#Keith Hilts

[wausaupilot]

Cale Bushman named Interim Superintendent of Wausau School District

Wausau Pilot & review One week after the application period for the next superintendent closed, the Wausau School Board on Friday named Cale Bushman interim superintendent. He will take over the role in July. According to a statement from the district, the Wausau School Board made the decision during a special meeting on Thursday. Bushman is director of Pupil Services in Wausau. “The Board of…

[autisticlancemcclain]

A shrill beep breaks his focus, and for it he nearly gets sliced in the eye.

He just barely manages to dodge the Gladiator’s blade, ducking under its sword and rolling towards his jacket and boots, crumpled on the floor. He digs out his comm, as quickly as he can with the Gladiator hot on his tail, and glances at the new message. It’s from Lance.

sharpshooter:

keith where tf are u

sharpshooter:

please know if u miss yet another meeting i am going to kick ur ass

sharpshooter:

better yet i’m gonna have allura kick ur ass bc she actually can

sharpshooter:

know that it will be painful

Keith rolls his eyes, dropping his comm and feigning left just as the Gladiator stabs right through where his head was milliseconds prior. No longer worried that he’s missing something important, he throws himself back into the fight, matching his breathing to the clash of his sword against the Gladiator’s, the steady taps of their feet on the floor as they move, the rapid beat of his own heart. It’s easy to sink into the movement, the adrenaline; to stop thinking.

Thinking is dangerous. Thinking is painful. Thinking reminds him only of how much he’s lost, how much he’s falling short. None of that is helpful. The weight of his sword in his hand, the smell of sweat and metal, the harsh white lights of the training room — all that is helpful. All that is real.

“Kogane, you are the most irritating person in space. And that’s saying a lot, because I’m here, and I specialize in being irritating.”

The Gladiator freezes mid strike, then fades into pixels. The harsh lights dim.

Keith turns around with a scowl. Lance matches it, standing right beside the training room kill switch, arm crossed and jaw set defiantly.

“I’m trying to train, Lance.”

“No need. You’ve reached peak levels of infuriating. No more training necessary.”

Keith rolls his eyes so hard it hurts, jogging over to his water bottle and chugging half of it before dropping to the floor and doing push-ups. Whatever. Lance may have shut down the Gladiator, but Keith can train in other ways. He’ll just turn it back on when Lance leaves.

“Oh, you fucking —”

Before he can fully register what’s happening, a sharp wooshing noise gets louder, and he rolls out of the way seconds before a sword flies by his head and imbeds itself in the wall.

A very, very familiar sword, white with red accents.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Keith shouts, but Lance is already sprinting to grab his bayard, face impassive.

Keith scrambles to his feet, lunging for his own blade, barely managing to activate it and hold it in front of him to block Lance’s oncoming strike. The force of the blow is so powerful it sends a painful ripple down his arms.

Lance is just barely smirking.

“If it’s a fucking fight you want than you’ll get it,” Keith growls, spinning out of the way and putting some distance between them, adjusting his stance and tensing his shoulders.

“I don’t want a fight, douchebag. But obviously talking like grownups is too hard for your tiny little brain, so I’m going to explain this in a way you can understand.”

“You’re really shitty at one-liners,” Keith points out, aiming a thrust at Lance’s left hip, which he always leaves open.

To Keith’s delight, Lance’s smirk drops. “That’s because one-liners are stupid!” he says defensively, barely managing to swerve to the side in time to avoid serious damage. He retaliates by swinging his longsword like it’s a fucking bat, and Keith’s head is a baseball, because Lance is allergic to the real swordfighting techniques Keith has attempted to teach him. And also peanuts, but that’s not helpful right this second. “I only have one line to destroy you emotionally! Truly devastating burns are multi-layered, which is why you can never come up with them, you one-dimensional oreo thinnie!”

Keith grunts, sidestepping Lance’s attempt to stab his foot and clashing his sword at the base of Lance’s, right near the hilt, trying to disarm him. It works, but only because Lance anticipated the move, and as his sword is bent from his hand he does some sort of twisting manoeuvre with his wrist and manages to catch it, somehow. It’s infuriating.

“I stopped listening twelve percent into your sentence.”

“Well, you do that a lot, so colour me unsurprised.”

The unfiltered bitterness in Lance’s voice throws him for a loop, distracts him. He blinks, thrown-off, head out of the game.

“What?”

His distractedness costs him. Faster than he can fully track, Lance hooks his foot around Keith’s ankle, sweeping his legs out from under him, and then shoves him to the floor, pinning his wrists above his head, knee to Keith’s navel, sword to his throat. Keith tries to struggle, to either buck Lance off or angle his own sword, still clenched in his hand, back up to Lance, but he’s exhausted — he’s been training since he woke up this morning. Lance has him at a disadvantage.

“You are being a massive douchebag dumbass loser,” Lance says, panting. “I am fighting the urge to kill you for real.”

“Maybe don’t,” Keith suggests, suddenly very aware of the position they’re in and how easily Lance could drive his sword through Keith’s skull. He knows Lance won’t, or else he’d be struggling way more, but the way Lance is eyeing his own sword is certainly not helping.

Lance sighs. “We need to take a break, Keith.”

Keith frowns. “What?”

Lance sighs again, shifting off of Keith and standing, offering his hand. Keith takes it, pulling himself up, and then follows Lance over to the wall, sitting down next to him.

“What?” he repeats, when Lance doesn’t say anything for several minutes.

Lance shifts to face him, and for the first time Keith really notices the bags under his eyes, the sag of his shoulders. “We need to take a break,” he repeats. “All of us. The team. We need to do something that isn’t this —” he spreads his arm, gesturing to their swords and then between them — “all the time. We need a vacation.”

“No.” Keith barely lets him finish. He gets back to his feet, picking up his sword and heading back towards the system modulator, flipping through the different training modules. Lance follows him immediately.

“Keith —”

“No, Lance,” Keith repeats, fists clenching the edge of the computer. “This is a fucking war. There are no vacations. End of discussion.”

Lance mutters something in Spanish, too fast for Keith to pick up, but he clearly hears a few repeated instances of “cabrón”, and “comemierda”, and “tonto terco idiota que va a hacer que nos maten a todos”, none of which he can translate but he’s pretty sure he gets the general message.

“Keith.” Lance wraps an arm around Keith’s wrist, tugging him away from the training computer. “I cannot possibly understand the pain you are going through. Nothing I have ever gone through can possibly be the same as how it feels to lose a brother. For the second time, for fuck’s sake. I know that.”

Keith clenches his jaw, swallowing the lump in his throat at the mere mention of Shiro. He itches to yank his hand away, boot up the Gladiator again, and train and train and train until he can’t hear his thoughts anymore.

But he doesn’t.

“But you’re not alone in this, man,” Lance continues. Keith turns to glare at him — what a fucking crock of cliched bullshit — but Lance holds his gaze, steady and firm. “Pidge knows exactly what you’re going through. Allura, too. Hell, even Coran. That’s three separate people who understand every single thing you’re going through right now. Intimately.”

That brings Keith up short. “It’s not the same,” Keith insists anyway. “Plus it — it doesn’t matter. What good is talking out our feelings going to do? That’s not going to fuckin’ find him. I’m only going to find him if I keep working.”

“Really interesting that you say that,” Lance says flatly. “I had this exact conversation with Pidge last night, as I was attempting to force her to get some sleep.”

Keith feels something like guilt build up deep in his stomach.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And it’s one thing for me to mother hen the fifteen year old, but it’s a whole other, weirdly Freudian thing for me to mother hen you, the grownup leader who is supposed to be guiding the team and not a giant headass who is doing intensely stupid shit like ignoring team meetings and training to the point where he passes out.”

“In my defense, the daily team meetings are dumb,” Keith mutters, because apparently he wants Lance to kick him out the airlock.

Luckily, Lance only smiles wryly. “You’re lucky I’m endlessly benevolent and I’m going to let that slide. Come sit down, asshole. You missed today’s meeting because you were busy being emo, but we’ll have a small meeting now. A co-leaders meeting.”

Keith relents, sitting next to Lance on the floor, back to the wall as Lance sits criss-cross-applesauce in front of him.

“Okay. Vacation. Necessary.”

“Counterpoint. We all manage our schedules better and have some free time, and don’t waste our time spending who knows how long doing nothing.”

“Counter counter point. We do both of those things or I mutiny.”

Lance does not appear to be joking even a little. When it’s clear that Keith isn’t going to speak any further, he sighs.

“Look,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I know that the idea of not doing something for a day is kind of stressful. But…saving the world is a massive bummer, dude. Being on this lonely ass castle in the middle of empty space is a bummer. Chasing a walking purple L’Oreal commercial who is also a homicidal maniac is a bummer. Eating in silence during team dinners is a bummer. Trying to force Pidge and Hunk to step away from their tech for a few hours to sleep and eat and shower is a bummer. Dragging Allura away from the briefing room is a bummer. Making sure you don’t work yourself to death is a bummer. Being the red paladin, if I’m being a thousand percent honest, right now, is a bummer. I’m bummed, dude.”

Despite himself, Keith smiles slightly. Lance grins back, tired and a tad condescending but also fond.

“I got it, Lance.”

“Excellent. I even dumbed it down so it would not escape you.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You know what would make me less of an asshole?”

“A vacation?” Keith guesses.

“Ding ding ding! Vacation is the answer.” Lance reaches forward, grabbing Keith’s water bottle straight from his hands and taking a swig. “And since you decided to ditch the daily briefing, you get to make it up to me today by convincing the rest of the team to agree and also agreeing to whatever vacation spot I choose.”

“I will agree to one of those things.”

Lance laughs, bright and happy, and it sends such a startling zap of energy and relief through Keith’s entire body that he’s kicking himself for making it so rare, as of late.

“Oh, Mullet, you are so naive.”

Lance gets to his feet, offering his hand to Keith again. This time, when Keith takes it, he holds on for a moment — he smiles at Lance, tired but genuine. Lance smiles back, knocking their shoulders together.

It’s nice to be back on the same page.

———

Keith thinks he reserves the right to complain, honestly.

Well, maybe not. He did work everyone pretty hard. And he is glad that Lance finally convinced him (if threatening to mutiny can be called convincing) to go on vacation, even though you couldn’t waterboard that out of him.

“If you complain even one more time I am going to draw a massive dick with the sunscreen where you can’t reach,” Lance says pleasantly, squirting what Keith would call a massive excess of Altean SPF 900 onto his hands (alien suns are a little more deadly. Who knew). He slaps it on Keith’s back, slathering it with absolutely zero care and an abundance of glee.

It doesn’t make Keith smile. It doesn’t.

“I’ll just wear a shirt until the sunburn fades. Complaining is worth it.”

Lance only hums, working in the cream. It starts to feel good, his cold fingers digging into the knots on Keith’s back. It feels so good, in fact, that Keith lets his guard down.

Rookie mistake if he’s ever made one.

One second he’s sat on the warm sand, tension melting from his shoulders, and the next he’s fucking airborne; Lance picking him up by the waist and throwing him over broad swimmers shoulders.

“Lance!” he screeches, pounding on the red paladin’s back, “fucking let me down! Dickhead!”

Lance is cackling loudly, picking up speed and jogging for the — icy cold! Keith knows! — waves. The rest of the team looks in their direction, but Keith loses any hope of their aid when they all burst out laughing.

“All of you are the worst!” Keith cries, but he can’t deny that it’s nice to hear their laughter again.

It’s been a while.

Still, though, Keith is not going down without a fight. As he and his captor get closer and closer to a watery doom (Keith has never been dramatic even a day in his life), Keith really starts to struggle. He throws his whole body weight to one side, making Lance stumble. He aims an elbow to the Cuban’s ear, but before his hit can land, he hears a voice shout: “Oh, no you don’t!”

Three things happen in quick succession.

One. Lance whoops in triumph.

Two. A curtain of white hair flashes towards him, and yet another arm grabs him around the waist.

