that touchy when we’re with other people.”

Luke thinks back, remembering how he’d rubbed your back and shoulders, called you baby, kissed your skin… and he realizes that you’re right. The most he ever does in public is give you a quick kiss anywhere but your lips before he leaves you, and that’s that.

He doesn’t call you pet names, doesn’t touch you. So why did he do it now? His mouth goes dry, but he makes sure to keep his cool and calm exterior, dropping his hands from your skin, and shrugging nonchalantly. “Uh, no, not really. I just missed you.”

You snort, and squeeze your arms tighter around yourself. Finally, you look up at him, and Luke can’t help the way he basks in it. Your look, no matter if it’s angry or happy or sad, leaves butterflies in his stomach that he can’t explain.

“So, that’s all? You just missed me?”

He nods, “That's pretty much it.”

He doesn’t miss the hurt that flashes in your eyes. You never were good at hiding your emotions, no matter how hard you tried. It’s something he lov- liked about you. Something he liked.

Your arms fall to your sides, nostrils flaring a bit as you scoff. “Really? It’s not because you were- were jealous that I was finally talking to someone who might like me?”

Luke couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. Did you really think Carter wanted to be with you for anything outside of another two week fling? “Please,” He sighs, “You had to know Carter was just flirting with you to have sex with you!”

You stare at him with wide eyes, jaw hanging open as tears well in your lash line. He doesn’t understand it- why were you being like this right now? Couldn’t you see he was just looking out for you like he normally did?

“What if I wanted that too, huh? What if I wanted to stop waiting around like an idiot for someone who will never see me as anything more than a friend!”

There’s that word again, but this time it’s like a punch to the gut. It’s like bitter poison falling from your mouth, like the wrath of the Gods had finally caught up to him. It hurts more than he’d like to admit.

He risks taking a step closer to you, but you take one back, maintaining distance between you. “What are you talking about, Y/N?”

The question hangs in the air like smoke, filling up his lungs and leaving him unable to breathe. Because deep down- he thinks he knows. Deep down, the answer shines like a light in the middle of the darkness, begging to be seen. But he doesn’t want to see it yet- can’t let himself see it yet. He doesn’t deserve to.

Your head turns to the side, arms crossing over your chest once more. “Nothing. I have to go.” You murmur, beginning to walk away from him, but in a desperate attempt to get you to stay he snags your wrist.

You tug at him, something you rarely ever do, and it leaves him nearly speechless. Still, he persists, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You freeze, but Luke doesn’t miss the way your voice waivers as you whisper, “If you can’t tell, then I won't be the one to tell you.”

With that you break from his hold, slamming the door shut behind you and leaving him completely alone. Now, that solitude he’d reveled in feels like snow creeping into his skin, encasing him in an endless chill.

Incident Four: The Apollo Cabin

Luke knows that you know it’s him knocking on your window. None of your siblings, with the exception of maybe one, have people sneaking in at late hours of the night.

He also knows that you’re not asleep. There’s no way- not after what was said between the two of you barely two hours ago. That's why he continues his knocks, coming up with new combinations, partially out of boredom and partially to annoy you enough to force you to open it.

And it works, he watches with a shit-eating grin as the window rolls open and you glare at him. “What?” You growl, glancing behind you to make sure none of your siblings woke up. “What do you want?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, gesturing for you to move back as he makes the familiar crawl through your window. He lands softly, so familiar with the environment that he knows where to step so he makes the least noise. “Couldn’t go to sleep knowing you were mad at me.” He mumbles.

You deadpan at him, a hand on your hip as you shake your head. “I’m not mad. Will you go back to your own cabin now?”

He shakes his head, eyes lingering on your messy hair and bare face. You never wore a lot of makeup, there was no point when the sun would melt it right off, but seeing you like this- unfiltered and completely real, he’s not sure you’ve ever looked more beautiful.

“You’re mad, Y/N. I know you are.” He sighs, and you swallow, wrapping your arms around yourself and looking to the side. “No, I'm not.”

He likes your stubbornness. Likes the way your lips pucker out slightly and your skin prickles with goosebumps when a breeze slips through the open window. He likes everything about the way you look at him, even when you’re angry.

“Yes, you are. And you have every reason to be. I was.. being selfish. I shouldn’t have dragged you away from Carter because I was mad you were talking to someone outside of me. It wasn’t fair.”

He doesn’t miss the way your eyes shine a little, biting on your lower lip in thought. “Luke-” You start, but he doesn’t let you finish. “You’re allowed to do what you want. And.. if you want to have sex with Carter then, you know, you can do that.”

You chuckle, shaking your head with a sniff, “I don’t want to have sex with Carter.”

He can’t help the relief that floods his veins as you say this, letting out a small groan of approval. “Oh, thank the Gods. You are way too good for that douchebag.”

You grin, stepping closer to him. Luke inhales as your familiar scent fills his nostrils, and it smells like home. Like something he was always meant to know.

“Yeah, wherever. Will you stay here with me tonight?” You ask, though Luke knows you already know his answer. Still, he amuses you, nodding dumbly and allowing you to lead him into your bed.

You settle under the covers, which smell like you, and he feels your limbs tangle together and your head find his chest, like a lock and key molding together in the form it was always made to be.

Your body is warm, warmer than his anyway, and your skin is so soft. Years of handling medicine has done you justice, a huge contrast to the roughness of his own, years of training has left him battered and scarred.

Still, you trace lines into the skin of his stomach, ear flat against his chest giving you full access to the beat of his heart.

“Luke?” You murmur, and he hums, running a hand through your hair, gently brushing out the knots. “Yeah, Sweetheart?”

You’re silent for a moment, before finally you softly say, “It’ll be us forever, right? No matter what happens?”

Luke is almost shocked how fast the word yes fills his thoughts. He hasn’t ever thought about what would come after camp, after you both left and your lives changed and you grew up.

Would you be there for that? Would you want to be there for that? He hopes your answer is yes.

“Forever.” He whispers, kissing the top of your head and pulling you tighter against him, “I promise.”

You sigh happily, closing your eyes and drifting to sleep. It’s then that Luke realizes what that feeling in his stomach is. The one he can never name, the one that begs to roll off of his tongue like hot acid.

Because , while Luke knew he himself was unloveable, with his trauma and scars, did that mean he was unable to love? Did he even deserve to feel that?

He's not sure, but right now, with you laying on his chest like it’s just the two of you in the whole world, he thinks he accidently let it happen.

He fell in love with you without ever even knowing it, and he’s not sure he ever wants to stop.

taglist: @apolloscastellan @ddarling-ddearest-ddead

[trueebeauty]

It's a regular afternoon at U.A., and you're in the training grounds with your boyfriend, the one and only Bakugo Katsuki. He's been working on a new move, all explosive power and razor-sharp precision. You, on the other hand, have been practicing your own quirk, pushing your limits.

Maybe you pushed a little too hard.

"Shit!" you hiss as your quirk backfires. A sharp pain lances up your arm, and you look down to see a nasty cut, blood welling up in crimson beads.

Bakugo's head snaps around at your curse. His crimson eyes widen a fraction - to anyone else, it would be imperceptible, but you know him well enough to see the flash of concern. "Oi!" he barks, stomping over. "The hell did you do?"

You wince, both at the pain and his volume. "Pushed too hard, I guess."

He scowls, but it's his worried scowl, not his angry one. Roughly gentle, he takes your arm, inspecting the cut. "Tch. Dumbass. You're supposed to go beyond your limits, not break yourself."

The cut stings, and honestly, you're feeling a bit shaken. Training accidents happen, but still...

"It's just a scratch," you say, trying for nonchalance.

Bakugo snorts. "That's not a fucking scratch, you idiot." But his touch is gentle as he takes your arm, inspecting the wound. "Recovery Girl's gonna have a field day with this."

You wince, not just from the pain but at the thought of another lecture on caution. Bakugo notices - of course he does, he notices everything about you - and his scowl deepens.

"C'mon," he grunts, tugging you up. "Let's get this cleaned up before you bleed all over the damn place."

“Recovery Girl's probably busy with the other extras. I've got a first aid kit in my room."

You nod, letting him lead you back to the dorms. His grip on your good hand is firm, grounding. This is Bakugo's way of comfort - not soft words, but solid presence.

In his room, he sits you on his bed and kneels in front of you. The first aid kit appears from a drawer, and he gets to work.

"Stay still," Bakugo grunts, rummaging through the kit. "And don't bleed on my sheets."

You snort. "Sorry, I'll try to control my involuntary bodily functions."

"Tch. Smartass." But there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile.

He pulls out an antiseptic wipe, tearing the packet open with his teeth. "This'll sting," he warns, his rough voice softening.

"I can handle it," you say bravely. But when the antiseptic touches your wound, you can't help but hiss. "Ow!"

"Crybaby," Bakugo mutters. But his movements slow, his touch becoming feather-light. "Thought you could handle it?"

"Shut up," you grumble, but there's no heat in it. You're too busy marveling at how gentle he's being.

His hands, so destructive in battle, are surprisingly deft as he cleans every inch of the cut. You watch him work, mesmerized by the contrast. These hands that can level buildings are now treating you like you're made of glass.

"What?" he asks, noticing your stare.

"Nothing," you murmur. "Just... you're good at this."

He shrugs, but you catch the pleased glint in his eyes. "Can't have my boyfriend bleeding out because they can't dress a damn wound."

"Your boyfriend, huh?" you tease. It's still new, this thing between you, and every time he acknowledges it, your heart skips.

Bakugo's cheeks dust pink. "Don't," he growls, but there's no bite. He's too focused on wrapping your arm in a clean bandage.

"Not too tight?" he asks, voice gruff but eyes soft.

You flex your fingers. "It's perfect. Thanks, Katsuki."

He nods, sitting back on his heels. His thumb brushes over the bandage, a touch so light you almost think you imagined it. But then he looks up at you, and the raw emotion in his crimson eyes steals your breath.

"Don't do that again," he says quietly. "Getting hurt. It's... it pisses me off."

You understand what he's not saying. In Bakugo-speak, 'it pisses me off' means 'it scares me'. You reach out with your good hand, cupping his cheek. He leans into it, just a fraction.

"I'll be more careful," you promise. "Can't have the great Katsuki Bakugo worrying about little old me, right?"

"Damn right," he mutters, but he's leaning in now, forehead resting against your knee. It's as close to vulnerable as Bakugo gets.

You card your fingers through his spiky hair, marveling at how soft it is. For a moment, the world shrinks to just this: you and Bakugo, his hands now resting gently on your thighs.

"Hey, Katsuki?" you whisper.

He grunts in response, not moving.

You hold out your newly bandaged arm. "Kiss it better?"

Bakugo freezes. He looks up at you, one ash-blond eyebrow arching high. "That's not my fucking quirk," he says, voice dry as the desert.

But you see it - the faintest tinge of pink on his cheeks, the way his eyes soften just a fraction. You've got him on the ropes, and you both know it.

"Please?" you whine, pouting for extra effect. "It really hurts, Kacchan."

He glares at you, but there's no real heat in it. "You're such a damn baby," he mutters. But he's already lifting your arm, his calloused fingers achingly gentle.

Bakugo brings your arm to his lips. He presses a kiss to the bandage, feather-light. Then another, and another, trailing up your arm. His lips are warm, a bit chapped from his quirk. Each kiss feels like a tiny spark, but the good kind, the kind that lights you up inside.

"There," he grunts, cheeks now definitely red. "Happy now?"

You hum contentedly, but you're not done yet. Leaning in, you whisper, "You know... I think I've got a scar on my lips too."

Bakugo's eyes widen, then narrow. "You little shit," he breathes, "You planned this, didn't you?"

"No," you admit, grinning. "But I want it."

He knows you're playing him, but oh, does he want to be played. "You're pushing it," he growls, but he's already leaning in.

"You love it," you whisper against his lips.

He doesn't deny it. Instead, he kisses you, and it's nothing like the gentle pecks on your arm. This is pure Bakugo - fierce, passionate, a little bit explosive. His hand cradles your face, thumb brushing your cheek, while the other pulls you against him.

When you part, you're both breathless. Bakugo rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, but there's no heat in it. Just a grudging acceptance that yes, he'd let you lead him anywhere.

You grin, nuzzling into his neck. "I love you too.”

He snorts, but his arms tighten around you. 

