#but it's a plot from my wishlist skdljfhskdfhds

[demcnsinmymind]

ebonyforged​:

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Even though it comes out angrier than intended, Lance gives her a snort as reply. It’s quite ‘funny’ to suddenly be on the receiving end of something he himself has done countless times back in there. Still does most of the time out here, too. Being optimistic. The last one standing. The strong one. Not to be shattered. It’s his mantra and he does believe in it, but in this instance, it’s somewhat ridiculous.

“You don’t know that. You weren’t there. You didn’t hear my sk...” he tries to argue and clarify, but then she’s telling him to sit down. The instinctual urge to defy and deny is still right there, yet for some reason - maybe because of the exhaustion and embarrassment, he does end up listening and sits down. Teeth gritted, hands balled to tight fists against both his thighs and the porcelain beneath them. He lets her finish her talk, appreciates that she’s getting him, everything he believes, everything that he stands for. That he’s a survivor. A fighter. The last man standing. And it is true, even if it’s somewhat irrelevant in this context.

“I wasn’t talking about my spirit or will. Of course I won. I’m here. I know they’re dead. It was over 70 years ago. And I stabbed the guy to death and burned the place down. I rained fucking hell on them for what they did to me and all the others. But that’s not the point.” The frustration is obvious on his face and in his voice, though he’s not entirely sure where it’s coming from. It could be a lot of things. Mostly though, that he’s beginning to make sense of - it’s frustration with himself. For showing weakness. For having cried. With the tears still obvious despite the constant pour of water from the shower head. He hates that there are cracks in his armor around someone as strong as her, that even now, he can’t quite shove them away and hide them.

He falls silent for a moment and looks away, focuses on the water beneath their feet disappearing down the drain. Fuck. He wishes he could do the same thing. But of course. He can’t. And after all this kindness she just graced him with, he owes her. Lance lets out a frustrated sigh, then leans forward a bit so he can place his forehead on her sternum instead.  Wet hair brushing against the underside of her breasts. To show her that he’s not withdrawing, that he’s still willing to let her in. He then exhales against her skin and keeps his face buried in it for a moment, inhaling her exhilarating scent while brushing both his hands along her sides. All the while fighting the urge to just pull her down into his lap so he can fuck these godawful memories and emotions away. In the end, he just moves his left hand up and further towards her middle, so he can place it on her left breast, where the heart is.

“I meant physically. Like this right here just going blank for a while.“

Even as he speaks it out, he can feel his heart pounding in his chest. Blood pumping in his ears. Technically telling him with each thump that he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive. But even then, he really isn’t sure. After all, he’s heard the doctors talk. He’s seen the images. Has know the history, the after effects even before it actually happened to him. And even more so...he saw everybody else die in there.

It’s never made any sense. That he’s out here walking and talking.

He looks up at her with a strange expression on his face. Almost like he’s asking her for some form of confirmation about his suspicions, like she’d know for sure. Given her nature, her otherwordliness. Soon enough though, he turns his gaze away from her eyes and instead focuses it on her breast in his hand, starts brushing over her nipple slowly and with the utmost care, dragging his teeth across his lower lip, only to force out some air through his nose.

“But who the fuck cares anyway” he tries to dismiss the topic, moving his head back forward so he can kiss her breast, chest, sternum, stomach, trying to get lower though it’s almost impossible given his sitting position and angle.