Three. He drops, and water colder than the fucking glacial arctic seas envelops him entirely.

He comes back up sputtering, glaring a thousand daggers at Allura.

“You’ll pay for that,” he informs her.

“Ha!” She looks down at him smugly, hands on her hips and one eyebrow raised to her hairline. “Good luck with that.”

Keith doesn’t hesitate before tackling her into the waves.

It doesn’t take long after that for things to devolve into chaos. Hunk happily follows Allura and Lance’s examples, scooping up Pidge — to her rage — and Coran — to his delight — under one arm each, tossing them in the water like neither weighs particular more to him than perhaps a bunch of grapes.

(Dear Lord. If Keith were not so gone on Lance’s ass…)

As much as he tries to deny it, Keith has fun. Very quickly Lance organizes a game of chicken, climbing up Keith’s body like a particularly aggravating monkey (something Keith is happy to tell him) and settling on his shoulders, thighs bracketing his head and ankles crossed at his abdomen.

Keith goes so violently red that he’s genuinely kind of shocked that he can turn that colour.

“Squeeze any tighter, Lance, and Keefers over there is going to evaporate the entire ocean,” Pidge says drily.

Keith does not wait for her to get situated on Coran’s shoulders. He charges.

Despite his brain relaying a constant stream of Oh God Lance’s thighs are wrapped around your head holy shit he’s sitting on your shoulders and he’s barely dressed his fucking legs are so long why are they so long does he have to be this attractive is that even possible what the fuck is the deal with that, he manages to put his full attention into going absolutely ham. He charges, dodges, leaps and bounds, intent on being the winning team of this ridiculous but admittedly fun game.

Allura and Hunk dominate. Easily. It’s barely even a competition. They dunk everyone else so many times that they have to plead for mercy.

Still, Keith has a huge smile on his face by the time everyone peels off and cools down.

“There it is,” Lance says, poking him on the cheek.

Keith bats his hands away. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

But Lance is undeterred by his gruffness. He smiles, fondly, rolling his eyes, then bounds away with a random bucket to the shoreline, likely to look for cool seashells.

Keith is so endeared that it’s honestly a little sickening. Never in his life has he been so attached to the whims to another person.

He doesn’t hate it, somehow.

“If you keep building the habit of watching your red paladin so lovingly, you may be accused of favouritism in the near future,” Coran teases, taking a seat next to him on the sand.

Keith flushes. Your red paladin rings in his ears.

“I don’t watch him like that,” he denies loudly.

“You do so,” pipes up the peanut gallery, also known as Pidge Holt, without so much as glancing up from her, Hunk’s, and Allura’s massive sandcastle. Honestly, sandcastle might not be the right word for it. The magnificent undertaking is significantly larger and significantly prettier than his dingy shack from back home.

“You’re fired,” Keith shoots back. Pidge only rolls her eyes, reaching over and smashing one of the sand figures standing on the castle.

“I just killed sand Keith for your insolence. Beg for my forgiveness or I won’t rebuild you.”

The two of them continue to bicker until Allura throws clumps of sand at them to get them to shut up.

“Aw, the sand got stuck in my sunscreen,” Keith pouts. He tries to rub it off, but it only scrapes his skin off with it, so he gives up. “You’re the worst!”

“I’m going to put more sand in your hair,” Allura says mildly. She scoops up a handful. Keith holds a bucket of water up in front of him in defense.

Before an all out war can be restarted, Hunk stills, looking up from his intricate castle-building with a furrowed brow.

“Hey, speaking of sunscreen, where’s Lance? He can usually be relied upon to snootily inform anyone who will listen about UV rays and skin cancer every hour.”

“He went to go find seashells.”

Hunk’s brow furrows. “And he’s not back yet? It’s been a bit. Do you think he got lost?”

“Let’s go look for him,” Keith says, scrambling to his feet immediately. His heartbeat picks up slightly, ‘Lance’ and ‘lost’ ringing through his head like disjointed echoes. He’s already halfway down the sand by the time he registers the voices around him, hears the calling of his name, feels a steady hand on his shoulder.

“He’s not lost,” Coran says kindly. His green eyes are wrought with pain and empathy and understanding alike, reminding Keith of Lance’s earlier words. Reminding him that his family truly does understand his pain, truly does know him, get him. Coran’s hand squeezes once, and Keith takes a deep breath, smiling slightly back at him, covering his hand briefly with his own.

“Okay.”

Still, the six of them walk down the shoreline faster than they would normally, figuring safe is better than sorry.

“Hey, look.” Pidge points at a small purple critter scuttling across the sand. “Does that thing look like it’s in a hurry to you?”

“I think all crabs kind of look like they’re in a hurry,” Hunk reasons.

Allura smiles slightly, snapping his hands. “It’s the snappiness to their movements.”

Just as they speak, however, another crab scurries along, and then another. Soon dozens of them are visible, digging themselves out of the sand or hopping out of the water, then hurrying down the shoreline like whatever their chasing is about to run out. Eventually the crowd of crabs get so thick that it’s almost impossible to walk without gently sweeping several of them aside to make room for their feet.

“Oh, hey, guys!”

A few yards in front of them, sat cross cross applesauce on the sand, surrounded by hundreds of little crabs, is Lance. In front of him is the bucket he had left with and a sponge-like chunk of seaweed. He grins sunnily at them, so widely that the brown of his eyes is hidden, they crinkle so much, and returns his attention to the bucket. He holds his hand out to one of the many crabs chittering around them, waiting for it to crawl on, then gently lowers it into the bucket, using the spongey seaweed to scrub its shell.

“I’m giving the crabs baths!” The little crab in the bucket seems to wiggle, almost, in some kind of glee, waiting for Lance to finish, pat it on the head, and set it down on the sand before scuttling away.

“You’re bathing,” says Pidge incredulously, “aquatic sand bugs.”

“Some of them have a lot of barnacle buildup,” Lance says primly.

“We thought you went missing,” Keith blurts. He can’t quite keep the fear out of his voice, that built up as soon as he’d realized that Lance was gone, fear that comes out as anger. He regrets it as soon as it comes out, bracing himself for the set to Lance’s jaw and and the defensiveness in his jaw. But to his surprise Lance only softens, holding a crab out to Keith. He takes it on reflex, blinking at it in confusion. The crab blinks back.

“I did not,” Lance promises. “But I was looking for shells, and then I saw Jorge flipped upside down, so I helped him, and then we were chilling, and then I noticed he was walking funny because of a barnacle buildup on his leg, so I asked him if he wanted me to get it off, and he didn’t answer but he was cool to hop in the bucket so I cleaned him off. And then Carmen showed up so I polished her up, and then Amelia, then Hunk Two —”

“You named a crab after me?” Hunk interrupts, visibly touched.”

Lance nods matter-of-factly. “Strong and sunset coloured. All of you have crab buddies. Look.” He scoops up six crabs from his lap, showing the Hunk-crab first, then showing three other crabs in order: a teeny-tiny dark green one with black marks around its eyes, a bright pink one that sparkles when it moves, and an orange one with markings around its mouth. “Pidge-crab, Allura-crab, Coran-crab.” Finally he holds out his hand to the crab that has been sitting protectively on his head, burrowed in his curls. It takes a moment, but eventually the little thing begrudgingly steps from the safety of Lance’s hair and into his cupped hand. He brings it carefully down, giving it an exaggerated smooch on the head.

“This one is Keith-crab,” he says. “Because it is all emo coloured and likes me best.” Lance looks up at him and grins. “I am your absolute favourite all the time, right, Mullet?”

Keith knows Lance is teasing. Obviously. Evident in the way the rest of the team is snickering to themselves, no doubt remembering the years of arguing they’ve witnessed.

But still. Keith feels lightheaded.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, bright red. There’s a beat of silence that stretches out for twelve years, then Pidge guffaws, Hunk bites his lip, and Allura straight up loses it. Even Coran hides a smile in his hand.

“What the fuck, Keith,” Lance says, strangled. His face glows worse than Keith’s does. “You’re not supposed to admit it.”

“Would it be so bad?“ Keith erupts, voice cracking. “So what you’re my favourite? There’s no way you didn’t know! I let you get away with everything! You threatened to shove a sword through my skull yesterday and I didn’t even put you in a chokehold about it!”

Lance makes a long, anguished noise, setting the crab down with great care before burying his face in his hands. “You’re so embarrassing,” he moans. “You don’t have an ounce of rizz in your body. None.”

Keith sputters. “What does that even mean!”

“It means he liiiiiiikes yooooouuuu,” Pidge crows. Allura makes kissy faces.

And, well. Pidge cannot be trusted. She has openly and gleefully informed him that lying for fun is one of her favourite hobbies, especially when Keith is at the other end of her clowning.

But Lance is still trying to shrink back into himself, embarrassed. And he always finds an excuse to have his hands on Keith, somehow. And Keith hangs out with him more than anyone else, honestly.

Keith turns to Lance, hopeful. “You do?”

Lance points at him, glaring. “This does not count. You hear me?”

Keith grins, rocking back on his heels. “I’m not sure.” Lance scowls. Keith genuinely feels like he might be floating, so long as he ignores his asshole friends. “You might have to spell it out for me.”

“You talk to me properly,” Lance lists. “When we are alone. Play it up and wax poetic and — I dunno, flowers or something. You figure it out. I refuse to have this be how I find out you have feelings for me.”

“I mean, I was never really hiding it.”

“I’ll divorce you, Keith, I swear to God.”

Humming, Keith leans close, careful of the crabs, and presses a kiss to Lance’s cheek. At the last second Lance turns his head, catching his lips and kissing him properly. His smile is wide and shy.

“Sure, Sharpshooter.”

[itsskyvoltage]

Starlit Serenade

Pairing: Keith Kogane x female! reader

Warning: None

Masterlist

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

Y/N L/N had always been captivated by the stars. Growing up on a small colony planet at the edge of the galaxy, she spent countless nights gazing up at the vast expanse, dreaming of adventures beyond her homeworld. Her fascination with the cosmos led her to pursue a career in astrophysics, and now, as a young researcher aboard the Galra Observatory Station, she was living her dream.

One clear night, as Y/N analyzed data from the latest deep space survey, a rare celestial event caught her attention—a comet with a peculiar trajectory. Intrigued, she redirected the observatory's telescopes to track its path. Little did she know, this comet's journey would intersect with her own in the most unexpected way.

Meanwhile, aboard the Castle-Ship known as the Lion's Den, Keith Kogane, the skilled pilot of the Black Lion and a key member of the Voltron team, was on a routine mission to investigate disturbances in the quadrant. He had grown accustomed to the vastness of space, finding solace in its silent beauty. But as he monitored the readings, something unusual appeared on his scanner—a mysterious energy signature coming from the direction of the Galra Observatory Station.

Curious yet cautious, Keith decided to investigate. The journey took him closer to the observatory than he had anticipated, and as he approached, he couldn't shake the feeling that this mission held more significance than he initially thought.

Back at the observatory, Y/N was still engrossed in her analysis when alarms suddenly blared through the station. Startled, she rushed to the main control room, where panicked voices filled the air. Reports indicated an unidentified spacecraft approaching rapidly—a potential threat.

"We need to raise our shields! Prepare for defensive maneuvers!" Commander Iverson, the station's head, barked orders, but Y/N's mind raced with concern. Were they under attack? Were they prepared for this?

As tension mounted, Keith's sleek black spacecraft glided smoothly towards the observatory. He could see the shimmering shield defenses activating, a sign that they were wary of his presence. Keith hesitated for a moment, considering his options. He could announce his identity and purpose, but he knew that might only escalate the situation.

Instead, he chose to land his craft some distance away from the observatory, hoping to approach on foot. Stealthily, he made his way through the rocky terrain towards the station's entrance, mindful of any surveillance that might detect him. It was then that he caught sight of a figure moving swiftly among the scientists and crew—Y/N.