[areolni]

based on @nicobear 's recent post (sorry if it's bad i don't usually plan when im writing)

-

It started with a letter. "Good morning," it said. "May your duties run smoothly." Signed by the knight, Sir Lancelot. Sonic looked at the neatly written letter, then the envelope with a perfectly golden wax seal, and back at the letter. All he felt was confusion and a hint of amusement as well. This was… completely unnecessary. He sees Lancelot every day, performing his duties like the obedient knight he was. Why the sudden letter?

Another letter appeared on his desk, now with a beautiful bouquet of lavender. It reminded the king of his rival back home, to no surprise. They were alternates of each other after all, hence their preferences would undoubtedly be similar. Sonic never failed to question the gifts, yet he decided against confronting the knight about them. Lancelot wasn't one to show affection outwardly, so Sonic supposed this was his way of showing it subtly. He smiled at the thought.

Yet another letter, this time during the annual ball – an invitation to dance in the castle gardens. What a lovely surprise. In the midst of greenery with fresh flora where petals, too, twirled and flowed gracefully in the wind, the king danced his worries away with his knight. Sonic felt the gentle touch of Lancelot against his hand as his warmth blessed him from the chilly night wind. The sound of carefree laughter filled the air.

The pair has become closer ever since. No one has ever seen such a reserved knight turn affectionate towards his king within a night. The subtle glances, the intentional brushing whenever they walked close, how Lancelot always seemed to pepper Sonic with soft, tender kisses… Sonic, too, felt strange. It wasn't unwelcomed though.

The dread of Sir Sonic's departure loomed over the kingdom of Camelot. Everyone was aware the day would soon arrive, much to their dismay. Sonic was not the perfect king, but he was truly someone magnificent to return this kingdom to its former glory. His stay was long overdue; it was time for him to leave.

"Here," Sonic spoke as the soft rattling of his gauntlet echoed through their ears. He slipped it off and placed it in Lancelot's hands, curling the knight's fingers as a silent hope to keep it safe. "For you to remember me. In case, y'know, Caliburn ever sleeps again. Treat it as my parting gift."

"Forgetting you is unfathomable," Lancelot replied. For a moment, he was certain his lungs had stopped working. "I will hold this close. Thank you. May we reunite in a distant realm."

"Ah… Don't treat this as a final goodbye, man." A snicker left the hero's lips, a palm resting against the knight's chest, right above his heart. "I'll be back. Don't know when but… I'll visit."

"Of course. For now, however…" Lancelot's words trailed off, swallowing the painful lump in his throat. The time has come to say goodbye to his beloved. His heart couldn't handle it. "This is farewell, Sir Sonic."

Sonic's smile nearly faltered for a brief second if he hadn't caught himself. He didn't want to leave, but he had to, no matter how much things have changed back in his realm. He missed his friends, his family, that stupid egghead… That was where he belonged.

"It's never goodbye. So… See ya later, Lance."

As the light of the portal dimmed and dissipated into thin air, Lancelot found himself clutching the gauntlet tightly. His bare fingers now intertwined with metal every night he slept, knowing that those same fingers would never hold him back. Despite how cold and devoid the piece of armor was against his fingers, he would always remind himself that his gauntlet was once filled with someone's warmth.

The thought of his beloved Sonic now living his true life running as free as the wind, was enough for Sir Lancelot to sleep soundly every night.

At least, he had a piece of his memory to hold on to.

[vilevenom]

This idea has been sitting in my drafts forever, and I finally wrote it today because a fan animatic made me sad.

(If you wanna see an amazing animatic you should go watch it here. It has nothing to do with the fic, it's just good)

There'll be Good Times Again

Fandom: Sonic the Hedgehog (video games)

Pairing: Sonic/Lancelot, implied Sonic/Shadow

Summary: Everyone else thought it was just a dream, but it had all felt so real. The way Sonic's heart felt like it was going to break in two certainly was.

Sonic sighed happily as he leaned into his companions side as they sat on the grassy hilltop, closing his eyes as the soft, warm spring breeze swept through his quills. The enticing scent of freshly bloomed flowers danced around them on the wind as his companions fingers slid between his own, pulling a quiet, pleased hum from Sonic.

"My lord…"

"How many times do I gotta tell you, Lance," Sonic chuckled, sitting up to shoot the knight an amused grin, "It's just Sonic."

"Ah," Lancelot let his gaze slip away from the blue hedgehog's face, his muzzle betraying his embarrassment with a soft pink flush, "Sonic."

"Yes, Lance?"

"I just…wanted to tell you. Should anything happen-"

"Hey! It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, birds are singing, and Camelot is rebuilding! I don't wanna hear any doom and gloom out of you, mister!"

"Sonic, please," Lancelot tightened his hold minutely on Sonic's hand, shifting his position to fully face the other hedgehog, "allow me this one moment? It will set my heart at ease to say it."

Sonic let a long, slow breath out his nose before giving a short nod, a crooked little smile on his face as he reached out to pluck a stray piece of grass from Lancelot's quills. "Fine. But only one, so you better make it good."

Lance returned the smile with a soft one of his own, bringing Sonic's hand up to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles. "A challenge I am more than willing to take on," he chuckled. He then took a deep breath, crimson meeting emerald as he began to speak. "I simply need you to know…should anything happen to tear us apart from each other, whether that be an attack on the kingdom, or the force which brought you to this world sweeping you away again, I shall forever be your most loyal knight, and I will aways love you. No matter what form I may take, in any world you may find yourself in, your soul and mine are most surely intertwined and meant to be together."

"Lance, that's-" Sonic puffed out a breath, quickly wiping at his eyes and shaking his head with a light laugh, "That's beautiful, but we both heard Merlina. She figured out how to summon me here, but she has no idea how to send me back. And! There's nothing that could attack Camelot that we can't handle. You really don't need to be so dramatic. Even if it is incredibly sweet." He lifted his free hand to cup the side of Lancelot's muzzle, smile turning soft as Lance tilted his cheek into the hold.

"Even if that may be the case," the knight sighed, turning his head to press a brief kiss to the palm of Sonic's hand, "I just wanted you to know."

"Hmm…moment well spent," Sonic chuckled, drawing Lance in close to sweep a feather light kiss over his lips, "I love you, too."

~

Sonic woke with a start, his arms and legs flailing, only serving to tangle himself further in the blankets already wrapped around him like a cocoon. He gasped as his squirming nudged him over the edge of his bed, letting out a loud yelp as he hit the floor, the tangle of blankets falling over him gently to bury him in bedding. He thrashed as footsteps approach the door, loath to allow any of the knights to find him in such an embarrassing situation as being trapped by his own blankets.

"Sonic? I heard a loud noise! Are you okay?" The bedroom door opened just as Sonic managed to free his upper body from the tangle, shooting a reassuring grin at the door, only to falter at being confronted with the decor of a bedroom he didn't think he'd see again and Tails' worried face.

"Uh…ah, yeah!" Sonic forced a laugh, waving his little brother off as he used his now free hands to pull the blankets free from his legs, "Just had a weird dream and fell off the bed! Nothing to worry about, keed!"

Tails looked skeptical, eyeing Sonic for a moment, before shrugging, obviously assessing that nothing in the room had been damaged and Sonic wasn't grievously injured in some way. "Alright. Well, Amy said she'd come by a bit later this morning, so get up soon, okay?"

"Sure, bud! No problem!"

With that Tails slipped back out of the room, closing the door with a soft click as he went. Sonic rubbed at his head, confused and off kilter as his brain tried to catch up with the fact that he was apparently back home, without any rhyme or reason. He then noticed a book that had obviously fallen when he was flailing around, pages bent at odd angles from the way it had landed on the floor. He gently picked it up, his heart giving a painful lurch in his chest as his eyes scanned over the title; 'The Once and Future King'. Had it all been nothing but a dream?

~

Sonic tilted his head as he heard footsteps approaching the spot where he sat on the grassy hillside, knees to his chest, watching the world below go idly by, fully expecting Tails or Amy. It had been a week since he'd woken up from his 'dream', and the two had been a bit overbearing the past few days, constantly checking in on him, siting his uncharacteristic melancholy mood as the source for their worry. He supposed it couldn't be helped, really. As much as he'd wanted to come home, and as much as he loved his friends and his life on Mobius, he'd just gotten used to the idea of living in Camelot for the foreseeable future. With Lancelot.

No conceivable time had passed while he'd been in Camelot, so even when he'd told his friends of his adventure they'd been skeptical of him, at best. He'd quickly laughed it off with them when he realized that as much love and support his friends would always give him, there was just no convincing them of his time spent away. He'd begun avoiding them to try and get his thoughts together, hoping that a little bit of solitude would help make the unsettled, twisting feeling in his chest go away. All it had done was afford him time to reread through his book of legends and lament unintentionally leaving Lancelot behind without a word.

The blue hero did not expect to find Shadow walking towards him with a nearly unreadable expression on his face when he fully turned to see who was approaching. He blinked a couple of times in surprise, before plastering a smile on his face, hoping it was convincing. He'd been hoping to put off seeing Shadow for as long as possible, given the rather unfortunate fact that the hybrid shared a face with his knight. But, unfortunately, not his heart.

"Ah! Hey, Shads! What brings you out here?" Sonic asked, uncurling his legs and leaning back on his hands casually as Shadow came to a stop next to him.

"Rose has been messaging Rouge nearly non-stop since you disappeared, and so I was sent out to find you," Shadow grunted, arms folded across his chest as he stared out across the town beneath the hill.

"Oh. Uh, sorry about that," the hero laughed, running absent fingers through his quills, "I just needed some time to think."

"You? Think? That's laughable," Shadow snorted, earning a bitten off laugh of surprise from Sonic. The hybrid seemed to dither for a moment, before gracefully settling himself next to Sonic in the grass. He sighed heavily, crossing his legs while folding his hands in his lap. They sat in silence for a moment before he spoke again. "What's been bothering you?"

"Bothering me? C'mon, Shads. You know nothing bothers me," Sonic snorted, playfully shoving at the hybrid's shoulder to little avail, as he did little more than shoot a glare at the hero. He tried to keep up the grin he'd plastered on his face, only to finally wilt at Shadows unrelenting stare. "…It's nothing. Honest," he finally offered, turning back to look at the town, "It was…just a dream."

"A dream?" Shadow echoed, tone curious.

"Yeah. A really vivid dream," Sonic shrugged, tucking a knee against his chest to lean his chin on, "It just…it messed me up a bit, is all. I'll be okay in a little while. Nothing to worry about."

A grunt was his only response for a long time, the two sitting in companionable silence as the world continued to turn around them.

"…Rose told Rouge that you think it was real," Shadow finally murmured, plucking at the grass. Sonic simply snorted, turning his face away from Shadow. This whole scene felt far too familiar and raw, but also wrong. It made Sonic's skin itch.

"Yeah, well," the hero shrugged, "I said it was vivid, didn't I?"

"Tell me about it."

Sonic turned sharply towards Shadow, who was simply watching him with a neutral expression."…What?"

"Your dream. Tell me about it," Shadow reiterated, tossing a piece of grass into the wind, "I've been told it helps."

Sonic contemplated Shadow for a long beat, before he let out a breath and slowly began to talk. He spoke of the knights, misguided by a dark hearted king, and magic tainted and corrupt. He weaved a tale of heroism, with just a dash of lightheartedness sprinkled in, where good ultimately triumphed over evil, and the heroes got their just rewards in a happy ending. He carefully avoided speaking directly of Lancelot.

When Sonic was done, he almost felt winded, a smile on his face as he trailed off, before letting his hands fall into his lap, a sudden and harsh pang in his chest as he recalled the last night he'd spent in Camelot, curled together with Lancelot, happily discussing their plans for the future; both for themselves and the kingdom. He sucked in a sharp breath to try and ground himself, offering Shadow a strained smile. "And that's it."

The sharp stare he received in return was only somewhat off putting, given that it held no malice, but it still felt to Sonic like Shadow was staring into his very soul. He swallowed thickly, his smile wobbling at the corners. "What?"

"That's not 'it'," Shadow stated bluntly, scrunching his nose and narrowing his eyes at Sonic, "What aren't you telling me?"

The hero opened his mouth to weave another tale, only to deflate as Shadow continued to stare him down, his mouth closing with a quiet click of his teeth. He cast his gaze out towards the horizon, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment before finally relenting. "…There was a knight," he began, flicking his gaze to the hybrid briefly, only receiving a flick of Shadow's wrist as if telling him to continue. "He-we…He was the most loyal knight. First to the black king, and then to me. He was steadfast by my side, and we got close. Really close. Uhm," he cleared his throat, feeling a flush creep up his neck for speaking to Shadow about this, of all people, "Once the king was defeated, he confessed his feelings to me, and…yeah."

"So, you're not sad about leaving Camelot. You're sad about leaving him," Shadow rather astutely observed, arching a brow at the hero, who could feel his cheeks burn.

"I mean-!" Sonic started off sounding offended, only to click his tongue and nod slightly, his shoulders slumping, "Yeah. It feels like I abandoned him, y'know? Like I abandoned all of them, after promising I would help them. I know Tails and Amy are fully convinced it was just a dream, and I probably sound crazy, but I was starting to plan a life for myself there! It was…it was going to be good."

"Even if it was just a dream, it still meant something to you," Shadow murmured, his head tilted back to watch the clouds as the floated across the sky, "Your brain can't always tell what's real and what's not in dreams. Even if everything you told me was some fantasy your mind conjured up, it still made you feel something. That's irrefutably true." He tipped his head to regard Sonic from the corner of his eye. "Tell me about him. Your knight."

"Are you sure? It's…well, it's sappy, mostly. Doesn't really seem like something you'd want to hear."

"Just tell me, hedgehog. Before I change my mind."

"Alright, alright," Sonic chuckled, curling his arms around his knees and resting his chin on them again. "Well…he was brave, obviously. And strong. I think I already said it, but he was the strongest knight in the entire kingdom. He was smart as a whip, too. Called me on my bullshit and kept everyone in line. But he was also kind, and sweet. He had a big heart. He was handsome, too…"

"…you loved him."

Sonic contemplated skirting the question or outright lying, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. "With my whole heart."

Silence hung between the two hedgehogs after that simple statement, though it wasn't uncomfortable or strained. The gentle spring wind swirled around them, carrying the smell of freshly bloomed flowers. Sonic's heart gave a hard thump in his chest as tears threatened to gather in his eyes. He buried his face in his knees, taking a deep, shuddering breath to try and keep them at bay. With a shaky voice, he murmured into quietly into his knees, "His name was Lancelot."

"I'm sorry."

Sonic sniffed, wiping at his face as he lifted it from his knees. "What for?"

Shadow tilted his head this way and that, before lying back in the grass to properly stare up at the clouds, hands folded over his belly. "Isn't that what you say to someone when they've lost someone they love?"

Sonic flopped back into the grass next to Shadow, finally allowing a couple of tears to escape from his eyes, "I suppose so, yeah." He startled when he felt fingers intertwine with his own in the grass, turning his head to find Shadow still staring up at the clouds. He let a tiny, lopsided smile curl his lips, before turning back to the sky, Lance's words speaking of souls intertwined echoing in his mind.

Maybe, just maybe, the future he had been planning with Lancelot wasn't completely lost. That thought lifted at least a little bit of the weight from his grieving heart as he shifted a bit closer to Shadow in the grass. His smile grew as the hybrid lifted a hand to point out a cloud.

"That one looks like a rabbit."

"Yeah. It kinda does."

[oconswrld]

! Merry (late) Christmas !

Your secret santa XoXo - Kimi Raikonnen x Reader

summary: Y/n is Kimi's favorite santa.

warnings: age gap, romance, too cute🫶, Not retired Kimi!! rawdogging(not proofread)

author's 🗒️'s: i haven't had much time for writing so i did a bit of a cutesy christmas fic for the part 2 hope its good w u guyss <33 enjoy loves!!

( Seb nd Kimi arent retired, reader is at AM with Lance!!)

part 1, part 2, ...

______

It's Christmas. Secret santa with the grid and snow. Well not snow because all of us are still in Abu Dhabi. Knowing glances exchanged after the secret santa pulling. If i remember correctly i was pulled by i think Lance. Im not sure if it really was Lance, but the canadian is a pleasure to know and is just perfect at gifts.

I pulled Kimi, the legend, and my best friend. Maybe my best friend. Knowing how he and Seb are. Obviously it's not only platonic feelings with the way he acts around me.

Thinking about presents for Kimi is rather hard, seeing he doesn't really have a thing he likes but doesn't have. I'd say alcohol but do i wanna heed into his alcoholism? A bit, but only if it means i get a gift for him.

-

The tea in front of me was cold, but the weather kept me warm. Sebastian sat opposite of me, asking for advice on what he should get for Oscar.

"What about i buy him, his gift and you buy Kimi's for me." I suggest a deal thinking of all the things i could give Oscar.

"Don't know what to buy your little boyfriend, eh Y/n?" Teasing smirk pulling on his mouth, the german dared me for an answer.

Eyes rolling into the depths of the back of my head, showing clear annoyance yet he still kept talking.

"Maybe you could finally confess to him, he's all over you whenever you're near him anyway" Sassy tone pulling out his german accent, the sentence making my jaw drop lower with every word. Catching my jaw, i shook my head. Trying to act unbothered, sipping from the lemon tea in my hand.

"Are you really this bored, that you're invested in your two best friend's love life ? Old man." I look away as i hear Kimi's voice in the distance. My head turned to see him talking to Mark Webber, possibly an interview with all those cameras around. The signature straight smile from Kimi appeared. Uncomfortable aura around him.

I nodded back to Seb only to see him already looking at me. 'What?' I silently asked him, only getting a knowing look back.

"Let's just buy those gifts before i regret even sitting here."

-

Giddy feeling in my stomach affecting my hold on the wrapped object. Looking at the usual secret santa interviewer making small talk, handing over the gift.

The wrapping contained a letter and an object Seb helped me pick. I feel kind of weird, specifically the fact that i don't know if he will like it is weird.

After half an hour, the interviewer approached me again, cameramen following close by. Small talk exchanged as she got ready for the video.

"Okay! One, two, and three, it's on!" A smiley voice came from her notifying me.

I was handed a gift box and the santa hat. Placing the hat on my head i examined the box, wrapped in pink wrapping paper which had hearts written all over it. All i gathered is that it must be one of my friends. I brought it up to my ears to shake and maybe smell.

The shaking part was unsuccessful since the box made nearly no noise, however the smell was gentle yet slightly familiar. Kimi's cologne. Versace eros eau de toilette. The one you recommended to him, because you liked it. Mint and lemon are dominant over the smell of paper.

"That's Kimi." I looked up knowingly, smiling a bit.

"Smells like him. Unless it's Seb and he's again interested in my business." Rolling my eyes, earning a snicker from the woman handling the microphone.

I start opening the paper gently, since i wanna save the heart on it. As soon as i take the top off, i see what i got. Caramel chocolate and snacks from my home country, paired with a bottle of jägermeister. Underneath these items there's a hoodie, unfolding it i see the embroidery on it.

'No. 7'

Holding it close to my nose, i smell it. Versace.

___

author's 🗒️'s: I kind of left it on a cliffhanger but im traveling 4 hours tomorrow im gonna do the end tomorrowww :PPPPP anyways cuties i hope my writing isnt a disaster im so sleepy rn its an actual nightmare...

taglist: @i-wish-this-was-me , @keii134 , @littlesatanicassholebitch <3

[stardust-and-snickerdoodles]

and i'll find strength in pain

fandom: Bones (TV)

pairing: Lance Sweets & Reader

summary: You were the victim of a violent attack a few weeks ago. Agent Booth has been a comfort for you, but he's out of his depth. He suggests you visit Dr. Sweets to talk about what happened to you.

tags/warnings: rape aftermath/recovery (implied), sh, anxiety, panic attacks, dissociation, emotional hurt/comfort, therapy

word count: 3334

a/n: this one's for all the people who are still thinking about lance sweets 10 years later and who, to this day, refuse to watch ep 10x1. if i don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist

There’s a plaque on the door. It reads 2475, DR. LANCE SWEETS, Clinical Psychologist. You practically have the words memorized. You’ve been standing here for nearly five minutes, working up the courage to knock. Every time you raise your fist to do so, it trembles so violently that you drop it again. Agent Booth’s words ring in your ears from when he dropped you off:

Look for office 2475. Sweets will be able to help you.

Sweets will be able to help you.

Can anyone really help you though?

It’s been 2 weeks since the attack, and the five men who cornered you in that alley still haven’t been found. Your skin still prickles with the phantom of their touch. Every time you close your eyes, you see their sneering faces, their bulging eyes. You can’t walk home from work anymore. You can’t even drive past the alley without having to pull over and take 10 deep breaths, counting in for 3, out for 3.

How could anyone, anyone, help you with that?

Agent Booth has been kind so far. He’s not on your case, since it’s technically the state’s responsibility, but he’s the one who found you that night. He’s the one who drove you to the hospital while you were unconscious, stayed until you were awake. He wasn’t even deterred when you scrambled away from him, the sight of another man’s face leaving you panicking. He sat calmly and reassured you that you were safe and left his phone number on a napkin on your bedside table, along with a scrawled note, reading:

Call if you need anything. I can help you file a case.

You’d taken him up on the offer, calling the next day. He helped you make a report with the state, sat with you while you described your attackers to the forensic sketch artist. Although he’s not the most equipped to handle your moments of panic, never quite sure what to do, he still sits with you and talks you through it. Eventually, though, he must have realized he was out of his depth, because he referred you here.

To a psychologist.

For whatever reason, it’s ingrained in your mind that seeing a psychologist means you’re broken. You don’t want to think that way, but it’s hard not to. After what you went through, it’s easy to believe such things about yourself. Broken. Impure. Damaged.

You shake yourself out of your thoughts and suck in a deep breath. You wonder if Dr. Sweets knows you’re standing out here. The embarrassment of that thought is finally what allows you to work up the courage to knock. Three quiet taps on the door.

“Come in,” a voice responds.

You open the door slowly and peek around the edge. “Are you… Dr. Sweets?”

The man looks up from his desk. You’re taken aback by how young he is. Surely this isn’t the FBI psychologist? He’s so… well, young. Still, it’s better than some middle-aged man, someone like the men who attacked you-

You shake yourself and step inside as he responds. “That would be me.” His smile is gentle and reassuring. “Are you Y/N?”

You nod, stopping just inside the door. You’re unsure of where to go – there’s a couch and a chair facing it, but there’s also a chair in front of his desk where he sits… Which one? Where do you go? You stand awkwardly, waiting for some sort of direction.

Dr. Sweets stands, smoothing out his suit jacket. “Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the couch.

A swell of gratitude washes over you at his clear instruction. You seat yourself gingerly on the edge of the cushion, locking your hands together in front of you. Dr. Sweets takes the chair across from you, crossing one leg over the other. He observes you for a moment, eyes searching, and you shrink into yourself a bit. It feels exposing to be in front of him, like he can see all your secrets without you saying anything. Your eyes roam the room and the walls, trying to find something to distract yourself.

“How are you?” Sweets asks gently.

You swallow thickly and look down at your hands. “Fine… Agent Booth said I should talk to you.”

He nods. “Yes, he gave me a quick briefing on your situation. Is it alright if I ask you some questions?”

You avert your eyes, looking to the walls again. There’s a large window on the one to your right, but the blinds are closed. You wish he would open them so you could look somewhere else besides his probing eyes. “I guess so.” Your voice is shaky. You clear your throat to try to hide it.

Sweets, meanwhile, has been carefully taking in your body language and movement. He’d heard you hesitating outside the door, heard your soft pacing footsteps and rapid breathing. Since you walked in the door, he’s realized that he needs to take a gentle, soft approach with you. He doesn’t want to push you too far. From what Booth told him, the assault is still fresh in your memory. “First of all, I just want to say that you’re very brave for coming here. I know it can be scary to talk about these things and I’m very proud of you for taking this step. You’re safe here, and you’re totally in control. If you ever want to stop, or you don’t want to talk about something, you just say the word, alright?”

You nod, mostly subconsciously. His words feel empty, although there’s a sincerity too them. You just can’t bring yourself to believe him yet.

Sweets sees through you right away. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Do you believe that you’re safe here?”

Your response comes out as barely a whisper. “No…”

He nods gently. “Can you tell me why?”

You look down at your hands again, twisting them around the opposite wrists. The movement is soothing, grounding. “I don’t… feel safe anywhere. It’s too new. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like I’m back there…” You close your eyes briefly, but snap them open again when disturbing images fill your head. “I can’t escape it. Everyone is someone who could hurt me…” You drift off as you realize how much you’re giving away. These are the things you’ve kept close to your chest; it feels wrong to be saying them to a stranger.