Y/N had volunteered to assist with securing the observatory's defenses, her mind racing with strategies to protect her colleagues and the valuable research data. As she hurried down a corridor, she nearly collided with someone emerging from a side passage—a young man with strikingly dark hair and intense eyes. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as they locked gazes, each sizing up the other.

"Who are you?" Y/N demanded, her voice steady despite the underlying tension.

Keith hesitated, assessing her carefully. "I'm here to help," he replied, his tone earnest yet guarded. "I detected an anomaly in this sector and came to investigate."

Y/N regarded him skeptically, her mind racing through possible scenarios. "You expect me to believe you just stumbled upon us?"

"I know it sounds suspicious," Keith admitted, his hand drifting instinctively to the hilt of his bayard at his side. "But I'm not your enemy."

Before Y/N could respond, a voice crackled over the intercom, announcing that the potential threat had dissipated. The tension in the air eased slightly, but Y/N remained wary. "If you're not here to cause trouble," she began cautiously, "then why are you really here?"

Keith hesitated, his expression softening as he studied her. "I sensed something... unusual. Something that drew me here," he admitted quietly. "I don't know what it is yet, but I'm hoping to find answers."

Y/N regarded him for a long moment, her initial suspicion tempered by curiosity. "You're a pilot," she observed, noting the distinctive uniform he wore beneath his outer cloak. "Are you with the Coalition?"

Keith nodded, relieved that she seemed willing to hear him out. "I'm part of the Voltron team," he explained, watching her closely for any reaction.

Recognition flickered in Y/N's eyes. "Voltron... the defenders of the universe," she murmured, recalling stories she had heard during her childhood. "And you're here alone?"

"It's complicated," Keith admitted, sensing that she was beginning to trust him. "But I promise, I'm not here to cause trouble."

Y/N considered his words carefully, weighing the risks and possibilities. Despite her lingering doubts, there was something about Keith that resonated with her—a shared sense of purpose, perhaps, or simply the way he looked at her with a mix of determination and vulnerability.

"Alright," she finally conceded, gesturing towards a quieter area of the station. "Let's talk."

As they walked together through the bustling corridors of the observatory, Y/N learned more about Keith's mission and the challenges he faced as a pilot of the Black Lion. In turn, Keith listened intently to Y/N's experiences as a researcher, her passion for understanding the mysteries of the universe evident in every word.

Hours passed in animated conversation, their initial wariness giving way to a growing connection forged by mutual respect and shared curiosity. By the time they paused for a brief meal in the station's mess hall, Y/N found herself smiling more freely than she had in a long time, drawn to Keith's quiet strength and unwavering determination.

Little did they know, their encounter was just the beginning of an extraordinary journey—one that would test their courage, challenge their beliefs, and ultimately lead them to discover a love as deep and boundless as the stars themselves.

Chapter 2: Bonds of TrustIn the days that followed, Y/N and Keith found themselves drawn together by their shared mission to unravel the mysteries surrounding the observatory's recent anomalies. Working side by side, they analyzed data, brainstormed theories, and debated strategies late into the night. Each day brought them closer, forging a bond built on trust, respect, and a growing sense of camaraderie.

As they navigated the complexities of their respective roles—Y/N as a scientist dedicated to her research, and Keith as a pilot torn between duty and his own quest for answers—their connection deepened. They discovered shared interests beyond their professional pursuits: a love of ancient myths, a fascination with distant galaxies, and a mutual appreciation for the simple pleasures of stargazing.

One evening, as they stood together on the observatory's observation deck, gazing out at the shimmering tapestry of stars above, Y/N couldn't suppress a sigh of wonder. "It's breathtaking," she murmured, her voice filled with awe.

Keith glanced at her, a faint smile touching his lips. "It reminds me of home," he confessed quietly, his gaze lingering on her face.

Y/N turned to him, struck by the sincerity in his eyes. "Tell me about your home," she urged gently, sensing there were stories he had yet to share.

For a moment, Keith hesitated, his thoughts drifting back to the distant memories of a planet lost to him forever. "It was a small desert world," he began slowly, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Harsh and unforgiving, yet... beautiful in its own way."

As he spoke, Y/N listened intently, captivated by the glimpses of Keith's past he chose to reveal. She learned of his childhood spent exploring rocky canyons and racing solar cycles across vast dunes, of the bonds forged with friends who had become like family. And she sensed the weight of loss that he carried—a longing for a home that had been torn apart by war.

"I'm sorry," Y/N murmured softly, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. "I can't imagine what you've been through."

Keith met her gaze, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you," he replied sincerely, his voice rough with emotion. "It means a lot to me, being able to share this with you."

Their conversation drifted seamlessly from one topic to the next, their laughter mingling with moments of quiet reflection. With each passing day, Y/N found herself more deeply drawn to Keith's strength and resilience, while Keith marveled at Y/N's intelligence, compassion, and unwavering determination to uncover the truth.

But amidst the excitement of their discoveries and the thrill of their shared adventures, a shadow loomed on the horizon—a new threat emerging from the depths of space, one that would test their newfound bond in ways neither of them could have anticipated.

Chapter 3: Trials and TribulationsAs tensions rose across the galaxy, Y/N and Keith found themselves thrust into a series of harrowing missions, each more perilous than the last. Together with the Voltron team, they battled rogue Galra forces, navigated treacherous asteroid fields, and uncovered ancient relics that held the key to unlocking long-lost secrets.

Through it all, Y/N's bond with Keith continued to strengthen, their trust in each other growing with every challenge they faced. They learned to anticipate each other's moves in battle, their minds working in perfect synchrony as they fought side by side to protect those in need. And amidst the chaos of war, they found moments of solace in quiet conversations and stolen glances, their shared laughter a beacon of hope in the darkest of times.

But as the stakes grew higher and the battles more intense, doubts began to creep into Y/N's mind. She knew the dangers that Keith faced as a pilot of Voltron, the constant threat of injury or worse looming over him with each passing mission. Their moments together became precious yet fleeting, overshadowed by the ever-present specter of danger.

One evening, after a particularly grueling skirmish that left the team battered but victorious, Y/N found herself standing alone on the observation deck once more, staring out into the endless expanse of stars. She couldn't shake the fear that gnawed at her heart—a fear born not just of the battles they fought, but of the growing feelings she harbored for Keith.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear him approach until he was standing beside her, his presence a comforting weight at her side. "Y/N," Keith began softly, his voice tinged with concern. "Are you alright?"

Y/N turned to him, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm fine," she replied automatically, but Keith's unwavering gaze told him he saw through her facade.

"You're worried," he stated quietly, his expression gentle yet probing. "About us."

Her heart clenched at his words, knowing he understood her far better than she had realized. "Keith," she started, struggling to find the right words. "It's just... everything is happening so fast. The missions, the battles... I'm afraid of losing you."

Keith's fingers brushed against hers, his touch gentle and reassuring. "I know," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you're not alone in this. We're a team, Y/N. And I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe."

Tears welled in Y/N's eyes at his words, overwhelmed by the depth of his commitment to her and to their mission. "I believe you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the ship's engines. "But it's not just about physical safety, Keith. It's... it's about us."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Then, Keith took a step closer, his hand cupping her cheek tenderly. "Y/N," he said softly, his gaze unwavering as he searched her eyes. "I care about you. More than I can put into words."

Her breath caught in her throat at his confession, her heart pounding in her chest. "Keith," she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. "I... I care about you too."

Before she could say another word, Keith closed the distance between them, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that spoke of longing, of hope, and of the unspoken bond that had been growing between them since the moment they first met. Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in each other, their fears and doubts melting away in the warmth of their embrace.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N rested her forehead against Keith's, her fingers tangling in his hair as she struggled to find her voice. "I never expected this," she admitted quietly, her heart racing with a mixture of joy and uncertainty. "But I'm glad it's happening."

Keith smiled softly, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. "Me too," he confessed, his voice filled with a depth of emotion that took her breath away. "I've never felt this way before, Y/N. You mean everything to me."

Their moment together was interrupted by the distant hum of the ship's engines, a reminder of the world waiting beyond the observation deck. Reluctantly, they pulled apart, their hands still intertwined as they faced the uncertain future that lay ahead.

"We'll face whatever comes together," Keith promised, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his heart. "No matter what."

Y/N nodded, a sense of peace settling over her as she met his gaze. "Together," she echoed, knowing that as long as they had each other, they could weather any storm.

And so, hand in hand, Y/N and Keith returned to the heart of the ship, their hearts lightened by the knowledge that their bond was stronger than any challenge they might face. As they prepared for the next mission, they carried with them the promise of a love that had been written in the stars—a love that would guide them through the darkest of times and lead them to a future filled with hope, courage, and endless possibilities.

Chapter 4: Love Among the StarsIn the weeks and months that followed, Y/N and Keith navigated the trials and triumphs of their dual lives with grace and determination. Their relationship blossomed amidst the chaos of war, each moment together a cherished reminder of the love that had bloomed unexpectedly between them.

They stole quiet moments whenever they could—a shared meal in the ship's mess hall, stolen kisses in the corridors between missions, and whispered conversations beneath the stars that bore witness to their love. Each day brought them closer, their bond deepening as they learned to lean on each other in times of uncertainty and fear.

But as their feelings for each other grew stronger, so too did the challenges they faced. Battles became more intense, missions more perilous, and the weight of their responsibilities threatened to pull them apart. Yet through it all, Y/N and Keith remained steadfast in their commitment to each other, their love a beacon of light in the darkest of times.

One evening, as they sat together in the quiet solitude of Y/N's quarters, Keith traced the lines of Y/N's face with gentle fingers, his gaze filled with a mixture of love and longing. "I never expected to find someone like you," he admitted quietly, his voice rough with emotion.

Y/N met his gaze, her heart swelling with affection. "And I never expected to fall in love with a pilot of Voltron," she teased gently, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Keith chuckled softly, his thumb brushing against her cheek. "Fate works in mysterious ways," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers.

*Not confident in my writing but hopefully you enjoyed it.*

[morbidology]

22-year-old Teresa Sue Hilt was a petite, blonde-haired music student at Northwest Missouri State University. On the 4th of August, 1973, she was brutally murdered in her Maryville apartment. She had been stabbed several times and then strangled to death with a pair of her own nylon stockings.

The autopsy concluded that Teresa had been killed some time between 2AM and the daylight hours. She was last seen at the apartment of a young man - Edward Happel - who lived in the same complex, College Gardens, which was just a block or so from the university. Police said that Teresa and Happel had been out socially the night before and returned to his apartment with two other men. Before she left, Teresa and Happel arranged to meet the following day when he got off work. However, detectives announced that he was only a witness and not a suspect in the murder.

At around 4PM on the 4th of August, Happel tried calling Teresa to inform her that he had finished his shift so they could hang out. When he received no reply, he went to her apartment. The door was slightly ajar so he let himself in. It was here that he discovered the lifeless body of Teresa lying on her bed. Her body appeared to have been posed. Her left arm lay straight at her side, her right arm was bent at the elbow and resting on her back. A 4-inch paring knife stained with blood was found in her hand; no fingerprints were found on the knife. Ligature marks were found on Teresa's wrists indicating she had been bound.

Teresa had been stabbed on the chest, arm and lower part of the body. There was a possible bite mark on her breast. “The chest wound had one entry with multiple, eight different jabs, like they never pulled the knife completely out and just re-stuck it up to eight times,” said an officer.

Her wallet would later be found near railroad tracks just south of her apartment leading police to question whether the killer hopped on a freight train after the murder. Hair samples found near the bed came from somebody suffering from monilethrix, a disease that makes the scalp brittle and causes hair to easily fall out. It was determined the hair came from somebody between 20 and 40 years old. Despite the fact that it was a brutal and frenzied murder - Teresa had numerous bruises - none of her neighbours heard a thing.

When Keith Wood took over as police official in Maryville 16 years later, he found that the physical evidence from the crime scene was missing: bedsheets, the murder weapon, hair samples, and DNA.

The murder of Teresa Sue Hilt still remains unsolved.

[ythmir-writes]

a moment for prince keith in silvio's route -

Or what if you were the palace guard assigned to prince keith and belle at That Moment

he just really went up and grabbed MC by the scruff of their neck and squeezed huh. not even kidding in the slightest. no simple i have my hand around your neck in a friendly (only slightly suspicious) manner because this isnt really a threat more of a warning type and i do not want to alert you. Nope. He just got up there and placed a forefinger and thumb where it wouldn't leave a mark, no one would be the wiser, but it will hurt. If he squeezed, it will be very painful.

Keith. Soft-spoken, well-mannered, seemingly unsure and recluse Jadean First Prince, went up to MC, grabbed their neck and said with the seriousness of His Title, the crown soon to be on his head, the weight of the entire Jade kingdom, the wrath of a man who does not like being manipulated, and asked MC if they were an Obsidian spy

can you just imagine being one of the guards during this scene? you've probably had some experience with nobles and their little jokes-gone-horribly-wrong. you're handpicked by no less than the devil minister, so you're trusted to be able to handle, to a degree, situations that can quickly escalate and leave one body unconscious. Or several.

So you're thinking as you receive your orders, your luck is turning up. Escort undercover Belle and the Prince around town? This is practically a day off. You've had guarding duties before and despite what most people think, it's a chore. Absolutely (sometimes literally) back-breaking if you're paired with a noble that can't sit still for five minutes. But this is Belle, you think, and Prince Keith. You've seen him around, especially with Prince Yves and Prince Licht. Aside from his imposing height, there was nothing to be afraid of. Not really. Not in any way that you think would put Belle under mortal danger.

So when Prince Keith moved closer towards Belle, you did what any good, obedient, discrete Rhodolitian palace guard would do and shifted your eyes away to give them some semblance of privacy.

Except.

There was no warning of any sort. No obvious shift in the mood that would have indicated Prince Keith as displeased enough to wrap a hand around Belle's neck. You moved too, body reacting reflexively on its own at the sign of danger to your charge, hand on the hilt of your sword, asking the Prince to let go and step away.

"It's a game." Prince Keith says. "We're just playing."

Everything in you tells you it isn't. "Prince Keith -"

"Don't." Gone is the reclusive demeanor, the gentle cloud you've seen on him. He looks at you and it is a physical force that stops you and the rest of the guards in their tracks. Your throat goes dry as you see the sheen of sweat on Belle's face, at the slight tension on their neck and the way Keith's hand was poised so accurately it was practically textbook. You look at the other guards, equally uncertain as to where they should stand. Duty tells them to obey a Prince. Duty tells them to avoid anything that would cause diplomatic issues. But doesn't duty also tell them to save one of their own?

You call out to Belle, ask them if they need assistance. All you needed was one word, even just a whimper asking for help. No matter Prince Keith's rank, Minister Sariel's orders were absolute.

"It's fine." They say, hand wrapped around Keith's wrist. "I'm fine." Their eyes were trained on Keith despite everything else of them seemingly trying to strain away. You want to ignore their reassurance because you know when someone is seized by terror

and Belle was petrified.

[discordiansamba]

fun fact! you've heard that silver and Balmeran crystals can burn Keith, but do you know what else can burn him? that's right! Marmoran blades!

Keith has such complex feelings about the knife his mother left for him. It's the only thing he has from her, and he can't touch it without it burning him. It could do worse to his dad, but he still held onto it like a cherished object. He always told him that his mother left it behind to protect them, but how can it do that if it only hurts them both?

(Was his mother an exorcist? It's not like he can ask around.)

And yet he keeps it, even after his father disappears. Sometimes it even does help keep him safe. He keeps its hilt tightly wrapped, both to hide the strange glowing stone, and so that he can safely hold it. It's why he starts wearing gloves. The knife can hurt him, but it's important. He doesn't want to let it go.

(Years later, he'll face down masked aliens wielding identical blades. They burn just as much.)

[voltronisanobsession]

All I want for christmas.... is a pidge x gn reader oneshot 🙏🙏

Okay hear me out, I haven't seen any fics of her and the reader doing paladin training so...

Brains or Brawn? - Pidge x Reader

I AGREE THERES NOT A ENOUGH OF ANY OF THE PALADINS DOING PALADIN TRAING AND WE NEED MORE💔 I hope this is good for you, enjoy!!

You had just been paired up with Pidge for an hour of paladin training set up by Coran. Apparently, the Altean claimed that he had set everybody up with a partner, save for Allura, according to certain categories and aspects of each of the paladins fighting styles.

Keith and you had been put in the group of brawn, often using your fighting instincts and force first. Pidge and Shiro have been grouped together of brains since they tended to think battles through more thoroughly, searching for quick solutions first. Hunk and Lance had been grouped together as neutral surprisingly, as they both were able to utilize both when necessary. (Something that Keith didn’t agree too much on)

Being the first to battle, you and Pidge were supposed to beat the other by using the set skills you had. You couldn’t help but grin at the competitiveness that built up in your chest.

“You ready to get beat, Pidge?” Snorting, the short paladin made her way to the middle of the room with you, going to the opposite end of the make shift arena.

“You? Beat me? Haha, very funny.” Pidge smiled at you as you began stretching your body.

“Alright paladins, you already know the drill. The first one to incapacitate or knock the other outside the lined spaced is out.

“Your given weapons are allowed, but no accidentally killing each other! We may have replacements for your suits, but no replacements for paladins! Remember to trust your instincts and have fun!”

As Coran finished, you looked back to Pidge and settled into a defensive stance. Pidge did the same as you got ready.

“On your marks!”

You gripped your dagger as hard as you could, tensing your body. Ain’t no way you were going to lose to Pidge of all people. This will be easy enough, you thought.

“Get ready!”

Pidge took a deep breath in. As much as she liked you, she wasn’t going to let you win this mock fight. Not when she could hold it over your head for a while.

“Go!”

You immediately ran towards Pidge, swinging the hilt of your blade towards her head in older to knock her off her balance. Having noticed your arm raising as you dashed towards her, Pidge quickly ducked to the side and rolled away, trying to put some distance between you two.

You quickly turned around and ran towards her again, not giving her any time to use her bayard against you. Pidge was forced to play the defense while you relentless attacked her.

She was quick enough to narrowly dodge your swings, but miscalculating a step gave you a new opening. Quickly as Pidge slightly stumbled, you raised your leg and kicked her straight in the stomach. You winced as you saw her crash into the ground.

“I am so sorry Pidge! Are you oka-!”

In your moment of weakness, Pidge pulled through the slight pain and activated her bayard, the cord swinging toward your leg and yanking it with as much force she could muster.

Not expecting the the cord to wrap around you, you fell backwards, groaning in pain as your head hit the floor with a light thump.

“So not fair.” You muttered as you tried to gather yourself at the sound of Pidge’s light footsteps heading towards you.

You quickly rolled to the side as Pidge tried to jump on you, launching yourself to her body. You both tumbled on the ground until you ended up on top of her.

The short girl quickly wrapped her bayards cord around your arm and yanked you to the side, your body flying off her as she scrambled away from you to catch her breath.

“I am so glad this is just a training exercise!” Pidge exclaimed, catching her breath.

Once again standing, you swung your dagger towards her, repeating the process of you being offense and Pidge being defense.

It was when she ducked after another swing that she came up with an idea. At one point, you were going to tire yourself out from all your attacks. You were going to begin slowing down as you exhausted yourself out from your constant attacks.

All she had to do was play the waiting game in the process. Since you were bigger than her small figure, her only option than pinning you down was to kick you out of the arena.

You, on the other hand, believed that your nonstop attacks would make her trip up again, giving yourself another opening to pin her down. If you kept attacking, she wouldn’t have enough time to come up with a plan, instead focusing on dodging you.

You both danced around the arena, Pidge leading you both as she dodge your swings.

It was only when you felt the ache in your arms did you begin faltering. This was not how you wanted this go down.

“Getting tired Y/N?” Pidge teased as you sloppily swung at her. Grunting as sweat beaded down your forehead, you took a step back. You were going to win no matter what.

“Not even close Pidge!” She didn’t expect you to tackle her football style after only using your dagger for so long. You guys hit the ground together again.

You ripped her bayard out of her hand, tossing your own as you tried to get ahold of the girls arms beneath you.

At your weak arms, Pidge smacked them away from her body, forcing her legs out from underneath you and placed the soles of her feet on your chest. With all her strength, she shoved you away and watched as you flew backwards, back hitting the ground harshly.

You panted as you got up, moving to pin Pidge down as she stayed on the ground until you heard a horn being blasted.

“Congratulations Pidge, you’re the winner!” You stared at Coran in shock.

“Wait what?” Your chest heaved as you looked around the room, mind still on overdrive. You looked towards your friends in confusion.

“How did Pidge win?” Getting up, Pidge made her way to you, stopping a bit away from you as she smirked.

“Coran said that we can incapacitate each other, or get someone out of the arena.”

You quickly looked down and saw you were beyond the arenas border lines. Your eyes widen as you whipped your head up to meet her own eyes.

“WHAATT!! NO WAY! NO WAAAYY!” Everyone let out a laugh at your shocked reaction. You totally didn’t notice at all!! You completely forgot that was an option! That explains why it felt like Pidge was leading you around.

You seriously wanted to smack yourself in the face. So much for trusting your instincts! You groaned as Pidge patted your shoulder.

“But how?” You looked down at her, eyes shining with amazement.

“Well, since you were so focused on bombarding me with attacks, I realized all I needed to do was lead you to the edge and somehow get you out that way!

“It’s ok Y/N. I guess this proves that brains beats brawn in the end.” At her laughter, you couldn’t help but pull her into a hug and begin swinging her around like a rag doll.

“Aww my smart shortie! You’re so smart, I would not have thought of that!” You put Pidge down and moved to the side to allow the next duo to battle it out.

“Maybe I should take lessons from you.” Pidge snorted, bumping her shoulder against your arm. She smiled at your words and looked forward, watching as Shiro and Lance took their places.

[scattered-winter]

You know, another thing that always bugged me about VLD is the shape Keith’s Bayard takes.

People always calls it a sword, but honestly it’s more similar to a katar, a type of Indian push dagger. Which is the same overall design as Pidge’s Bayard.

It’s weird that Pidge and Keith both use the same weapon as the base for the form their Bayards take, but Pidge’s has a lot more utility with both its grappling hook and taser functions.