Sweets can tell immediately when you start to become more uncomfortable. He eyes your hands, watching your fidgeting. He takes a moment to think before speaking again. He must tread carefully; he can’t risk you shutting down before he’s even gotten a chance to talk to you. “How about we stick to yes/no questions for now? Would that be easier?”

You shrug, twisting your hands a bit more roughly as the images continue to plague you. “Sure.”

“Are you aware of your surroundings at all times? Always… looking for danger?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah…”

Sweets keeps his voice gentle and quiet, but his mind is racing. The psychologist in him is searching for coping mechanisms, for things to say that might help; the human in him is fighting the desire to reach out and just comfort you. “Do you experience nightmares? Bad dreams?”

You nod again, eyes flicking back to the closed window. “Yes.”

“Do you ever have panic attacks? Moments of overwhelming fear or anxiety?”

You look up at the ceiling, twisting your hands harder. It begins to burn, but the feeling is good. It keeps you in the here and now. “I don’t know… maybe.”

Sweets watches where your eyes move, sees how you avoid eye contact at all costs. His own eyes dart to your wrists. Your fidgeting has grown more aggressive. He can see where your skin is becoming red and irritated. He frowns slightly. “Can I see your wrists?”

Your movements suddenly still and you shake your head. Shame floods your face.

Sweets notices the quick change in your demeanor. “Okay, we don’t have to look at them. Does the twisting help?”

You nod. “It… feels good. Calming.”

Sweets nods and files this information away for later. He’s going to help you find some healthier coping mechanisms – you can’t keep hurting yourself to stay grounded. “I get that. Do you want a stress ball or something? Something so you’re not hurting yourself?” He can already predict your answer, but it’s worth a shot.

You shake your head and grip your hands on your wrists. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Sweets leans back in his chair again. He wants to ask you about the assault, but you’re still so closed off. “Do you want some water? Maybe something else to drink, or eat?” He stands to retrieve a bottle for himself, hoping that it will make you feel more comfortable if he does it first.

Still, you shake your head. “I’m okay… do you have more questions?” You eyes drift to the door.

The young psychologist instantly notices your desire to leave and heads back to his seat, water in hand. He wants you to stay, wants you to start talking about this instead of bottling it up. “Couple more. Is that okay?”

You settle back onto the couch, hunching a bit to try and make yourself smaller. “Yeah…”

“You’re doing great,” Sweets offers you a reassuring smile although you’re not looking at him. “Can we talk about the attack?”

You hesitate, images flashing through your mind, before nodding. This is what you’re here for isn’t it? You can’t leave now. “What… what do you want to know?”

Sweets observes your closed-off posture, the hunch of your shoulders. This is going to take a while. He adjusts in his chair, trying to get comfortable while still staying professional. He speaks gently. “What were you doing before the attack?”

“Working,” you murmur. “I walked home.”

“Were you alone?”

You hum in affirmation, nodding your head. It had been so dark… The streetlight near the alley was out, you were walking through a shaded part of the sidewalk when they grabbed you…

Sweets watches as your eyes go glassy. He recognizes the beginning signs of dissociation and immediately works to pull you out of it, switching gears. “Where do you work?”

You shake yourself lightly and stare at the wall again. Your eyes settle on a divot in the paint, a spot where it’s been chipped away by a nail or something. “Newspaper… I’m a journalist.”

He nods and tilts his head at you, feeling a swell of pity. This really did a number on you. Booth described it to him, but he hadn’t gone into all the details… Clearly it was horrific if it’s causing you to be this dissociated and anxious. “That’s cool. Did you always want to be a journalist?”

For the first time, you meet his eyes. This topic is safe. These are things you can discuss. He offers you another reassuring smile as you shake your head. “I… wanted to be an astronaut. But my eyesight isn’t good enough.”

Sweets laughs lightly at the answer and you can’t help but crack your own small grin. His laugh is comforting, nothing at all like the men who attacked you… You shiver and refocus on his voice. “There’s a reason there aren’t many astronauts. Those requirements are very restrictive.” Sweets clears his throat and adjusts himself in his chair. You steel yourself, waiting for his next question. His distraction technique was effective, but now he has to get back to business. “So, you were walking home from work alone. What happened next?”

You swallow thickly and look back at the divot in the wall. Your hands go back to your wrists, feeling the warmth where you’ve managed to irritate your skin already. “I was walking by an alley… There were five men coming toward me. I was about to cross the street…” You suddenly are back in that moment, thinking the thoughts you were then. Your keys were clutched in one hand. Your other hand was shoved in your purse, gripping a small bottle of pepper spray. Your jaw was clenched, heart racing as you realized the danger you were in.

Sweets clears his throat to get your attention and you shake yourself out of your reverie. “You were about to cross the street. What then?”

“Um, they… they were quicker than me. They grabbed me and dragged me into the alley…” Your eyes go blank again. The divot in the wall seems to grow, a spec of grey that overtakes your vision. The world around you goes hazy. Sweets’s voice is a muffled background noise. Vaguely, you register the feeling of tears brimming in your eyes, of your hands twisting roughly against your wrists. The pain feels good, but it’s not enough.

Sweets watches closely, expecting you to continue, but then he notices the blank look on your face. You’ve gone completely still, save for your twisting hands. He observes you as you go pale, barely blinking. You’re completely shut down. “Y/N? Can you hear me?” He keeps his voice soft, gentle, trying not to scare you. He doesn’t know how far gone you are yet. He watches as your body begins to tremble, as your hands speed up in their motions. Your nails begin to catch against your skin, making harsh red lines across your wrists. Sweets knows he has to break you out of this, has to bring you back down to reality.

He stands slowly, walking around the coffee table to crouch in front of the couch where you sit. “Y/N. Listen to my voice. You’re safe here. You’re in my office at the FBI Headquarters. I’m Dr. Sweets, we’re here talking together. You’re safe, you’re not in danger anymore.” He keeps his voice level and soothing. He wants to reach out and touch you, but doesn’t want to jolt you. His eyes go back to your wrists, noticing how aggressively you’re scratching yourself. If you don’t come out of this soon, he will have to stop you from hurting yourself.

“Darling, listen to me.” The affectionate name slips out before he can stop himself. “Look at me if you can. You’re right here. You’re sitting on the couch in my office. You’re safe, I promise.” His words seem to be having no effect. If anything, your motions are becoming more frantic, your eyes more distant. Sweets sucks in a deep breath, hating what he has to do now.

He reaches out slowly to grip your wrists, wrenching them apart. You flinch at the touch, the first reaction he’s seen. He hates that it seems to be causing you more anguish, but you were near to drawing blood. He holds your wrists firmly, continuing to speak. “Listen, Y/N. I can’t let you hurt yourself. But you’re safe. Once you’re back with me, I’ll let you go, but you need to listen to me. You’re safe here. You’re not in any danger.” His voice breaks slightly on the words. He’s dealt with dissociation and panic attacks before, of course, but knowing the circumstances of yours makes it so much harder.

The wavering in his voice is what finally draws you back to reality. You blink slowly, and the divot on the wall shrinks back to where it belongs. Sweets’s voice becomes clearer, and you realize the firm grip on your wrists is his, not your attackers’. A choked sob forces itself from your throat as you look down at your joined hands. Suddenly your breaths come in gasps as you realize how deprived of oxygen you are.

Sweets loosens his grip a bit, realizing that you’re back with him. “There, shh. I have you.” He rubs soothing circles on your wrists, subtly reaching for your pulse with two fingers. It’s rapid, but steady. “You’re safe, I’ve got you. Deep breaths now.” He does some exaggerated breaths, trying to meet your gaze. You still stare at his hands on your own, but it’s not with glassy eyes. He lets out his own quiet sigh of relief.

You try to school your breathing, mimicking his slow breaths. Eventually, with his soft words and gentle coaching, you manage to soothe yourself.

Sweets finally relinquishes his hold on your hands, staying crouched in front of you. “There we are. Keep taking those deep breaths.”

You meet his eyes unsteadily. “I’m sorry,” the words come out quiet and broken.

Sweets shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s perfectly reasonable to have such a reaction.”

You clasp your hands together in your lap, staring at the red lines that now adorn your wrists. You’ve never irritated your skin so much, and you feel embarrassed to have done so in front of this psychologist.

He tries to meet your gaze, attempting to draw your eyes from the injuries. “Let’s take a break, yeah? We can try again another day.” He offers you a small smile.

You nod. “I think… that would best.” You feel shaky and off-balance from the panic attack.

Sweets stands, being careful not to tower over you. He heads back to the fridge, retrieving a water bottle for you and a small packet of crackers. He sets them on the couch next to you before returning to his chair. He makes a point not to look at you, not wanting you to feel cornered or judged.

You take a slow sip from the water, all of a sudden feeling parched. You’re not sure what to say, not sure if you should leave now, or if you should stay. When you’re done drinking, you set the bottle down again and look at your lap.

Sweets clears his throat quietly and leans forward again. “Feel free to hang out here as long as you need. If you want to keep talking, I’m just going to be at my desk, okay?”

You nod, grateful that he won’t be staring at you. You don’t feel quite steady enough to get up and drive home yet, so you settle back into the couch, taking slow sips from the water and nibbling on small bits of cracker. Sweets taps away on his computer, occasionally glancing up at you to make sure you’re okay.

The panic attack left you feeling exhausted, and you’re trying hard not to fall asleep, but the couch is very comfortable, and you somehow feel safe here. Your head keeps lolling to the side and you have to shake yourself to stay awake. Sweets looks up and catches this at one point. He smiles to himself and calls to you gently. “Rest. It’s okay; you’re safe. Do you want a blanket?”

You fidget with your hands again, stifling a yawn. You’re too tired to even try to protest, so you nod your head. He stands and retrieves a fluffy blanket from a nearby closet, handing it to you. You thank him and wrap it around yourself, settling more comfortably into the couch as he walks back to the desk.

The next time Sweets looks up, you’re curled up on your side on the couch, breathing deeply with your eyes closed. He smiles again, feeling honored that you feel safe enough in his presence to sleep. He shoots a quick text to Booth letting him know that you’re ready to be picked up. Booth of course wants to know how the session went, but Sweets leaves him on read. You can tell him yourself, if you feel comfortable enough to do so.

Although Sweets didn’t manage to get you to open up as much as he’d have liked, he truly didn’t expect to. You’ve been through hell, and it’s going to take a long time to walk out of that. Still, he feels he’s made progress. You trust him, even if it’s just a small amount.

He has a feeling he’ll be seeing you again very soon.

[isacksteban]

His Shadow — Strollonso (4) (3)

Lance couldn’t move.

His whole body felt wrong — too hot, too cold, too small for what was pressing against his ribs. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, his grip on Fernando’s jacket locked so tight he could feel the fabric bunching under his fingers.

Fernando didn’t let go.

Didn’t shift, didn’t tease, didn’t say anything.

He just held him.

Lance squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead pressing harder against Fernando’s shoulder. It wasn’t warm — not like it should be. But it wasn’t cold, either. It was something in between, something that shouldn’t have existed at all, something Lance had no idea how to deal with.

The worst part was, Fernando was steady.

Like he knew.

Like he’d been waiting for this.

Lance swallowed hard, voice wrecked and uneven. “Say something.”

Fernando exhaled slowly, his hands tightening just slightly on Lance’s arms. “What do you want me to say?”

Lance let out a short, breathless laugh — wrong, shaky, on the edge of something he didn’t have a name for. “I don’t know.”

“Then we have a problem,” Fernando murmured.

Lance did move at that — jerked back slightly, just enough to look at him. Fernando let him, but only barely, his hands still firm where they rested on Lance’s upper arms.

Lance hated the way Fernando was watching him. Hated the softness there, the quiet understanding in his dark eyes, like he had already figured out everything Lance was too scared to say.

Like he had known before Lance had even admitted it to himself.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lance muttered.

Fernando smirked, but it was gentle in a way that made Lance’s stomach twist. “Like what?”

Lance clenched his jaw. “Like you’re waiting for something.”

Fernando tilted his head slightly, his fingers twitching like he was considering pulling away, but he didn’t. “I’m not waiting for anything, novato.” His voice was quiet. Even. Certain. “I already have my answer.”

Lance hated how that made his chest tighten.

He hated that Fernando wasn’t mocking him, wasn’t throwing it back in his face, wasn’t pretending it wasn’t real.

Because Lance had spent weeks pretending.

And Fernando?