YEAHHH I've noticed how keith's bayard is a katar (ancient weaponry autism go brrrr) and I actually think that works really, really, really well for him. (I'm drawing from Autism Research that I did several years ago so I may be misremembering in which case I'm sorry </3) but iirc, a katar has a lot of power in the forward thrust (because the blade is lined up with the user's arm, so he can put his whole weight into a thrust) but they can also be used for swinging/slashing which is generally what keith's fighting style tends to lean toward. additionally, because traditional katar don't really have a lot of blocking protection on the hilt (unlike a zweihander, for example, which has a pretty useful crossguard) for someone to use a katar they have to be pretty quick and light on their feet to compensate for not having as many defensible qualities. which sounds a lot like keith's fighting style to me. katar are pretty versatile and rely on the intensity and power of their design/technique to punch through an opponent's armor and take them down as efficiently as possible, which just fits keith soooooooo well imo

and for pidge, I also really like her bayard because it reflects her personality and fighting style incredibly well, too. it's probably one of the most versatile weapons used in the entire show with its grappling hook, and the taser adds another range of uses (there's the obvious shocking, but I also remember seeing her use it to cut through hulls and things like that) and for a green paladin who thinks outside the box, a weapon that can be used in so many ways works so well. to address the similarities between pidge's and keith's, I actually think it might just be because of the shape of the bayards themselves. the only other two bayards we see take gun forms, so pidge and keith are the only ones with melee weapons which makes it hard to really tell if that handle shape is the norm for bayards or if it's just their unique personalities. but regardless, the H-shaped handle (the main characteristic in katar) is what all the bayards have in their dormant forms, so it might just be a matter of functionality that the handles for keith and pidge's weapons are also H-shaped

[clavissionary-position]

Ikemen Prince Suitors Ranked By How Swiftly They Recover From A Kick To The Balls (In Battle)

CHEVALIER . Has dodged every potential kick on record

LICHT . Preternaturally fast; as if the foot phased through him

RIO . Makes a dramatic show of being kicked only to ask the other party if their foot is alright, upon which the person gazes down to find their foot twisted at a strange angle

NOKTO . Has been kicked in the balls a lot, both in and out of battle, and his reaction time improves each time to where it's now near-impossible to land a blow

GILBERT . It happened once. No one knows how or where or why, but it is believed that the world had one less human in it immediately after

SARIEL . It happened once. No one knows how or where or why, but the entire sun seemed to dim for 2.4 seconds immediately after

LUKE . His entire body goes into high security alert and Murderous Bear Mode (MBM) gets activated

JIN . Gives a melancholy smile, but the air around him takes on a dangerous static. He asks the other party if they've got any more kicks left in them, because this is their one and only chance

KEITH . Takes it like a champ, wants to believe it was an accident but knows it wasn't, continues fighting as usual

LEON . Laughs it off, dispatches the opponent, slumps after

CLAVIS . Smiles in pain, memorizes the opponent's face for a Lelouch Trap Series Special, delivers a kick that embeds the person in the ceiling (learned from spending an entire youth being the person kicked into the ceiling)

SILVIO . Delivers the Angry Silvio Sprite Expression before clocking the opponent in the temple with the hilt of his sword

YVES . Takes him a second or two to recover in real-time, before he berates the opponent and quickly puts an end to the encounter with a pretty sword technique

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 12: Another Way

Chapter 12 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, male whumper, royal whumper, conflicted whumper, whumper POV, no onscreen whump, fantasy politics

---

Kezul

Kezul frowned down at the letter that had arrived this morning from Faraille. It was written in Mir’s language, which Mir had been painstakingly teaching him during their daily meetings, when they weren’t discussing strategy. Mir claimed to be impressed with how quickly he was learning. They said he had a mind for languages. Kezul wasn’t convinced. To him, the process felt maddeningly slow. And after one of their language sessions, he often felt like he had taken a tumble off a horse and landed on his head.

But he recognized enough words in the letter to know it didn’t look friendly.

Keith laid it on Mir’s table to wait for their next session. He would need Mir to do a more thorough translation for him and then write a response. One that told Faraille, in no uncertain terms, what would happen if they failed to honor their treaty… even if he privately thought they were in the right to refuse. It would be a lot easier if he could simply march an army of Wolves across the border, make a show of force. But he had no desire to antagonize his neighbor unless he planned to follow through. And it was hard enough keeping control of one country. He had no desire to add another.

He rubbed his aching temples. Mir would figure it out. It was what they were trained for, after all. And if they couldn’t… well, then Kezul would simply find a way to make them regret their bad suggestion. Mir knew that, which was why Kezul was sure they would find a way.

Mir might have advised him not to threaten anyone, or at least to rely on threats as little as possible—which was frankly ridiculous, in his private opinion, because who had ever gotten anywhere by looking weak in front of their enemies?—but there was no one stopping him from threatening Mir. And thus far, his threats had proved quite effective.

Although not, he had to admit, nearly as effective as offering Mir the proper motivation. Still, he suspected the unspoken promise to hand them over to their Wolves again if their advice proved unsatisfactory didn’t hurt matters.

He had just settled himself on the throne again to dream of riding far away from this place and all its fussy diplomatic letters, when the sound of footsteps made him look up. The door opened—without anyone bothering to knock. Gyoras stood in the doorway, with the rest of Kezul’s Fangs behind him.

With an inner sigh, Kezul waited for them to drop to their knees and present their weapons. He had just about trained Gyoras out of the habit, but the others refused to get it through their heads. It would probably take a good several moments just to get them back on their feet.

But none of them dropped to the floor. Gyoras’s eyes met his and wordlessly held his gaze.

A shiver of foreboding rolled through him.

“Is there an emergency?” he inquired, trying to sound unworried. His hands clenched the carved wooden arms of the throne. “It must be an urgent matter, for you not to take the time to knock.”

The others all looked at Gyoras. Gyoras shuffled a bit before stepping forward, his eyes still boldly holding Kezul’s gaze.

Kezul’s hand found the hilt of his sword. “Well?”

Gyoras’s gaze followed Kezul’s hand. He swallowed, but didn’t back down. “As it is my place to deliver your orders to your Wolves, it is also my place to pass their messages on to you,” he said. His formal tone made Kezul grind his teeth—he’d had quite enough of formality from Mir, these past few weeks. “There are situations when it would be… inappropriate… for a simple Wolf to approach you directly.”

Times when what they had to say might get their head severed from their shoulders, was what Kezul assumed he meant. So instead, the message was given to a trusted emissary, someone Kezul presumably relied on enough not to subject to the same penalty. Only Gyoras hadn’t been with Kezul enough for Kezul either to trust him or rely on him. And from the slightly sick look on Gyoras’s face, Gyoras knew it.

But he was still looking Kezul in the eyes.

“Then tell me their message, and quit standing there chewing your cud,” Kezul snapped.

Gyoras cleared his throat. “Your Wolves have concerns about your rule. They say you have forgotten your place.”

“And is it their place to offer these criticisms?” Kezul asked, his voice low and dangerous, another attempt at imitating his father. A weak attempt, he suspected, because Gyoras didn’t so much as take a step back. “I am the son and representative of Vorhullin the Unmaker. I did not ask to hear their concerns.”

“But they have them,” said Gyoras. “And whether you listen or not, their concerns will fester. You can’t rule if your own army doesn’t trust you. And…” A long pause. “And I share their concerns.”

Kezul supposed it was no surprise the goodwill he had gained with that game in the banquet hall had worn off. He had promised his Wolves another chance at Mir, after all, and then he hadn’t delivered. What was he supposed to do, when he needed his single prisoner both to teach him how to rule and to appease his Wolves? Maybe he had made the wrong choice. Was there a way to have both? Find some infraction to punish Mir for, perhaps—this hostile letter could even make a decent excuse.

If only it wouldn’t risk turning Mir against him, and closing off that fountain of information.

And if only it wouldn’t be such a poor way of rewarding the prisoner for their help. Mir’s advice had, after all, unlocked the wealth the academies had tried to hold back.

“It is common knowledge by now that you have been taking advice from the prisoner,” Gyoras continued. “Even taking orders, some say.”

“I take orders from no one,” Kezul growled. “Not from a prisoner, and not from you.”

“This prisoner should not have been allowed to enter your presence, unless it was for you to kill him,” Gyoras said. “He is the lowest of the low, a coward of the worst kind, a—”

“I know,” Kezul snapped, cutting him off. “I’ve heard it before. Many times. I know what the prisoner is.”

“Then why are you taking advice from him?” Gyoras pressed.

His father would have killed Gyoras where he stood by now. But Kezul knew better than to think that would solve the problem. Gyoras, as he had said, wasn’t the source of these… concerns. He was merely the mouthpiece. Kill him, and the others might be frightened into silence… for a while. But fear only lasted if it was regularly renewed, and Kezul didn’t have enough soldiers to go around killing them off to keep the others in line.

“I know what the prisoner is,” Kezul repeated. “But I also know what they can do. No one else here has the expertise they have. They understand this country. They know how to rule it. I am not taking orders from them, whatever my Wolves may whisper when they think I don’t hear.” There—let Gyoras think he had already been aware of this talk among his Wolves before Gyoras had brought it to his attention. That would have them all looking over their shoulders for a while. “I am merely making use of the resources available to me.” Rather than squandering those resources on needless feasts.

He didn’t say that last part aloud. After all, he had been the one to order the feast, even if it had been at Gyoras’s suggestion. And because of it, they were all now on quarter rations, eating their way through the stockpiled food the Wolves had scared up from a few remote villages.

“I know you can’t possibly be saying a prisoner—this prisoner—knows more than you, the son of the Unmaker,” Gyoras said, his voice equal parts caution and alarm. “But… it would be easy to misunderstand your words. More caution on your part could go a long way toward easing your Wolves’ concerns. If they were to hear you placing yourself below this prisoner, it would undoubtedly have the opposite effect.”

Kezul resisted the urge to rub his temples again. “First of all,” he said, “listen more carefully. I am most certainly not placing this prisoner—this resource—above me in any way. If you can’t listen to a simple explanation well enough to understand it, how can I ever expect you to understand my orders?”

Gyoras swallowed at that. At last, he lowered his eyes.

“In addition,” Kezul said, “however much it might taint my dignity for people to see me taking advice from the prisoner, failure to keep control of Danelor would surely taint it more. Wouldn’t you agree? After all, it would hardly be the first failure to mar my reputation.”

Gyoras visibly flinched. So did the Fangs waiting behind him. It rolled through the five of them like a wave—naked discomfort at hearing him voice aloud the thing that should have been too shameful to speak of even in a whisper. Even though Kezul was certain the Wolves talked about it often enough when he wasn’t around.

This was ridiculous. They knew why he was here; they knew this throne was no honor. Were they all supposed to pretend otherwise, like Mir’s useless attempts to keep their fear off their face even though everyone already knew how afraid they were?

With a huff of frustration, he lifted his shirt just enough to show the thick knot of scar tissue across his abdomen. A gasp rolled through the Fangs. They looked away.

“Look at me,” Kezul ordered. Their eyes reluctantly found his, doing all they could to avoid the sight of the scar.

“Now look at this,” he said, jabbing one finger at the ropy line. “I was defeated in battle. I shed my blood in front of the enemy—the blood of Vorhullin the Unmaker—from this wound right here.” He tugged his shirt down. “Is my prisoner the actual issue here? Or do my Wolves’ concerns—your concerns—have more to do with the fact that you don’t relish the thought of being ruled by the likes of me?”

Gyoras opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He stood there gaping like a fish. And no wonder—he could hardly refuse to answer, but there was no acceptable answer he could give. Not without, at the very least, acknowledging Kezul’s defeat in battle. Kezul might have felt sorry for him if he weren’t so fed up with this conversation.

At last, Gyoras recovered his voice. “Our most fervent desire is to see you succeed.”

“Is it?” Kezul asked mildly.

“This is why some of us are concerned. By taking this prisoner’s advice, you may be letting him lead you down a path that will lead only to ruin. It’s common knowledge by now that you ordered your Wolves to beg money from the academies.”

“I never told them to beg. I told them not to alarm the locals or goad them into a senseless display of patriotism. And you can see for yourself how well it worked. We got the money, did we not?”

“Gold is worthless without respect,” said Gyoras. “The concern is that you may have gained one and lost the other. If you knew the academies were keeping money back, you should have ordered them burned.”

“And how would we have found the money then?”

“There are rumors,” Gyoras said carefully, “that your orders had less to do with the money, and more to do with the fact that your prisoner wanted the academies protected.”

Kezul went still. “What are you implying?”

Gyoras visibly swallowed, but he didn’t back down. Although at least he was looking at the floor now. “Some are concerned,” he said, emphasizing the word as if he could distance himself from these criticisms at this late stage, “that you are showing weakness for the enemy. They say perhaps it isn’t the first time—that weakness in the face of the enemy is why you lost that battle.” To his credit, he actually managed to say aloud that Kezul had lost the battle, and do it without choking on his words. “They’re concerned history may be repeating itself—that this prisoner is conquering our new territory out from under your nose.”

“And what experience do these critics of mine have in conquest?” Kezul asked, his voice low and deliberate. “Or in rule? It seems to me what they know how to do is burn farms. Perhaps they should ask their stomachs how well their method is working for them.”