Fernando had never pretended at all.

Lance’s hands curled tighter into his jacket, his breathing still unsteady. “This is fucking stupid,” he whispered.

Fernando’s grip tightened, just slightly. “I know.”

Lance shook his head. “You— Fuck, you’re—”

Fernando’s smirk flickered. “Dead?”

Lance flinched.

Fernando let out a soft, almost sad laugh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know that, too.”

Lance sucked in a shaky breath, his pulse too loud in his ears. “Then what is this?”

Fernando exhaled slowly, gaze still locked onto his. “What do you think it is?”

Lance let out another breathless laugh — wrong, wrong, wrong. “I think it’s impossible.”

Fernando hummed. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

Lance hated him.

Hated the way he didn’t let up, the way he was forcing Lance to say it — to acknowledge the thing that had been growing between them since the beginning.

The thing Lance had ignored.

The thing that had destroyed him when Fernando disappeared for a week.

The thing that had left him curled over a toilet, shaking, wrecked with something he had no idea how to handle.

His hands were still shaking now.

But Fernando was steady.

Lance took another breath, trying to find words — any words — that would make sense of what was happening.

But there weren’t any.

So instead, he just whispered, broken and wrecked and real, “I don’t know what to do.”

Fernando’s hands finally moved — sliding from Lance’s arms to his wrists, his grip light but solid. Like he wasn’t holding him in place — just keeping him here.

Keeping him from running again.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Fernando murmured. “I’m right here.”

Lance’s chest ached.

Because he was.

Fernando wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t asking for anything. He wasn’t waiting.

He was just there.

And for the first time, Lance wasn’t sure if that made it easier or so much worse.

Because now that he had admitted it — now that Fernando knew — there was nowhere left to go. Nowhere but here.

Lance didn’t know how to move.

Fernando was still holding him — not tightly, not in a way that forced him to stay. Just there. Grounding him. Making it impossible to pretend that this wasn’t happening.

Lance’s pulse was too loud, hammering in his ears, drowning out every rational thought he had left.

He had said it.

He had fucking said it.

And now?

Now there was no taking it back.

“I don’t—” Lance’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying again. “I don’t know what to do.”

Fernando’s hands tightened just slightly around his wrists. “You don’t have to do anything,” he repeated, voice calm, steady. “You don’t even have to say anything else.”

Lance clenched his jaw, staring at the floor. “That’s the problem,” he muttered.

Fernando raised an eyebrow. “What is?”

Lance squeezed his eyes shut. “I want to say something.”

Silence.

Then — softer this time — Fernando asked, “So why don’t you?”

Lance let out a short, breathless laugh—shaky, wrong, on the edge of breaking again. “Because it’s stupid.”

Fernando’s fingers twitched against his skin. “Lance.”

Lance shook his head quickly, trying to pull away. Fernando didn’t hold him there, didn’t stop him, but he didn’t let go either.

“Lance,” Fernando said again, quieter now.

Lance finally looked up, his vision blurred at the edges. “What?”

Fernando exhaled. “I need you to listen to me.”

Lance hesitated.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

Fernando studied him for a long moment, something careful in his expression, something softer than Lance had ever seen before.

Then he said, “I know this is impossible.”

Lance’s stomach twisted.

“I know what we are,” Fernando continued. “I know what I am.” His voice didn’t break, but there was something underneath it — something tired, something small. “And I know that at the end of the day, you’re going to leave this place, and I won’t.”

Lance’s throat ached.

Fernando inhaled slowly, his grip on Lance’s wrists light but unshakable. “But for as long as you’re here,” he murmured, “I am, too.”

Lance’s breath hitched.

Fernando’s voice was barely above a whisper now. “So tell me what you want.”

Lance’s whole body trembled. “I—”

Fernando waited.

Lance clenched his jaw, fighting the way his chest ached, the way his heart was screaming for something he couldn’t even name.

He wanted—

He wanted—

What?

What the fuck did he even want?

Fernando was dead.

There was no future. No way forward.

But Fernando was here.

And right now, Lance didn’t want to run anymore.

So he let out a shaky breath, finally meeting Fernando’s gaze.

And he whispered, raw and real — “I don’t know.”

Fernando’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something close. “Okay.”

Lance’s fingers curled into the fabric of Fernando’s jacket, his grip weak, but still there.

“…Okay?” Lance echoed.

Fernando nodded. “Yeah.”

Lance let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You’re not gonna push?”

Fernando tilted his head. “Do you want me to push?”

Lance groaned, dropping his forehead against Fernando’s shoulder again. “I fucking hate you.”

Fernando laughed.

And this time, Lance laughed too.

Because maybe he didn’t have to figure it all out today.

Fernando was enough for now.

For the next three months.

The next day felt off, like his brain hadn’t fully caught up with what had just happened. He and Fernando had talked — actually talked — about what was happening between them, and Lance hadn’t spiraled into another breakdown or thrown up in a bathroom stall.

Progress.

Still, things felt different.

Fernando walked next to him like he always did, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable. But for the first time, Lance wasn’t pretending he wasn’t there.

He felt him. Saw him.

And he didn’t try to ignore it.

It was both relieving and terrifying.

“So,” Fernando drawled as they made their way toward the cafeteria, “you gonna keep pretending I don’t exist, or are we past that now?”

Lance groaned. “Shut up.”

Fernando smirked. “That’s not a no.”

Lance rolled his eyes, pushing open the cafeteria doors. “I don’t know what you want from me, man. You think I’m just gonna announce to Esteban that I spent half of yesterday clinging to a fucking ghost?”

Fernando’s smirk widened. “You were clinging.”

Lance scowled. “I was not—”

“Dude, who are you talking to?”

Lance froze.

Esteban stood by their usual table, brow furrowed, staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

Shit.

Lance cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Uh— no one.”

Fernando snickered. “Smooth.”

Lance resisted the urge to elbow him through the stomach. Instead, he plastered on a casual smirk and dropped into the seat across from Esteban.

Esteban squinted at him. “You good, man?”

“Yeah,” Lance said quickly. “Fine.”

Esteban didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it. He never did.

Lance exhaled, opening his lunch bag. For a second, it almost felt normal — like things hadn’t changed, like he wasn’t sitting next to the literal ghost of a guy he was kind of, maybe, definitely in love with.

Then Fernando propped his chin in his hand and stared directly at him.

Lance’s stomach flipped.

He kept his expression neutral, shoving a bite of food into his mouth, but Fernando knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

He smirked slightly, voice low enough that only Lance could hear. “Careful, amor,” he murmured. “You’re looking at me too much.”

Lance almost choked on his sandwich.

Fernando laughed.

Lance glared at him, cheeks burning, but Fernando just stretched lazily in his seat, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Lance hated him.

Lance wanted him.

Lance had just managed to shake off the feeling of Fernando’s gaze burning into the side of his head when Esteban decided to make everything worse.

“So,” Esteban started, grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing, “Logan was asking about you again.”

Lance froze.

Across from him, Fernando went completely still.

Lance swallowed his bite of food a little too fast. “Logan?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

Esteban snorted. “Oh, don’t play dumb. You know Logan has a thing for you.”

Lance did know.

It wasn’t exactly a secret — Logan had been hovering for months now, coming up with excuses to talk to Lance, laughing too hard at his jokes, finding ways to sit next to him in class.

Lance just… hadn’t dealt with it.

Because how was he supposed to?

Logan was real. Logan was alive. Logan was the kind of guy Lance’s dad would actually approve of — clean-cut, smart, nice enough. The kind of guy Lance was supposed to like.

The kind of guy Lance could have a future with.

And yet Lance could feel Fernando beside him, radiating something sharp, something dangerous.

“Oh?” Fernando mused, voice deceptively light. “And what exactly did Logan say?”

Lance’s stomach dropped.

He kicked Fernando’s ankle under the table — not that it did anything.

Fernando just smirked, leaning back like he was enjoying himself.

Esteban, oblivious as ever, kept talking. “He was asking if you were seeing anyone,” he said. “Like, really asking. I think he’s gonna make a move.”

Lance’s brain short-circuited. “A— what?”

Esteban grinned. “Dude. You have to know he’s into you. Half the team has bets on when he’s gonna ask you out — the whole team is pretty convinced that you like guys anyway.”

Lance felt like he was going to die.

Fernando, on the other hand, looked way too entertained by this. “Wow,” he said, tilting his head. “Logan really likes you, huh?”

Lance shot him a murderous glare.

Fernando just smiled.

Esteban nodded. “Yeah, man. And honestly? You should give him a chance. Logan’s cool, and, like… when was the last time you even went on a date?”

Lance gripped his sandwich so tightly the bread nearly crumbled.

Because what the fuck was he supposed to say to that? Oh, sorry, Esteban, I actually haven’t been interested in Logan because I’ve been too busy having a full-blown existential crisis over the fact that I’m in love with a ghost.

Yeah. No.

So instead, he forced a smirk and said, “I don’t know, man. Logan’s not really my type.”

Fernando laughed.

Esteban frowned. “Why not?”

Lance hesitated. “I just—”

“He’s alive,” Fernando supplied helpfully.

Lance kicked him again.

Fernando grinned.

Esteban groaned. “Dude, you’re so picky.”

Lance exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not picky. I just—” He hesitated. “I don’t like Logan like that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Esteban said, waving him off. “I’m just saying, don’t be surprised if he finally asks you out.”

Lance groaned. “Kill me.”

Fernando smirked, voice low enough that only Lance could hear. “No need,” he murmured. “You already look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Lance hated him.

But when Fernando leaned in slightly, smirk still in place, eyes darker now, Lance realized something.

Fernando hated Logan more.

And somehow, that made Lance’s stomach

flip, now it was clear that Lance wasn’t the only one who was struggling with wanting something impossible.

Lance barely made it through the rest of lunch without completely losing his mind.

Fernando wouldn’t stop smirking.

Every time Lance looked in his direction, there it was — that obnoxious, knowing grin, paired with a look that screamed so, about Logan, huh?

Lance ignored him.

Or, at least, he tried to.

Esteban, still completely oblivious, kept going on and on about Logan Sargeant, something about how “this could be good for you” and “when was the last time you even liked someone, dude?”

Lance nearly choked on his drink.

Fernando just laughed.

Lunch couldn’t end fast enough.

By the time Lance made it to his next class, he was tense, distracted, and hyper-aware of the fact that Fernando was still following him.

Still watching him.

Still enjoying this way too much.

“You gonna say something?” Lance muttered under his breath as he slid into his seat.

Fernando plopped down in the chair next to him — his chair, the one that no one else ever sat in, the one that technically wasn’t real but might as well have been.

He grinned. “Nope.”

Lance groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

The teacher started the lesson, but Lance barely manged to absorb a word of it.

He kept thinking about what Esteban had said.

About Logan.

About how easy it should be.

Logan was real. Logan was normal. Logan wasn’t impossible.

And yet Lance glanced to the side, where Fernando was sitting with his chin propped in his hand, spinning a pen between his fingers. He looked bored, but Lance knew better.

He wasn’t bored.

He was waiting.

And that realization made Lance’s chest ache.

Because as much as he wanted to push this all down — wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening, wanted to pretend Logan was the right choice — It was Fernando who made his pulse race.

It was Fernando who he wanted to look at first when he walked into a room.

It was Fernando who made him feel like he was constantly on the edge of something dangerous, something real, something that could wreck him.

Lance clenched his jaw, staring hard at his notebook.

He had a feeling Fernando wasn’t going to let him ignore it — ignore their time running out — for much longer.

Lance made it through the rest of the school day without dying, which was honestly a miracle.

But the second he stepped out of the building, Fernando was right there.

Waiting for him.

Lance exhaled sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You really have nothing better to do?”

Fernando grinned. “Nope.”

Lance rolled his eyes and started walking.

Fernando, of course, fell into step beside him.

They walked in silence for a while, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement.

Lance could feel Fernando watching him.

Finally, he sighed. “Just say whatever you want to say.”

Fernando smirked. “Logan, huh?”

Lance knew that was coming, but it still made his stomach flip.

He groaned. “Fer, please, not this again.”

Fernando laughed. “I’m just saying, novato— he likes you.”

Lance scowled. “Yeah? So?”

Fernando shrugged. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Lance hesitated.

Because that was the real question, wasn’t it?

What was he going to do?

If he was smart, he’d say yes. He’d let Logan take him out. He’d do the normal thing, the right thing.

But the thought of it made his chest feel tight.