Gyoras cleared his throat again. “I’m glad you said that,” he said, although he didn’t sound in the least bit glad that he had started this conversation. “Some of us do have experience—not in this specific area, but we have seen conquered territories subdued before. I can offer you my advice… if you’ll hear it.”

Kezul didn’t have the slightest bit of interest in Gyoras’s advice. What he wanted to do, for one brief red moment, was pull out his sword and demonstrate what his father would have done if someone had shared similar criticisms with him.

His hand had gone back to his weapon without realizing it. He only figured it out when he saw Gyoras staring at the hilt, where his fingers were clenched around the metal. Slowly, he loosened his fingers and brought his hands to his lap.

At least Gyoras had actually come to him. Someone else, in Gyoras’s place, might have jumped straight to removing the man they saw as an incompetent ruler. Especially if they suspected the Unmaker would reward them for that service. And… and he could use the advice. Even if advice was the last thing he wanted from someone who had just accused him of weakness at best, and outright treason at worst. If he had known how to do this on his own, he would never have ended up in this situation with Mir in the first place.

“I’ll hear you out,” he said. “What advice do you have to offer?”

Gyoras let out his breath out in a sigh of relief so massive Kezul could see it shuddering in his chest. “Your father relies on an early and overwhelming show of force,” Gyoras said. “It’s a viable strategy that keeps the population from growing too bold.”

“We already did that,” Kezul said impatiently. “Before I got here. My father’s army swept in and burned everything. Why do you think we’re chewing on sawdust to fill our bellies?”

“Yes, in the initial conquest,” said Gyoras, “but the demonstrations of force need to continue beyond that. Otherwise, the people grow complacent. In order to keep them properly cowed, you need to show your willingness to kill anyone who defies you in any capacity. I would start with everyone at the academies who held back money from the Unmaker’s army.”

“It seems a poor way to reward them for providing the funds we needed to pay the farmers,” said Kezul. “They did give us the money in the end, after all.”

“And in my opinion, it shouldn’t have gone to the farmers at all,” said Gyoras, his words growing bolder as his stance became more relaxed. “They haven’t done anything to help our situation yet, after all. If you like, motivate them by promising a reward if they grow extra food in the next harvest, and a corresponding punishment if they don’t grow enough. People who live off the land are resourceful—they’ll manage it, with enough incentive.”

“That won’t help us while we’re waiting for their crops to grow.”

“I’m sure we haven’t exhausted their stores yet. They held back money from us at first—why not food?”

“And if we take their last supplies, and they starve before their crops can grow?”

Gyoras shrugged. “As I said, people who live off the land are resourceful. They won’t starve. And if they’re sufficiently motivated, they’ll make sure we don’t either.”

Kezul didn’t let himself show any reaction to this advice one way or the other. “Anything else?”

“I heard about the messenger from Faraille,” said Gyoras. “There are rumors you’re offering them some sort of alliance.”

Kezul thought about explaining the existing alliance, and what Mir had said about the terms that left Faraille technically required to honor it. He quickly decided it was likely to be a waste of words. “Something like that, yes.”

“An unnecessary step, if you ask me. And it will take too long. Besides that, it isn’t the way your father prefers to see things done—if you don’t mind my saying so.” Gyoras’s voice lowered at that, like he was sharing a confidence. That told Kezul it was likely that Gyoras knew exactly what the terms of his rule were—that this was a test for Kezul—and, perhaps, that Gyoras didn’t want him to fail it. Now that was interesting. Did he think Kezul’s failure would reflect badly on him? Whatever the reason, perhaps he had at least a tentative ally in Gyoras. He tucked that information away.

“What would you suggest instead?” Kezul asked, his voice fractionally warmer than it had been a moment ago.

“Our land borders theirs, does it not? Your Wolves could easily ride over the mountains and gather supplies from the villages on the other side. They won’t expect it—they think those hills they call mountains are a sufficient barrier.”

“And risk a war?”

“Faraille fears your father. We don’t need to worry about risking a war with them—they’ll be the ones trying to avoid risking a war with us. I don’t think they’ll want to take that risk for the sake of a few minor villages. They may increase the military presence there, at most, but by then we’ll have what we need.”

It was a well-reasoned argument. Perhaps there was more to Gyoras than it appeared. And Kezul couldn’t deny the thought was tempting. Which would be easier, after all—to draft a reply to this insulting letter and hope the next messenger came back with better news? Or to simply send his army out and take what they needed?

“And if none of this works?” Kezul asked. “If there is no food, or we provoke a war, or the people rise up? What then?” Mir had yet to provide him with an adequate answer to this question, even though he could tell from the worry in the prisoner’s eyes that they thought about it often.

“Then burn this miserable place to the ground,” said Gyoras grimly. “Kill them all, and leave Faraille the ruins. In my opinion—one formed from experience—if the conquered people don’t respond to a show of force, then they will never allow themselves to be ruled, and we’re better off cutting our losses.”

Kezul’s pride rebelled at the thought of taking that advice. He didn’t want to burn this place. No, that wasn’t entirely true—he still dreamed of it as he sat on this uncomfortable throne, when he wasn’t dreaming of getting on his horse and galloping away. Sometimes he dreamed of it at night, and woke smiling, his headache vanished. Leaving this place a ruin might make the headache disappear for good.

But it would also mean admitting defeat—a second defeat on his record. It would mean admitting that his father was right, and he didn’t have it in him to rule properly. And he had to admit that it wasn’t even only about his father anymore. He wanted to meet this impossible challenge. He wanted to prove he could do it. Taking the easy way out felt like cheating, somehow.

“Thank you for your advice,” Kezul said with a nod. “I’ll take it under advisement. As for the Wolves’ concerns…”

“Yes?” Gyoras prompted, when he didn’t continue.

“Make sure they know,” Kezul said, “that if I hear another word about my supposedly taking orders from a prisoner, the one responsible for these rumors will be killed immediately.”

Gyoras swallowed. “Understood.”

Kezul almost felt bad for scaring the man after he had shown himself to possibly be on Kezul’s side. But it was like Gyoras had said—sometimes a show of force was required. Maybe words would be enough to bring his Wolves into line. If not, he would have to take action.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be Gyoras’s blood on his sword, if that came to pass.

But he needed his Wolves to believe in his strength. Right now, they did not. That had to change.

There was one easy way to accomplish that, though—and it wouldn’t involve killing any of his soldiers, or his prisoner, either. He could simply take Gyoras’s advice. His Wolves would relish the thought of doing what they were best at. It wouldn’t make them uneasy, the way holding out their hands for money and refraining from threats did. And for all Kezul knew, Gyoras’s advice would serve him as well as Mir’s—or better.

But… Mir had found him the money he had never suspected was there. And what had the Wolves done so far? They had burned the farms.

“You may go,” Kezul said, feeling his headache come back in full force. “And have the prisoner sent to me immediately.” He needed to have Mir draft a reply to that letter. There was no time to waste. If the next messenger came back with a response just as insulting… well, perhaps then it would be time for a change in strategy.

“Of course,” said Gyoras, showing no sign of what he was thinking as the rest of Kezul’s Fangs disappeared out the door.

---

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[dualityvn]

Keith? Don’t think like that, a world without you is a world I couldn’t live in. I know it’s selfish but you could hurt a million people and I’d still want you here with me.

I know I’m horribly selfish, but I can’t let you do that to yourself. I won’t let you. You and Tenebris are the only two in this world for me, and I can’t let you leave.

I love you, I love you so much it hurts. Please don’t leave me.

His hand momentarily clutches the knife tighter. Then his shoulders begin to shake and he lets go of the hilt, letting it fall to the floor. He brings his hands to his face as tears begin to stream down, accompanied by loud sobs.

"I don't want to do it. I'm scared. I can't do it. I don't want to leave you."

[wausaupilot]

Gov. Evers visits JAG students in Wausau

WAUSAU – Wisconsin Gov. Tony Evers visited JAG students March 6 at the Enrich, Excel, Achieve Learning Academy at Wausau East High School. JAG, or Jobs for America’s Graduates, is a model of learning designed to keep students in school through graduation, improving their success rates in education and career. There are three components to the JAG learning model: 1) Project-based learning, which…

[usermischief]

♝Pairing: Stisaac ♝Characters: Isaac Lahey, Stiles Stilinski ♝Tags: blow jobs, hand jobs, daggers, pining, oblivious!Stiles, hunter!Stiles, canon divergence ♝Words: 3983 ♝ Kinktober 2022 - Knife Play

ao3

---

trust fall

---

"How disappointing."

Stiles has no idea who this alpha is or where he has come from. All he knows is that he doesn't want him and his potential pack to stay in Beacon Hills any longer than he already has and that he’s probably not easy to deal with judging by the tense line of Peter's shoulders. 

"Really, Peter? That's what the mighty Hale pack came to be?" The alpha, Keith if Stiles remembers correctly, sneers. "You, your bastard son—" Jackson tenses next to Peter, fingers curling into tight fists, his knuckles turn white "— your nephew's beta, and…" Keith stops, eyes catching on Stiles as if he's seen them for the first time tonight. "And what are you, doll?"

Doll?

Stiles goes rigid, anger pulsing through his veins. "What did you just call me?" 

"Ah." Peter tuts at the comment or Stiles' reaction. It's hard to tell with him. But as Isaac shifts a little closer, Peter pats Keith's shoulder as if they're old friends. "He's best not to trifle with."

Stiles cuts his gaze to the former alpha. They're not here to save Peter's ass. Stiles has agreed to come tonight because he owes him a favor for having helped with the nogitsune. Jackson most likely joined him because he learned that Peter is his father two months ago, and he doesn't want to lose him again so soon. Isaac tagged along because, well, Stiles isn't exactly sure why he did, but he's not going to complain. 

Keith brushes Peter's hand off like an annoying beetle and uses his impressive height of 6 foot 8 to look down on Stiles. Considering his status and size, Keith is probably used to people backing down. But Stiles has always been dangerously stubborn. After surviving a nogitsune, he won’t be scared by an alpha with a superiority complex. So, he merely stares back, hands in the pockets of his hoody, firmly clasping the Chinese ring daggers he got from Chris. 

“I told you—” 

“Peter,” Keith cuts him off, for the first time sounding impatient, “when I told you I’d visit, I expected you’d have something to offer to an old friend.” Whatever their relationship might be, ‘friends’ is the last word Stiles would have used for them.  

“He’s not here to be dealt away.” Isaac puts a hand on the small of his back. It’s a subtle but possessive gesture. 

And noticeable enough for Keith to raise a brow. “You don’t have to settle for a pack of omegas, doll.” 

“Stiles,” Isaac warns.

But Stiles really has never been all that good at listening. “Did nobody tell you,” he wonders, pushing the sheath off the dagger in one swift movement, “that dolls kill?” Without any hesitation, and accompanied by the sound of exasperation from Peter, Stiles slams the dagger to the hilt into Keith’s side. The yellow wolfsbane takes effect almost immediately, and the mighty alpha falls to his knees in front of Stiles. “If you survive this, I want you to go back where you came from.” Smiling, Stiles shakes off a bit of blood and wolfsbane and then places the tip of the dagger right underneath the alpha’s jaw. “There is nothing here for you.” 

“Fox,” Keith spits. 

“You make it sound like an insult.” Stiles pats his cheek ever so gently before merely pushing the werewolf over. It will never not be satisfying to see people with huge egos fall. Most of the time, they deserve it. Twirling the dagger around his index finger, Stiles turns to Peter. “You need new friends, you know that?” 

“Tell me about it.” Peter sighs dramatically. 

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Can we go now? I’m supposed to pick up Danny in an hour.” 

Stiles hums in agreement and turns around, catching Isaac staring at him in the process. At his hand holding the dagger specifically. “Something wrong?” 

Blinking rapidly, Isaac shakes his head. “Starvin’.” 

“Oh, I could eat something as well.” Stiles sheaths the dagger again and pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Let’s go.” 

— — —

At first, Stiles wasn’t sure if what he heard were footsteps. This Airbnb and its noises are still very unfamiliar to him. When Peter called him a couple of nights ago, this was the only available accommodation in Beacon Hills he could stay for longer than two days. After all, if he’s back in town anyway, he might as well spend some time with his dad. But when he stepped out of the shower and onto the soft bath mat, the sound could not have come from him. 

He towels himself down haphazardly — he doesn’t want to be mauled while naked — and slips into his jeans and hoodie. Good thing he’s been carrying the daggers around with him since losing it on the alpha last night. That’s what he gets for calling him ‘doll’. Stiles huffs, slipping his fingers through the ring, and grabs the dagger. He probably should stock up on yellow wolfsbane, just in case. 

The patio door is open, and Stiles isn’t entirely sure if that was his doing or not. He opened it before he decided to shower, but he could have sworn that he’s closed it again. He wouldn’t be that stupid. Would he? Maybe not stupid but certainly forgetful enough. 

Stiles stops just outside of view, watching the shadow shift and move with the person standing outside the door. It looked strangely familiar. Especially what seems to be curly— Stiles rolls his eyes and steps forward. He reaches around the door, curling his fingers into a soft sweater. Without further ado, he yanks Isaac inside. 

Yelping, the werewolf stumbles. He manages to twist onto his back before he hits the floor. 

Out of principle, Stiles straddles him and presses the dagger to his throat. “And you’re dead.” 

Isaac chuckles, but it sounds slightly nervous. To be fair, he’s been looking at him a little differently ever since Stiles attacked that alpha with a dagger. It’s not unreasonable. Stiles acted a little rash. He probably should’ve ignored the condescending behavior, that would have been a smarter decision, but he’s never claimed to make rational decisions. He’s a great planner, but in the heat of the moment, he slams a wooden baseball bat over a giant werewolf’s head. 

“Sorry,” Isaac mutters, squirming a little underneath him. 

Stiles lets out a breath, trying to make it sound like a chuckle. He’s pretty sure that failed. There’s a frustratingly huge part of him who wants to have Isaac squirming underneath him for an entirely different reason — a part he should have locked away a couple of years ago. “What are you doing here?” He quirks a brow. 

Clearing his throat, Isaac pulls his shoulders up in an awkward shrug. “Checking in on you.” 

“Aww, that’s so sweet.” Stiles means it even though he’s hiding that behind a mocking tone. Knowing Isaac is worried enough to keep an eye on him makes him feel weirdly protected despite knowing that Stiles isn’t exactly in need of protection. He is capable of defending himself — then again, there’s nothing he would be able to do against a pack of werewolves. He might not even be able to hold off a single alpha werewolf without his daggers and a bit of good old wolfsbane. 

“So,” Isaac swallows heavily, Adam’s apple moving just above the blade, “you usually run around with your daggers?” 

“Only after threatening an alpha,” Stiles replies, cocking his head a little to the side. “Why?” He glances at the dagger pressed against soft skin again. There is something weirdly… hot about this whole thing. Stiles is dimly aware that maybe he shouldn’t think it’s hot as hell that Isaac is pinned down— or rather, lets himself be pinned down by nothing more than a dagger to his throat. 

Isaac swallows again, shifting underneath him a little as well. It’s then that Stiles notices why Isaac seems so nervous. He’s hard. Heat flushes all of his body. Isaac is hard. He is hard underneath him. Isaac’s bright eyes widen in a panic, and he pushes Stiles off a little clumsily, the dagger nicking his throat slightly. “Sorry,” Isaac mutters, turning away. It’s almost comical how his head swivels back and forth between the door to the bedroom and the door leading to the outside. They’re not the same, but they probably look eerily similar for a werewolf who’s about two seconds away from dying of embarrassment. 

Slowly, Stiles gets to his feet. “Isaac.” Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. They talked about Allison just last night, and Isaac clearly still has feelings for the late huntress. It’s hard to blame him. She was ripped from him when they’d hardly started a relationship — and then he had to hear her say how she still loved Scott. He’s using Allison’s daggers because Chris gave them to him after he finished training. 

Isaac doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders are a tense line. “Listen, I’m sorry. I—”

Stiles crosses the room, and — despite knowing better — runs the tip of the dagger over the nape of Isaac’s neck. Goosebumps spread over the werewolf’s neck and arms. Huh. “What do you want me to do?” 

“I— it’s…” Isaac clears his throat again and turns around slowly. “The dagger, it’s—” 

Smirking, and ignoring every single warning bell, Stiles presses the dagger against Isaac’s throat again. This time, he’s pushing him not quite as gently as he possibly could have and forces the other boy to walk backward until he hits a wall. “It’s fun, isn’t it?” Stiles wants to kiss him, but he buries the urge. Kidding is different. Kissing is reserved for people you love. It’s an odd thing to think about, but it’s something he cannot shake. Blowing someone in the restroom of a club isn’t very intimate if you keep kissing out of the equation. Stiles can do that. He absolutely can. He will not be slapped in the face by feelings he's totally not having any longer. 

Nope.

Isaac swallows again, and there is something so fucking tantalizing about watching his skin move against the blade. It looks like their interests align more than a little. Eventually, Isaac nods again. 

"I could make you feel even better." Stiles has no clue where this courage comes from. He doesn't have an issue doing anything like this with a stranger at a club, but with someone he knows? Someone he's got feelings for? Feelings that probably aren't reciprocated? That's a disaster waiting to happen. "But you'd have to open your pants for that."

To his surprise, Isaac follows the instruction, eyes darkening in the process. 

Stiles shudders at the sound of a zipper being opened and can't help but look when Isaac pushes his pants down. They’re doing this. They’re doing this because there is Isaac’s cock, hard and shiny and beautiful. This is— a terrible idea. But it’s not like he is known to make good decisions when it comes to his love life. He’s quite literally the worst. 

But fuck it. 

Fuck it. 

Without breaking eye contact, Stiles sinks to his knees. Now, being face to face with Isaac’s dick, he’s a little intimidated by it. His anxiety is always out to get him. It’s wonderful. Stiles won’t let it ruin this moment, though — no matter how wrong this might be. He swallows and tilts his head back up, making sure Isaac is looking at him. “You trust me, right?” Stiles raises his brows. Kneeling between Isaac’s legs, he looks up at the werewolf. He never expected to have a dagger in his hand while blowing someone, but that’s exactly why this question is more than a little important. 

Licking his lips, Isaac nods very slowly. “Still kinda thinking about—” he cuts off, shaking his head very vehemently. “No, I trust you.” 

Stiles traces the tip of the dagger up the inside of Isaac’s thigh. The werewolf above him stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. Most importantly, his dick twitches in response. Stiles smirks, locking eyes with Isaac again, whose cheeks turned a darker shade of red. First, he’d considered doing something else, but now he is more than content with making Isaac feel very good. After all, the wolf was — more or less subtly — lurking near him to make sure he’s not about to get jumped by a pack of angry werewolves. It’s a very sweet gesture. “Good.” Stiles scoots a little closer and wraps his fingers around Isaac’s cock, feeling his own twitch in response to the slightly nervous moan above him. Strangely enough, he gets the feeling as if Isaac isn’t as experienced in the matter as Stiles imagined him to be. “You can stop me at any time, okay?” He runs the knife down again, leaving a soft white line in its wake. “For anything.” And up again. Slow and steady with just enough pressure that it all but breaks skin. “Unless you’re coming. You’re going to do that in my mouth, got it?” He nudges the tip of the dagger against sensitive skin. It catches, barely drawing a drop of blood.

Isaac bangs his head against the wall, moaning loud enough for neighbors to hear. 

Good. 

Stiles brings his mouth up to Isaac’s cock, brushing his lips against the tip. He’s smirking a little and purposefully not looking up even though he can feel the wolf’s heavy gaze on him again. There’s a subtle tremble in the other boy’s legs. Briefly, Stiles wonders if this is going to last long. He kind of hopes it doesn’t. Knowing he can bring Isaac to the edge in no time would be absolutely breathtaking. Stiles shifts his grip a bit, dragging his thumb over the underside of Isaac’s cock as he parts his lips to take the tip into his mouth. 

“Fuck.” Isaac’s curse is something between a moan and a groan. 

The noise sets Stiles' nerves on fire. Giving a blow job isn't something he necessarily hates, but it has never been this fun, this fucking hot to know he can make Isaac come undone with his mouth, hand, and a dagger pressed against his thigh. They should do this more often. Stiles removes his hand from the equation, placing it on Isaac's hip again. He'd rather get used to his size before the other boy does something unexpected. Although Stiles doubts it. Not with the dagger pressed against him. He swirls his tongue around the tip, moaning a little at the taste of precum. 

Isaac's fingers curl and uncurl, as if he's considering grabbing Stiles' hair. It's adorable, really, that he's not doing anything without permission. Maybe it’s not that Isaac’s innocent, maybe he’s more so respectful of boundaries. Whoever ends up dating him is going to have a wonderful boyfriend. 

Stiles stomach twists. 

Don’t think about it. 

Stiles pulls off and looks up at Isaac. "You can grab my hair," he says, tapping a finger against his hips, "or pull it. I don't mind." You could do everything to me. There’s an edge of bitterness cutting into his pleasure, and Stiles hopes Isaac isn’t paying any attention to his chemosignals. Grinning a little, he leans forward and takes his cock back into his mouth. Only a second later, fingers curl tightly into his short strand. There you go. Stiles hollows out his cheek, taking more of Isaac into his mouth. He struggles a bit with coordinating his hands and mouth, especially when he's doing something different with all of them. For now, he should probably focus on his mouth the most, and on relaxing his throat. Part of him wants Isaac to fall in love with him, but it’s stupid. They both know why this is happening. 

He’s a hunter. 

He’s using Allison’s daggers. 

Stiles is fucked up for using this to his advantage. He’s fucked for allowing this to happen. But he couldn’t say no. He couldn’t stop — still can’t. Not with the noises Isaac makes — his little punched-out moans — or the way his fingers tighten in Stiles’ hair every single time he takes more of his cock into his mouth. He’s going to hell for this. He is so going to hell for this. 

But it’s too late anyway. Stopping now wouldn’t undo how far they’ve gone. Might as well go all the way. 

Stiles shifts the dagger in his hand, pressing the flat side against Isaac’s thigh, more of a reminder that it’s still there, but also to keep the other boy pressed against the wall — even though they both know that he wouldn’t be able to hold him if Isaac actually wanted to do something. His dick twitches at the thought. Fuck. Stiles closes his eyes. Isaac. Focus on Isaac. That’s what counts. Stiles decides on letting the tip of his cock touch the back of his throat a few times. He can feel the muscles in Isaac’s legs tighten, probably fighting the urge to just thrust his hips forwards. 

The fifth time, Stiles doesn’t stop there. He relaxes his throat and focuses on deep breaths through his nose. It’s not the first time he deepthroated someone, but he wouldn’t exactly call himself an expert — or someone who enjoys doing it all the time. His gag reflex is a little too sensitive for that. But Stiles moves his open mouth down the length of Isaac’s cock, breathing through his throat trying to actively work against him until he’s pressing his nose against Isaac’s crotch. The noises he’s rewarded with are worth fucking everything. 

Isaac half curses, half moans. Stiles is half sure he's heard his name somewhere in that string of sounds, but he's not sure, and he's too afraid to look up. He's afraid to find Isaac standing there with his eyes closed, imagining somebody else, while his imagination is playing tricks on him. 

Stiles pulls back. The hold Isaac has on his hair is slightly uncomfortable, but he doesn't mind. Not at all. For all he cares, Isaac could hold him in place and use his mouth and throat. But Isaac wouldn't do anything like that without Stiles' permission. The last thing he wants to do is talk, however, so Stiles keeps his mouth occupied, putting everything he's learned into this blow job.