Because Logan wasn’t who he wanted.

And Fernando fucking knew it.

Lance clenched his jaw. “I don’t know.”

Fernando hummed. “Interesting.”

Lance groaned. “Shut up.”

Fernando just grinned, bumping his shoulder as they walked. “I’m just saying, novato— maybe you should figure it out.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

But even as he said it, he knew this wasn’t going away. Even if Fernando was.

Lance collapsed onto his bed the second he got home, staring at the ceiling.

His brain wouldn’t shut up.

He wanted to stop thinking about it.

About Logan. About Fernando. About the fact that one of them was possible and the other one wasn’t.

But he couldn’t.

Because every time he closed his eyes, it wasn’t Logan he saw.

It was Fernando.

Smirking at him. Watching him. Waiting.

Lance groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he shifted against the mattress. He didn’t want to think about Fernando like this. Didn’t want to admit to himself how badly he wanted him, how much the older — was he older? had he aged at all in the last decade and a half? — man got under his skin in ways that no one else did.

But it was useless to fight it.

His body already knew.

Knew the way Fernando’s gaze lingered on him, dark and knowing. Knew how his voice, that low, teasing drawl, curled around Lance’s name like a promise. Knew how the faintest brush of their shoulders in the paddock sent heat licking down his spine.

Lance swallowed hard, his breath coming a little quicker now. He turned onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut, but the images behind his eyelids only became clearer — Fernando smirking at him, leaning in too close, the lingering scent of him filling Lance’s lungs. The way his hand would settle on Lance’s shoulder, fingers pressing just a little too hard, thumb brushing just a little too slow.

Lance exhaled sharply, his body tightening, warmth pooling low in his stomach. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But he did.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers ghosting over his already hardening cock. A shiver ran through him at the touch, and he bit down on his lip, forcing himself to stay quiet even as his hips twitched into his own hand.

He imagined it wasn’t his hand at all. Imagined rougher fingers, surer movements, the kind that didn’t hesitate or fumble. The kind that knew exactly how to unravel him.

Fernando’s breath ghosted against his ear in his mind, teasing him, making him shiver. You’re pathetic, the voice murmured, half amusement, half something darker. Getting this worked up over me? You think I don’t notice?

Lance squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers tightening around himself as his hips jerked into his grip. His breath came in uneven pants, his body burning with need. He could almost feel the weight of Fernando behind him, pressing against his back, trapping him there, making him take it. Making him beg.

A choked sound escaped his throat as the fantasy deepened, the images sharper, more vivid. Fernando’s hands on his waist, pulling him back against him, rough stubble dragging over his neck. Teeth scraping, biting, marking. You want this so badly, don’t you?

Lance whimpered, his free hand fisting into the sheets, trying to ground himself, trying to slow down — but he couldn’t. Not when the thought of Fernando touching him like that, using him like that, made his whole body tremble with need.

He forced himself to drag it out, to savor it, his strokes slowing even as his body screamed for release. He wanted to make it last, wanted to stay in the illusion as long as he could, because the moment it ended, reality would come crashing back down on him.

His stomach tensed as he imagined Fernando’s voice again, low and taunting. Look at you, desperate for me. No one else can make you feel like this, can they?

Lance moaned, his body arching, his rhythm faltering as he edged himself closer and closer. The tension coiled so tight in his belly it was almost unbearable, every nerve on fire, every stroke sending him spiraling deeper into the fantasy.

Fernando would ruin him. Would tear him apart and put him back together, over and over again, until Lance didn’t know where he ended and Fernando began.

His entire body seized as the pleasure finally overwhelmed him, white-hot and all-consuming. He came with a sharp, shuddering gasp, his body jerking violently, his breath stuttering as wave after wave crashed through him.

For a long moment, Lance lay there, dazed and spent, his limbs heavy, his breath still coming in slow, uneven pants. His body was warm, languid, but the afterglow was already beginning to fade, replaced by that familiar, gnawing emptiness.

Because no matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much he imagined it, Fernando would never be his.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the silence, making Lance jolt. His stomach twisted.

“Lance,” his father’s voice came through, firm and expectant. “Why weren’t you at basketball practice today?”

Shit.

Lance scrambled to sit up, wiping a shaky hand over his face as he tried to will the heat from his cheeks. His pulse was still erratic, his body still tingling, and the last thing he needed right now was to deal with him.

“I— uh, I wasn’t feeling great,” he called back, hoping his voice didn’t betray him.

There was a beat of silence, then the doorknob rattled. “Open the door.”

Lance swallowed hard, hastily tugging his blanket over himself before forcing his legs to move. He stood on unsteady feet, heart hammering, and cracked the door open just enough to see Lawrence’s unimpressed expression.

His father’s gaze swept over him, sharp and assessing. “Not feeling great?”

Lance nodded, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Lawrence frowned, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “You can’t afford to slack off, Lance. You need to stay sharp. You’re not going to get anywhere by skipping out on training. I'm sure you're still on edge from the accident but nothing came of it, you're fine so there's no excuse.”

Lance gritted his teeth. He was training — just not in the way his father wanted.

“I know,” he muttered. “Sorry, Dad. It won’t happen again.”

Lawrence studied him for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. “Good.” He turned to leave, pausing only briefly. “Get some rest.”

Lance shut the door before he could say anything else, exhaling sharply. He dragged a hand through his hair, staring at the floor.

The ache in his chest hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

[misc-obeyme]

9 Days of Solomon: Day 3 - Knife

Okay, I probably could have gone many ways with this, but because I'm sensing angst for the next day's prompt, I've decided to fluff this one up lol.

GN!MC x Solomon

Warnings: blood, minor injury

You were in the kitchen at Cocytus Hall, doing your best to give Solomon simple cooking tasks that you knew he would be able to handle. So far, the dish was turning out just fine and your distraction techniques were successful.

As always, Solomon had wanted to help you make dinner and you had looked at his sincere face for about two minutes before giving in. His genuine desire to help made it nearly impossible for you to say no.

And although he was doing as you directed, he was also teasing you. He had removed his cloak and put on an apron - pink with a bit of frills, no doubt a present from Asmo. Any time he needed to move around you, he would put his hands on your waist or shoulders as he went past. He would catch your eye just to smile at you.

Mostly you were able to ignore his blatant flirting, focusing instead on the dinner you were making.

You were busy chopping some vegetables, keeping your eyes on the blade and your fingers as you did so.

Beside you, Solomon stood at the stove top, diligently stirring a savory sauce. You noticed the second his stirring stopped. You were on high alert in case he decided to try adding something to it. You didn’t look up, but you could see it in your periphery.

“Don’t stop stirring the sauce,” you said immediately.

Solomon laughed. “Oh, sorry. I got distracted staring at you.”

You blushed. Of course he would say that. “Why would you be staring at me when you’re supposed to be paying attention to what you’re doing?”

“Can you blame me?” You could hear the laugh behind Solomon’s words. “Is it really my fault for getting distracted by someone as captivating as you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, won’t you?”

“I am being serious, MC.” The laughter had transformed into something else, something softer and deeper. “You pull my attention to you just by existing.”

You looked over at him. You couldn’t help it. The way he had said those words, the desperation and love you heard in them, filled you with a need to see his face. And you saw the gentle contemplative expression as he kept his own eyes on the sauce in front of him.

A sharp pain lanced through your finger and you swore loudly.

Solomon started, nearly dropping the spatula he was using. He turned to you urgently. “MC! Are you okay?”

You had dropped the knife on the counter. The edge of it glistened brightly with your blood. You gripped your cut hand and swore again. “It’s just a little cut.”

Solomon turned off the stove, put down the spatula, and took your wounded hand. He held it up to his face and the concerned expression there only deepened as he took in the bright red blood seeping from the cut in your finger.

“I wouldn’t call this a little cut,” he said. Then he frowned even more as he looked past your hand and into your eyes. “This is my fault.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

“Only because I distracted you,” Solomon said.

You were about to argue further, but he pulled you by your wrist to the table in the kitchen and made you sit down.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I can fix this.”

You wanted to say something then, too, but the words fled your lips when he went down on his knees.

You gasped in surprise as he put the entire top end of your finger in his mouth, his lips closing delicately around it, his tongue pressing briefly against the cut itself. You stared at him in shock, taking in the way he was looking up at you from his position between your knees.

You finally found your voice. “What are you doing?”

Solomon released your finger. “I needed to clean all the blood away.” He said it as though it should be obvious.

Your mind was reeling and you knew you were blushing hotly, but you weren’t sure what to say in response to that.

Especially because Solomon had focused his gaze on your finger like he was preparing to cast some magic on it. And sure enough, he recited the words of a healing spell, holding your hand palm up in front of him.

As you both watched, the cut sealed itself shut. There was no longer any blood on your skin and no indication that you had been injured at all. The pain was completely gone.

Solomon smiled and looked up at you. “There,” he said. “Is that better?”

There was a gleam in his eyes, the same teasing look he so often sent your way. And you knew that even if he had been worried about you, he couldn’t let the opportunity to fluster you slip past him.

You laughed. Here was the most powerful human in the three worlds, on his knees in front of you, wearing a pink frilly apron, turning a moment of pain into a chance to flirt with you. He looked so proud of himself.

It was so silly and your heart swelled as you put your arms around him, hugging him as best you could while he still knelt on the floor. “You’re such a troublemaker.”

Solomon laughed with you, standing up and pulling you to your feet, placing his hands on your waist. “I’m sorry, MC. I’ll be more careful about what I say when you’re chopping vegetables.”

You shook your head, still smiling, still aware of the heat in your cheeks. You looked over at the stove. “That sauce is probably ruined now. Why don’t we go out instead?”

Solomon was happy enough to escort you out to dinner that evening. In fact, he seemed quite pleased about it. You didn’t mind. It was nice to be out with him and this way you didn’t need to worry about his antics getting in the way of dinner. Again.

day 1: stars | day 2: nostalgia | day 4: ocean | day 5: pact (nsfw mdni) | day 6: snow | day 7: familiar | day 8: Barbatos | day 9: humanity

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[ddostoyevskyy]

Habit

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄... Another Levi drabble, omfg.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒... 836

Levi Ackerman is known as a man of few words. But for some reason, you always managed to put words on his mouth everytime you open yours and spite at him. His jaw moves, lips twitching in a frown as his eyebrows pinches and furrowed as he glared at you with dark eyes, almost as if he’ll swivel his blades through your neck any time now. Although, that was his expression all the time — you managed to witness the glint on his dark eyes whenever he talks to Commander Erwin or Squad Leader Hange.

It was common for you to be spiteful, especially the moments before you were recruited and assigned in Survey Corps with the same amount of trainings and hardships; you thought this is not even the same level with your situation on the underground, as a criminal, a mass murderer that they’ve called you. You took pleasure for that — you were one pride person after all; you took pride of your talent. Although, you were just unlucky and injured at that moment.

Now you were stuck with the infamous Lance Corporal.

You loathed his attitude, although his undeniable combat knowledge and stamina seems to always fascinates you everytime you watch him in the battleground. His speed were relentless, the power and his inhumane strength were clear in your eyes.

“Dash!” Your head snapped to your side, meeting Hange’s furrowed expression as they huffed. “I‘ve been calling you by your name, but you seem so distracted.”

You raised a brow. Hange had the habit to call you by your real name, although you hated how it sounds, you established the name Dash because you’re a good runner that it’s quite a struggle to catch up with you even maneuvering an ODM gear.

“You alright? You seems pretty fucked up.” They pointed out, poking a gentle finger at the gash on your shoulder as you hissed. You didn’t even notice ache on your body until it hit you, tastebuds starting to taste iron metallic.

“Never been better.” You mumble despite your vision clouding.

“I told you, you’ve been holding your blades wrong,” A voice grumbled as you heard the quick retreat of iron hooks on the background, already forming foul words in your mouth not until you’ve noticed who it was. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“I’ve noticed!” Hange exclaimed, “You seems to retract your blades in a wrong way.”

“Now, now,” You grumbled with a sigh, already rolling your eyes in the air as you feel the exhaustion slips through your body, fueling the heaviness. The more you breath, the more it’s getting harder and harder to move. “Don’t gang up with me. I got used to this, alright? It’s a habit.”

“A bad habit,” The Captain muttered besides, grabbing your hands as you hissed from the contact of his rough ones — your hands were already blastered up, the skin of your palms were roughen up because of how you grip the handle of the blades, and some of it are already scars from the past battles. “You were as good as useless now if you don’t take care of your hands. You also had the habit to bite your nails.”