Listening to Isaac slowly lose his mind is the hottest thing Stiles has heard in forever. He is saying something or babbling rather. It's impossible to say if Isaac struggles to form a coherent sentence, or if Stiles' brain simply can't comprehend a single word. Both are more than likely. 

Either way, Stiles can't ignore his own dick any longer. He struggles with his belt, button, and zipper. Regretting he didn't change into his sweatpants like usual. When he finally gets his hand on himself, Stiles moans around Isaac’s cock. 

"Stiles, Stiles." His name sounds like a prayer on Isaac's lips.

Stiles almost came because of that. He whimpers softly, trying to move his own hand in some sort of rhythm, but he struggles to focus on everything all at once. He takes another breath through his nose, his own hips rocking forward involuntarily, as he takes all of Isaac again, and when his nose presses against Isaac’s crotch again, the grip on his hair tightens painfully. Isaac's cock pulses on his tongue, knees buckling slightly, as he's coming down his throat. 

Fuck. 

Fuck.

Tears sting in his eyes as he's gagging on Isaac's dick. 

"Stop."

Stiles blinks, trying to look up but the angle is fucking awkward, and Isaac isn't letting go of his hair — and it's hard to stop his throat from working when there's a cock shoved down it. He's spreading his precum over his cock, trying to focus more on his pleasure than the slight discomfort. 

Isaac all but yanks him off. Drops of his cum give Stiles a taste of what he's missed out on. "Stop. Stiles," Isaac sounds just as breathless as Stiles feels. "Stop. You said—" Isaac tilts his head back, forcing Stiles to look up "— you said I could stop you at any time." His accent’s become thicker, almost like he can’t really control it. 

Confused, Stiles draws his brows together, but he stops chasing his climax anyway. Instead, he just kneels there, looking up at Isaac staring down at him, wondering what he looks like to him now that this is over. Licking his lips, Stiles drops the dagger next to him. 

Isaac's gaze cuts to it for all but a second. 

"Please," Stiles whispers, squirming a little. 

Isaac releases his grip on his hair and offers him a hand. "Come on, up."

There's absolutely no way Stiles will be able to stand. He can feel his legs from being stuck in a kneeling position for too long, and he's still uncomfortably hard. "Isaac," Stiles whispers, running his hands over his thighs. 

"Fine." Isaac drops to his knees, grabbing Stiles' jaw. "This works as well." And he kisses him. He fucking kisses him. Stiles is sure his heart is about to explode. Isaac curls a hand around the nape of his neck, pulling Stiles closer to him. 

The position is a bit awkward, his thighs trembling now that he's more upright, and Stiles hates the way the muscles in his thighs start to ache. But Isaac deepens the kiss, wraps his long fingers around Stiles' dick, and— fuck everything else. He's kissing Isaac as if his life depended on it, and maybe it does. Just a little. 

"Bloody hell," Isaac breathes, pulling away from the kiss. His fingers are skilled, and his movements secure. There’s nothing of the restraint he showed in the beginning. "That mouth of yours." He chuckles, almost as if to himself, and drags his thumb over the head of Stiles' dick. "That blow job made me want to write my vows."

Stiles grabs Isaac’s arm and shoulder, holding onto him. He needs to fucking breathe, but it's so incredibly hard right now — and Isaac talking really does not help at all. Swallowing heavily, he tips his head forward and watches Isaac’s hand move on him, thumb swiping over the tip of his dick, spreading more precum. His grip tightens. Stiles can feel Isaac’s muscles work. He bites his bottom lip. 

“I know you’re close,” Isaac says softly, and Stiles cannot tell if his words are what makes him notice his orgasm rolling in, or if Isaac convinced his body. “Come on, Pretty Boy, let go.” 

And just like that, Stiles is coming all over Isaac’s hand. Even though his blunt nail digs into the other boy’s arm, trying desperately to hold onto him, Stiles collapses against him. Breathe. Breathe. His poor brain struggles with its most basic tasks right now.

Isaac wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Just so you know,” he whispers, lips so close it’s like he’s painting the words into Stiles’ skin, “I usually go on a date first.” The Cockney accent hides behind an American one again. 

Stiles raises his head, squinting at Isaac. “What?” Once his brain works better again, he really needs to ask why he’s fighting his accent so much. It’s kind of hot. 

Chuckling, Isaac grabs his chin again. "I usually go on a date first." He pecks his lips, ever so gently, and Stiles is pretty sure he's about to combust. 

But he's still not entirely sure he heard him right. Unless… maybe it's just small talk? 

“Soo… dinner?”

Stiles snorts out a laugh, and Isaac draws his brows together, looking almost offended at the reaction. Offended not hurt. Seems like he knows exactly how Stiles is feeling about him. Fucking werewolves and their supernatural noses. “More like takeout and a movie,” he replies, grinning at Isaac. He feels stupidly giddy. It’s annoying. 

“Oh, I like that better.” Isaac kisses his nose. "Let's do that instead."

[chiropteracupola]

please might i hear about ladyhawke or seaside for your health?? or polycule surgery if you have any of it i haven’t seen yet??

here is his lordship. also

and here is a hobbit in return! all of which is extremely apt since the ladyhawke au happens to be The Story Wherein I Turn Keith Windham Into A Cat.

it has been a while and a while since I have actually spoken of it, so I shall re-explain - it's a Flight of the Heron AU based on the film Ladyhawke*, where a pair of lovers are cursed so that one is a hawk during the day and the other a wolf during the night, inseparable but forever apart. and I thought that the combination of Vague Magics and Fabulous Synth-Laden Tunes and Significant Birds would suit Ewen and Keith admirably! but rather than red-tailed hawk and wolf, I've gone for some more Scotland-appropriate creatures with golden eagle and wildcat! even so, it's not going very well for them...

Guthrie waits, the corners of his mouth turned up ever so faintly, and watches him. “Ah, Major, I still don’t know what’s between you and yon Jacobite…” Keith’s title falls from his mouth like an insult, and it stings all the more for knowing that in a matter of hours, that too may very well be stripped from him. “But I see there’s something, all the same! And to think you put so upright of a face on it, when all the time you’ve been double-dealing with that pretty Highlander of yours.” “I have done no such thing!” snarls Keith, shoving forward against his restraints. Ewen, though he is hooded and has his talons tied fast to the back of a chair, ruffles up his wings in agitation. Guthrie starts back, his hand clenched tight on the hilt of his knife. And then the sun slinks below the horizon at last, and Keith’s muffled cursing is cut off as his body twists itself into a new form. He drops to the ground, half suffocated in the seemingly increased weight of his own clothing, and remains, waiting for the aching, arching movement to subside. Above him, distant in the warm darkness that has settled around him, he hears faint laughter. Guthrie’s hard hand reaches through the opening of Keith’s coat, and with a quick twist of his wrist, gets a handhold in the looser fur at the back of his neck. Keith, still worn down from the stress of the shift, hangs limply, too exhausted to do more than hiss and put out his claws. “Scratch at me all you want, Windham, there’s but little that you can do to me now.” His smirk is fully developed now, teeth shining in the candlelight.

and polycule surgery! I do not recall if we have actually Talked About It Out In The Open before, altho' I have ...posted some Images.

here we ask the question of 'what happens when the guy who's gotten shot in the duel is a) the doctor and b) the very specific kind of confident-crazy that causes self-surgery to seem like a good idea', which I know perfectly well is a question that's already been asked and answered far better by Patrick O'Brian. shhhhh I'll borrow a plot point if I want. it's Artistic. anyway, to quote a random youtube commenter on the m&c scene in question, it takes 'a certain amount of skill and intestinal fortitude' to do such things, but you best believe they are going to do it!

now, because this one's consequently rather gory, I'll put it under a readmore...

Watching a man die under his hands had been a familiar sight for a long time. But watching a man twisting the knife in his own side, delving inch by inch into his own gut to find the bullet lodged deep within? That was both new and nauseating, and even as it disgusted him to see it done, Jeremiah could not look away. A sharp sound glanced over Ansel’s teeth like breaking glass — there, his fingernail must have scraped against the chunk of lead still buried in him. The room was so quiet that Jeremiah could hear his own breath, could hear the wet popping sound of the digit being withdrawn from the wound. His finger was bloody past the second knuckle, his hand shaking as he twisted it free. But he smiled, open-mouthed and gasping for breath, and looked up at them expectantly. He was proud of himself, the bastard. Of course he was proud of himself. He ought to be proud, said some miserable voice at the back of Jeremiah’s mind. You couldn’t do that. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt Ansel’s grip tighten until his hand felt as if it was caught in a vise, the fingernails digging in just below his own knuckles. Though he was putting on the bravest face he could, their doctor surely could not have done such a thing alone. “Not too deep,” said he, giving a little nod as if directing something trivial indeed. Ansel dashed his hand against the edge of the table, sending a spatter of scarlet into the air. “If you please… the forceps…” Mannerly as always, though his smile had quickly become a strained sneer under the burden of the bullet.

[olightsource]

Admiral Keith design notes. In a parallel universe, the cheeky flirty Keith is a chivalrous young man in the United Shark Navy. He's married to his work and tries his best to make the seas a safer place.

His body is mostly unchanged from his surfer counterpart, the only difference being his shorter hair. This Keith has body scars from battle, but they are mostly covered in his uniform. His eye sight may be more poor than his Surfer counterpart, as he is almost never seen without his glasses. Like all soldiers, his water supply is strapped to his tail. His boots are also regulated with water, giving him enough to keep him hydrated for a 6 hour period with no refills.

His sword, Leviathan, is one of the Ancient Sea Relics instated by the Navy to Admirals. Leviathan acts as a conduit, taking nearby water and pressurizing it into a saber. When the user channels their own moisture(sweat or blood) into the handle, it activates the hilt, and the "bones" begin to warp around the users hand. This makes it difficult for Keith to let go of the sword, therefore he only uses the saber when he absolutely needs to. Due to its bizarre shape, he keeps the hilt in a sling rather than a conventional sheath.

[lilflowerpot]

I know you hc Keith as east-asian, with his dad having his DotU counterpart's background. But I saw that Keith's weapons seem to be indian, nepalese and egyptian inspired, with 2 out of 3 being south-asian. Would you see that as supposed to be some "hint" or just that they happen to suit his style well enouch with no other connection?

So far as the real-world inspiration behind vld’s weaponry goes, I will without question bow to the expertise of @elfgrove, who has two unparalleled posts identifying both of Keith’s blades; they've confidently (and I’d have to assume correctly) pinned Keith’s bayard down as a lengthened indian katar due to its distinct grip shape, while his marmoran blade is damn near a perfect match for a Roman pugio when in its more compact knife-form, and a hybrid (ha) of a Roman falcata and an Egyptian khopesh when in its elongated sword-form.

[[ left to right: indian katar / roman falcata & egyptian khopesh / roman pugio ]]

As to what the vld artists intended, I certainly think that the roman influence with regard to Keith’s marmoran blade is deliberate for the fact that it’s present in both the compact and extended forms, not to mention that the galra Empire as a whole is depicted with a definite roman undercurrent. The amalgamation of falcata with khopesh might be down to the Roman Empire having had historical ties to Egypt, it might—as elfgrove said—be a nod to the fact that cats were deified in ancient egypt and many of the galra possess visually feline traits, or it might simply be the artists’ attempt to create more of a fantastical otherworldly vibe for Keith’s alien heirloom,,, it’s honestly hard to say. The katar, I think, is the most deliberate choice of the lot due to that hilt being so distinct, so potentially that could be a quiet nod from the artists to Keith being south asian? But truthfully, I think that’s a generous perspective: more likely, they wanted a range of blade designs that were distinctly different from one another due to the bayard taking the form of a sword several times over⁠ throughout the show—Keith, Lance, Lotor, Zarkon, and Alfor—and ultimately there are only so many ways one can design a pointy stick (particularly in 2d animation where the last thing anyone wants is an overly convoluted design that’s difficult to keep consistent frame-to-frame) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