Hange’s eyebrows shoot up, staring at the Captain and his squad member — they smiled sheepishly, pink dusting on their cheeks as they quietly squealed.

You retracted you hands from his touch, already missing the warmth on your cold temperature — the air were thick and chilly today, so why are you feeling hot on cheeks all of the sudden?

“It doesn’t matter, I’m fine. I can manage. I’ll live, alright, Captain?” You sent a sarcastic smile on Levi’s direction and he furrowed his eyebrows, already ticked off by your attitude and he huffed.

You were about to summon the iron hooks off your gear when Levi’s hand wrapped around your wrist, halting your movements and pushing you towards him, hand clasps on your wrist, he’s quick to remove the cravat placed as his tie and your mouth drops — you knew how important that piece of cloth on his neck, Hange had told you. So, when he wrap it around your palms, including your fingers, you were stunned.

“Wait —”

“You had the habit to use this hand more with the blades even though, it wasn’t your dominant hand,” Levi had neatly tie it securely on your hand, “That will do.”

“But, this is your mothe —”

“Yes, it is. So, come back here in all piece and give that back to me — clean, of course.” Levi retorted, cutting you half way as he nudge his head, indicating you to move forward already as you nodded. You offer a salute before maneuvering back to the walls again.

“You, Levi,” Hange trails off, staring at him with heated cheeks and Levi stared at them warily, already had an idea what’s on the tip of their tounge, “You had a habit of looking out to (Name), don’t you?”

He was silent, although his gaze on your form were already an answer.

hehehehehehehehe

[perpetualfox]

Love, Love, Love - Alejandro x GN!Reader [NSFW]

Warnings: Oral, Rough Handling, Misuse of Strength

Wordcount: 557

Here is is, the first of many.

→ Alejandro has a smile like the sun, warm, and bright and blinding—so full of love; for his work, for his people, for his city. And he makes no effort to hide it. Love moves him in all that he does, carrying him through the rough days and on into the sunshine. Why should he hide that in which he finds no shame? And when he turns that smile on you, when he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world, God, the weight behind it is staggering.

→ “That’s it, Cariño,” He croons, voice rumbling deep in his chest, “So good for me. Now, take it deeper.”

→ Your jaw already aches, cranked open wide to accommodate his girth, but you think you’d have it wired that way permanently if he’d speak to you like that again: his voice thick with want; lilting, love-struck praise on his tongue. You can barely meet his eyes, big and brown and so full of feeling—of love. When he looks at you like that, you’re sure you could stay on your knees like this forever, be a slick drooling mouth for him to use whenever he felt like it and be nourished on that love alone.

→He slides against the meat of your tongue, thick and heavy, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart. He nudges his hips forward and you bob your head, the tip of his cock brushing for a brief moment against the back of your throat. You pull back, lips sliding up the length of him again, and the world goes white.

→ Your head rocks back and a sharp crack echoes in your ears, followed seconds later by a buzzy, stinging that blooms in an arc across your cheek.

→ He’d slapped you.

→ A rough hand seizes your chin and tilts your face upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. Despite the bruising grip on your chin, there is no trace of anger on Alejandro’s face. Only his blinding smile and that fathomless, all-consuming love shining in his eyes. He makes a crooning sound, soothing over your cheek with his thumb, “I said, ‘deeper,’ Cachorrito.’

→ His fingers curl around the back of your head, winding into your hair. His grip is gentle but firm, and you know you aren’t going anywhere until he decides to let you. He takes his time with you, sliding forward inch by inch. Your throat spasms around him, wringing from him a chorus of punched-out groans.

→ A panicky sort of fluttering kicks to life in your chest as you struggle and fail to regain composure. Your hands grip at his thighs, fingers clenching and unclenching in a staccato rhythm. Still, he doesn’t relent, set on burying himself to the hilt. Your throat constricts around him as you fight for air, sputtering and coughing wetly around him, but it’s no use.

→ He’s too big—too much.

→ You try to pull back, but his hands hold you fast, pushing you back down, keeping your nose pressed tight against his abdomen. Above you, a breathless laugh tumbles from his lips, a musical rumble that sends a bolt of heat lancing through you, “Don’t fight me Corazón,” His tone is simpering, voice steady even as your throat continues to pulse around him, “We both know you’re much too weak for that.”

[autisticlancemcclain]

part one

———

Keith can feel it bubbling up inside him.

He’d like to think he’s grown to have a handle on it, the rage. It’s no longer his first reaction to things, no longer his response to everything. He’s not the little kid who trusted no one and hated himself for things that weren’t his fault anymore. He’s grown. He’s learnt to recognise how rarely he truly feels anger; how often it is pain, or sadness, or fear that he doesn’t know how to handle.

He knows this feeling is terror. He knows he is looking out into the endless, endless sea and quavering, in his mind, rendered mute at the future he may have, or lack thereof. What he is feeling is fear, at the roots of things.

But anger is all that’s bubbling up, anyway.

“Are you fucking serious!” he shouts, rattling the boat with the force of his rage. “You got us lost?!”

Luckily, or maybe unluckily considering their situation, Lance has never been the cowering type. He’s just as stubborn and headstrong as Keith, evident in the way he carefully sets down the useless GPS, jaw set, and turns to face Keith.

“I was not the only fool to inebriate myself in a largely unmanned vessel,” he shoots back. He’s doing that thing he does, when he’s furious, when he’s convinced he’d backed into a corner and on his own, where he speaks like a fucking decorated college professor so no one can accuse him of being stupid. ‘Lawyering up’, Keith has always called it. And usually it makes him sad on Lance’s behalf, knowing exactly the string of experience that has led him to that response, but right now it only pisses him off.

“Oh, cut the fucking bullshit, Lance. You were supposed to put down a fucking anchor!”

“I did!”

“Fucking obviously not!”

Lance’s fists clench, and a muscle jumps in his cheek from the tenseness of his jaw. His next words are growled, practically spat in Keith’s direction.

“I put a fucking anchor down, Kogane. It was the first thing I accomplished. It was a current anchor, and I’m certain I set it properly.”

Keith yells, wordless, just a loud shout so he doesn’t explode with everything inside him, gripping his hands in his hair so tightly it hurts. “Well, obviously fucking not, Lance, because I’m at fucking sea right now! Surrounded at all sides by fucking water!”

“How is it my fault that the anchor failed?” Lance shouts, finally cracking his careful composure. It satisfies Keith in a horrible kind of way, to see him just as frantic and furious as Keith is, no bullshit. “Huh? Want me to fucking take it up with the fuckers at the hardware store?”

“I’d love that, except you can’t, because you fucking got us lost!”

Something snaps in Lance’s expression, and he lunges forward, but before Keith can react, he brushes past him and dives overboard, crashing into the gentle waves. It takes Keith several seconds to fully register what the fuck just happened, and by the time he drops to his knees and leans over the side of the boat, Lance is several feet away and rapidly swimming farther.

“Lance!” he shouts, panic replacing the anger in his voice. The only thing worse than being stranded is being stranded by himself. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Lance pauses, treading water as he glances over his shoulder in Keith’s direction. “Avoiding doing something I regret, ” he says shortly. “I either shoved you or jumped myself. One of those is a significantly less shitty decision.”

Keith stares at him for a moment, then pinches the bridge of his nose, taking several seconds to exhale as long and loud and exasperated as he can. He’s almost annoyed to find a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Lance,” he says, pursing his lips, “get the fuck back here, you pillar of dumbass.”

For several minutes Lance doesn’t, likely just to out-stubborn him, but eventually gives in and paddles over. He pauses at the edge of the boat, reaching up one hand to steady himself and letting the rest of him just float.

“I’m not going to yell anymore,” Keith says after several moments. He means it, too; he knew yelling and fighting wouldn’t solve anything but chose his fury over his fondness for Lance, and he wishes he hadn’t.

Lance shakes his head before he can finish. “Nah, I think a little yelling was necessary. I did get us lost. Well, kind of. Fifty-fifty, I think.”

“Fifty-fifty?!” Keith responds indignantly. “I think the fuck not, Oh Captain My Caption! Eighty-twenty at best!”

“That’s absurd. Fifty one-forty nine.”

“That’s not a real offer, jackass. You just brought yourself back up to ninety-ten.”

Lance flicks a drop of water at him, grinning. “Sixty-forty?”

Keith sighs. “I’ll take it.” He holds out a hand. “Come up, dorkbrain.”

Lance grabs his hand, smile widening. Keith realises his mistake a milisecond too late.

“Oh, you motherfucker —”

Lance yanks him into the sea, cackling as he sputters sea water on his way back up. His cackles turn quickly to shouts of alarms, though, when he reads the murder in Keith’s expression, and quickly he books it, swimming as fast as he can to the opposite side of the boat. Keith chases him with full intent to drag him under and drown his bitch ass, but unfortunately Lance grew up with a fuckin’ mermaid tail, or whatever, and Keith has to call it when he genuinely starts to worry he might drown from exhaustion.

He grabs the rope on the side of the boat, heaving himself up until his elbows hook over the edge, legs dangling in the water. Lance mirrors him, still on the opposite end. Keith is gratified at least to find him panting, out of breath as well. The look at each other, and reach a wordless agreement, climbing back onto the boat and flopping on the floor. The take a minute, chests heaving, to catch their breaths, sobering as they look up at the cloudless sky and truly realize the predicament they’ve gotten themselves into.

“Well, it could be worse,” Lance says quietly. He continues before Keith can ask him how the fuck that could be. “I mean, I planned for this to happen. Not, like, I planned for it to actually happen to us, but I packed a bunch of emergency supplies on the off-chance that we would somehow get stranded.”

Keith raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? For how long?”

“Well, long as shit, I would suppose. I packed enough for six people to last a month.”

“So the two of us are set for God knows how long.”

They lapse into silence, both pondering the seriousness of their strandedness, the reality of the helpless situation they’re in. They have food and water, sure, and a few other survival things, but what about shelter? Something that’s not a hard boat to sleep on, or old pillows? What about when it gets cold at night, or it rains, or they run into something bigger than their boat? They’re totally lost, communications dashed, GPS unavailable, and honestly still a little hungover. They are, objectively, in for a fuckin’ rough one.

A hand reaches over and wraps around Keith’s, startling him from his thoughts. He looks over at Lance, but Lance looks pointedly away, gaze fixed firmly at the sky, something unreadable written on his face.

“You know, not that it fixes anything,” he starts quietly. He hesitates a moment, long enough that Keith opens his mouth to ask him to finish his sentence, before continuing. “But I’m grateful, at least, that it’s you I’m stuck with.”

His words hang in the air, a heavy blanket settling over them. Keith’s face heats. The tiniest of smiles pulls at his lips, and he squeezes Lance’s hand as he looks away.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “yeah, I lucked out there.”

[headcanons-n-shit]

Hi! I love love love you writing! (I've been here all morning, my chores are not getting done lol) Can we get the boys (tm) reacting to/taking care of a WoL who's sick? Like something that requires them to stay in bed and actually rest, something I imagine most WoL's aren't very good at lol maybe a lost, scratchy voice or something too pls <3

Look at these boys, taking care of their poor little meow meow lmao

ff14 boys (tm) taking care of a sick WoL:

Thancred needles you gleefully, but it's playful. What isn't playful is the way he's handling you. Damn but you always forget how strong he is. Easily lifting you off your staggering feet and into bed, from your bed to a bath and back. propping you up with one arm to tip medicine down your throat. A strong, weathered hand checking your temperature, patting your cheek, brushing your hair back so he can lay a cool cloth across your forehead.

In that hazy space between sleep and awake, you think you might even hear him singing to you, low and sweet. It's. Probably just the fever though.

Urianger isn't going to say that he warned you, but. Well. He did kind of warn you.

He doesn't rub it in, either. No, instead he's almost infuriatingly patient with you. When he's easing you into taking foul-tasting medicines, when he's bundling you up in blankets, when he's feeding you soups without letting you so much as lift a finger. He even reads to you-- mostly just dry historical texts that have you dozing off within minutes. It's the best rest you've ever had in your life, and you wake up feeling more alive than ever.

And THEN he will tell you that he warned you :)

G'raha seems like the kind of person who might panic and run around like a chicken with his head cut off. And he might have been, at one point. But he's an older soul now, with experience with a much tougher patient than you: a young Lyna.

He's kind, and gentle, but firm. Yes, you do need to stay in bed. No, you cannot get up. No, he is not going to bring your paperwork or needlework to your bed for you, but he will happily fetch a book for you to read, the new Heavensward memoir perhaps? Yes, you have to take the medicine, but yes you can also have a hot cocoa to chase the taste away.

Estinien stares at you where you're leaning on your lance. You stare at him. He raises an eyebrow. You look away. You can't even give a good excuse-- your voice went out about an hour ago, and you don't have the energy to croak words out around the frog in your throat.

He sighs, scoops you up despite your largely-mute protests, and carries your sorry ass back to the Forgotten Knight. He's no healer, but he remembers the very basics: a roaring fire, hot soup, soothing tea, and rest. It's hard for him, too, he'll freely admit. It feels like there's so much to do, and resting feels like a waste of time.

But if you keep working a damaged muscle, you'll just hurt it further, he reminds you, and helps you with your first few bites of soup. You have to rest, so that, at least if you don't come out the other side stronger, you come out the other side alive.

Aymeric seems calm and composed, but he is 100% internally a screaming chicken. He's already called on the best chirurgeons who would answer, gotten you the best of the medicines they recommended, helped his cooks prepare your favorite meal. All that is left is to wait, and. Aymeric is a strategist, he's good at the long game, but.

He lingers in the door to your room. In your comfy bed, all bundled up in warm blankets, you look so. small. Not the Warrior of Light, not his stalwart friend, but just. A person. Who gets sick. Who he might lose. And that. Scares him. More than a little.

You lift your head and blearily blink at him, and then your chapped mouth pulls into a smile. You pat the edge of your bed next to you for him to sit.

"Tell me about your day?" you croak.

And he takes your hand, and he does.

Haurchefant shakes his head fondly as he moves to help you off the floor where you've fallen.

There was a short period of time when he was really, truly worried for you. When you had just woken up into the new reality of your life, your blank eyes staring at the space where you arm had once been. It's hard, he understands, for a warrior to lose so much of what had once defined them.

But you've still got your fire, to his relief and his chagrin, spitting and cursing and wiggling as he settles you back into bed and flops his entire not-insignificant weight on top of you.

"Hush, now," he says, his mouth right next to your ear, one hand coming up to curl, warm and heavy, around the back of your neck. You're still running a fever, he notes idly, but it's certainly better than it was before. "I think we've earned a spell of rest, don't you?"

Sidurgu freezes at the first cough that rattles through your chest. The memories rise horrifying and unbidden, of coughs that echo in armor, of shaking hands and failing strength and nights hungry, trembling, curled around each other in a desperate bid of warmth, terrified of falling asleep because he doesn't want to wake up to a frozen corpse next to him. And Fray lived, sure, but the cold in their bones never did leave them, not until the day they--

But this is now, he reminds himself, and you are not Fray. There is gil for medicine AND for food, and even for a warm place to sleep. There is Rielle, diligently studying her conjury and happy for a real, live patient to practice on, falling asleep against your chest not because she exhausted herself, but because the hour grew late and she, bored.

How terrifying it is for a Dark Knight to know peace, he thinks as he carefully repositions her so that she is not putting so much weight on your sick lungs. As he brushes your hair from your forehead and places a single kiss there before replacing the cold compress.

How terrifying, and how wonderful.

BONUS

Erenville has this way about him that is undeniably guilt-inducing. The kind of demeanor that reminds you of clucking mothers and worried-looking fathers, all with his hands on his hips and a single eyebrow raised, and you don't even have the voice to argue with him as he takes you by the hand and half-drags you back to his room.

In a city full of scholars, doctors, and healers, he gripes, and you couldn't find your way to any of them? What if you had gotten hurt? or accidentally gotten someone else sick? or spread something to the delicate denizens of labyrinthos?

But you can sense the very real concern for you, beneath his scathing tone. In the way he keeps one hand on your chest to feel your breathing, the other on your wrist to monitor your pulse. The way he takes you to his home-- not the shoddy room the forum gives to any gleaner, but to the one he's build in the Golmorean section of labyrinthos-- and keeps you there until you get better.

[bluemantics]

When Maria McClain first holds Lance in her arms, she feels a resurgence of overwhelming affection consume her. It’s nothing new to Maria. She’s had many other children— four— and now, cradling Lance, she knows she is capable. She knows she can handle being his mother, and just how lucky she is. With tears brimming in her eyes, she places a kiss to his forehead.

“You are going to be so, so good,” she whispers. Lance, still and sleeping, remains unaware of her words.

Maria realizes: here is her heart, living outside of her body. She prays.

Later, when Lance is six and starting school, Maria worries. He’s an unusual boy. He likes to spend endless time at the beach and marveling over the stars, but it has taken longer for him to learn things such as speaking. She hopes desperately that he won’t struggle in school and be made fun of, but knows she can’t control that.

“Mama!” a shrill voice calls from the door. Maria places the last Tupperware of rice in his lunch box and heads over to where Lance is standing, hand eagerly twisting the doorknob back and forth.

“Have a good day in school, Lancito.” She plants a kiss on his forehead as she shoves his lunch box in his backpack. “Make sure you stay close to Rachel and walk with her, you don’t want to get lost.”

“I will, I will,” Lance huffs. Finally, Maria opens the door, and Lance bursts out to run over where Rachel and Veronica stand with neighborhood friends. As Maria waves him off, she presses a hand over her chest, soothing the knot left behind by his absence.

She looks around an empty house, all the pieces of her heart out in the world. Maria sighs, closing the door and turning to get her gardening tools.

Lance is 13 when he first discovers the Galaxy Garrison. He is not the best student, prone to distraction by the smallest things, but he becomes determined in a way Maria hasn’t seen from him yet.

However, Maria also does research on this program. She finds out it is a military program and that her son will be enlisted to fight on the battlefield.

She begins to worry again, that familiar ache in her heart. Maria walks to Lance’s door and knocks gently. “Lance?”

“Come in!” Maria walks in to find him taping up a poster to his wall. He shares the room with Luis, who isn’t there, the only sign of him a collection of superhero memorabilia on the right side of the room.

Lance’s side had glowing star decals, an empty fish tank, and a big collection of fantasy books.

Now, above Lance’s bed, there is a poster of a commanding officer from the Galaxy Garrison. Lance catches her staring and turns bright red.

“He’s so cool, Mama!” Lance explains. “And he is gonna go to space, just like I want to. I might even get to meet him if I go.” Maria chuckles softly.

“You’re working very hard to get in,” she reassures him, going to place a hand on her shoulder. “Stubborn boy as you are.” He snorts at her teasing and ducks away from her ruffling his hair.

“I’m gonna do it. I know it.” Lance looks up at the poster with wide, open eyes, and Maria can’t help but notice how small he is in comparison to this looming figure in a space suit. “I’m going to be a hero.”

Maria has heard many stories of heroes. She has read them, has met them, has lost them. She recalls her brother, lost to war.

She placed a gentle hand on Lance’s shoulder, sitting down next to him on his bed.

“I will never stop you from becoming who you want to be, mi corazón,” she tells him seriously. He looks deeply into her eyes, eyes they share, deep brown and curious. “But you must promise me, if you go here, you will keep my heart safe. Heroes do not remain heroes in life very often.” She presses her remaining hand from her heart to his, an invisible connection.

“Do you understand?”

“Of course, Mama.”

He does not understand. He is only 13, young and with no obligations, but speaking the words aloud brings a comfort to her. So she smiles, and when Lance gets into the program months later, they celebrate with a going away party.

Then—

Then.

Lance is 17 when she receives a call. She does not remember much of that day. Brief snatches, at most.

Falling to her knees in the kitchen, the phone breaking as it landed beside her.

Her hands coming up to her heart, her shoulders trembling. Maria’s husband rushed in, going down to hold her, trying to understand why she was—

A pause. Silence rang in her ears like a bell tolling.

She tilted her head back and screamed. The sound was broken. It was pain incarnate.

Her son, her heart.

How could she ever stand again?

The years begin to pass by in a blur. She has other children to take care of. They don’t miss the hollowness that lingers in her eyes, the way she ages but her eyes continue to linger on an empty doorway. She busies herself with her garden.

She plants a lamprocapnos and she tends to it with care.

She tries not to linger on regret, her husband reassuring her that she did everything right, that she is a good mother and wife. In their grief, they cling to each other. She listens to his pulse with an ear over his chest.

The bad days are hard, and she needs reminding that they pass.

They do.

Sometime when Lance would be 21, Maria hears a knock on the door. She stands and heads over, expecting a package or a neighbor. She freezes. Tall and scarred and broader, but still her baby, Lance stands in the door with a wide smile and eyes instantly brimming with tears.

“Mama, I’m home,” he whispers.

Maria opens her arms, her shock preventing her from speaking. He sinks into them in a way all too familiar and yet also new and strange, this new version of her son.

“I did it,” he says. “I became a hero, Mama. I saved the universe.”

“Oh, mi corazón,” Maria finally manages, her voice broken again. “You never needed to be a hero for me to love you.”

They stay that way for a long, long time.

“I have someone I need you to meet, Mama. I think he’s my heart.”

And, oh, she understands.

“Invite him for dinner,” she agrees, holding hers in her arms like a lifeline.

[mehoymalloy]

Calling Your Name

(Critical Role; Imogen Temult/Otohan Thull)

Written with love for @immult and @maddytrout in particular, who seem especially partial (as am I) to one Imogen Temult casting Psychic Lance.

Tags and the opening lines under the cut; link to fic in the title!

‘Otohan is moving downward,’ Laudna suddenly says, voice shrill and trembling even as it’s little more than a whisper of thought across the telepathic bond.

Deep in the heart of the Colloquium of Candescence, Imogen, Orym, and Chetney look to Laudna, who holds the scry ball delicately between spindly fingers, staring down at it in suspense. ‘And quite rapidly,’ she tacks on.

‘Shit,’ Chetney huffs. A wolfish growl to match his form reverberates within Imogen’s skull, joining the growing din of her pulse pounding in her ears.

‘We can’t take on those guys, Thull, and get our new friend out safely,’ Orym says, nodding toward the lab where Evoroa floats suspended in a vat, guarded by a reiloran mystic and shrike.

‘Not with that attitude!’ Chet straightens and rolls his shoulders, baring his fangs in a feral grin.

‘Orym’s right,’ Imogen cuts in. ‘Where’s she coming from, Laud?’

‘The same direction we did, looks like—she’ll be at the juggernauts soon.’

The moment Laudna says this, Imogen feels Otohan.

The gentlest tugging sensation on the tether had been present since they first landed on Ruidus—distinctly if subtly felt no matter how repressed Imogen kept the bond.

What’s most unsettling is that the gentle sensation is not even Otohan’s doing.

It’s the moon itself, Imogen thinks, and the constant proximity to the god-eater that sleeps beneath their feet. She cannot sleep without feeling it stir in her stomach, can barely even think without it insidiously seeping into her mind. It touches the tether like a curious child carefully plucking at the strings of a strange new instrument.

Otohan, conversely, is not gentle.

Several times over the past two days, that tug had become a focused pull every time Otohan got a little too close—at the Key, as they raced across the bridge and crashed through the Reiloran camp, in the sleepy village of Razora, when they had hidden in the elder’s small home, and on the surface of Kreviris, huddled in the basement of the Jagged Edge glassworks.

Now, that tug becomes a pull becomes a yank.

‘I’ll handle it,’ Imogen says, turning back the way they had come.

‘Wait,’ Orym says, grabbing hold of Imogen’s skirt. ‘What’s the plan?’ he asks, while Laudna swallows down her almost audibly-stammered protest. She stares at Imogen with inky, pleading eyes, pupils invisible if not for the moonlit-white rings surrounding them.

‘Just trust me. Take them out quietly, get Evoroa, and no matter what, do not speak into my mind. Understand?’

‘No,’ Orym says, grim determination tinging the single syllable. ‘But I trust you.’ He slowly releases his hold on her dress. ‘Be careful.’

Imogen nods as she steps to Laudna. Reaching up, she takes hold of her hands—still wrapped tightly around the scry ball, long fingers overlapping each other—and gently squeezes. ‘I’ll be fine—don’t worry.’

‘Impossible,’ Laudna says with a weak smile, dipping down to press a kiss to Imogen’s cheek. ‘We’ll take care of things here.’

Imogen forces her own smile as she reluctantly lets go, though it dies the moment she turns away.