#god I can’t wait to ramble on about season one during it’s anniversary

[valant-valiant]

Happy 7th anniversary of season two!

I’m going to ramble a bit here so bare with me.

I actually never properly played season one except for episode one(played it on Netflix and played ep1 after I got s2), but I’ve played all of season two so season two has more of a special place in my heart than season one. I played all of it, but I was confused who the characters who showed up in the beginning of the first episode were as I never knew episodes 6-8 existed at the time. Despite my initial confusion, I loved it all. There were parts that made me cry (the cabin scene) and parts that made me want to give up (fighting sequences because I was a baby at it). The characters impacted me in a way that still affects me now. Cue in 2020 (more than a year later than when I first played mcsm)…I decided to replay season 2 and decided to look up MCSM on google. If it wasn’t for season 2, I would never have discovered the rest of the episodes. If it wasn’t for season 2, quarantine would have been a lot more worse. If it wasn’t for season 2, I don’t think I would be the same person that I am today. So thank you Telltale for making this game.

[cosmicbash]

One the angsty prompt ideas I’ve been thinking about is Kells practicing how to cook for weeks so he can surprise Em by cooking him dinner, maybe for an anniversary or something, and on the day Kells has planned to surprise him, Em is hours late, leaving Kells alone for the evening. If you’re interested maybe you could write something like this? 🥰

3 years together. One thousand and ninety five fucking days between him and this old dorky man.

It's insane. Downright impossible to believe but Colson knows it's as real and true as the 2 year sobriety chip he's got hung around his neck on the gold chain Marshall gifted him with it this morning.

Both their relationship and his sobriety are as intertwined as their lives are now. Marshall's like the glue that holds all of his pieces together. Picking Colson back up, time and time again whenever he shattered in the beginning and filling in the gaps with his own loose pieces until it was Colson's turn to do the same. Which, by then, it only made sense to combine their puzzles and broaden the picture.

Now Marshall swoops in for Casie's PTA meetings he can’t make during tour. Holding the phone and helping him FaceTime for soccer games and school conferences when flight delays or bad luck keeps him late.

Colson tags along to Whitney's first few dates out in LA, weaving through the public spaces Marshall never could without drawing attention just to make sure she's safe and respected.

They tag team any situation involving the girls, even though Alaina and Hailey both still snicker at him from time to time, and Casie rolls her eyes at Marshall's rules. They're more than just dating now.

They're family.

And even just thinking about that brings tears to Colson's eyes.

Or maybe it's the onions. Baze said chewing gum helped mitigate this fucking problem but goddammit does it burn-

"Fuck!"

He has no idea how he got it in his mind that he could actually cook a meal, let alone a full anniversary dinner for Marshall but here he is. A pot and pan already cooking on the stove and his fingers knicked a dozen times in his rush to cut up more veggies for the sauce. 

It's insane.

But Colson's following through with it anyway, because he fucking loves Marshall and that bastard cooks dinner for them every single holiday or occasion so it's about time he stepped up to the plate and did it himself. 

Plus he's been secretly practicing for weeks with Baze over both FaceTime and a few in person lessons. Perfecting his simmering styles and meat seasoning to make the tastiest meal he can manage all on his own.

So far the last three times he's made the dish his bassist had given stellar reviews so there's little chance he'll somehow fuck it up tonight knowing it's for Marshall…..at least, he hopes.

The minor setbacks his butchered fingers have brought aside though, so far everything was coming along perfectly. His noodles are boiling (never over the rim, thank you wooden spoon trick), his meats marinating, and as soon as he tosses these sliced onions in his sauce will be cooking down beautifully.

All in all the night is starting to look like it just might be perfect.

Until 6 o'clock passes by and Colson's ears never pick up the click of the front door knob, or the hum of Marshall's escalade pulling up front outside.

The food's still simmering, minutes away from being actually done so he doesn't worry too much. Sure he was hoping to have a sweet moment where his boyfriend comes home and catches him cooking at the stove like a traditional housewife, but seeing his face when the food's done and plated promises to be just as cute.

Besides, Marshall has always fit the housewife role so much better than him anyway. Even the apron Colson's wearing is one of the older rapper's, stolen from his small collection in the pantry to protect his designer sweater.

Colson doesn't start to worry at 6. Traffic can be a bitch.

7 though? And then 7:30 when his texts go unread and his calls ring all the way through to voice-mail? That's when the blonde starts to fret. 

He's luckily put off plating because some brief flash on uncertainty had run through him after the food finished so it's stayed warm and simmering on the stove. But even that had to come to an end before 7:30 because his sauce would singe or his noodles might squish, so now Colson's trying to keep busy by perfecting the presentation. Shaky fingers swiping around the edges of Marshall's plate to clean up a splatter of sauce. Every Chopped Judge rambling off feedback in his head until he has it looking like something he's certain even Gordon fucking Ramsey would ask for a bite of.

By 8 the dinner table is set. His plate, Marshall's, the bucket of low alcoholic wine they both love chilling as a centerpiece. Colson even lights a few candles and adds some flowers from this mornings gift exchanges to keep himself from screaming.

There's a pit in his stomach that's steadily been growing though. Every passing minute and glance to his phone where he finds no change only carving it deeper. 

Marshall should be home. He never runs this late at the studio without a call, let alone without a message. He's treated his work like any other 9-5 job since before they ever even got together, always strict about his routine and careful to make up for over run hours by leaving earlier the next day. Usually Colson likes to bust his balls and insist he live a little more spontaneously but tonight isn't the one to pull that.

Especially not if it means Marshall's going to completely forget to check his fucking phone and leave him trying not to think the worst.

Colson only males it another 5 minutes before he caves and texts Paul. Fingers tapping fast across his screen to draft multiple desperate sounding messages before he finally settles on a "Em bust his phone again?" That feels just casual enough to not embarrass him in the off chance Marshall decides to burst through the front door seconds after it sends.

The door stays closed though and Paul doesn't open the message at all. 

Now Colson can't even start passive aggressively eating dinner on his own if he wanted too. The pit in his stomach has torn itself open wide into a nauseous chasm. Every scary possibility he wanted to avoid thinking about spilling forth from the dark trench like ghouls.

He's dead. Some crazy fan broke into the studio and shot the whole place up. No one's gotten around to tell him yet, that's all. They're too busy dealing with the fallout.

No, Em's security is beyond top tier, and with how close Colson and his current bodyguard are he knows the guy would call him immediately. Marshall's fine.

Unless… what if he was in a car accident? Or some road rage incident gone fatal? Colson's seen Marshall's short temper flare up while driving. They've made dozens of jokes about it in the past, so is it really that unreasonable to believe?

Colson's pacing in the front haul when he calls Porter. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he fights his shoe laces, heart racing in his chest. Prepping to fly out of the house the second Denaun tells him what fucking hospital Marshall's staying in, praying it's at the ICU section and not some fucking morgue.

"Kelly?" The older man sounds confused when he finally answers. Voice high and tone light like he's expecting this to be a butt dial. "What's up man?"

The lack of rush or worry in Denaun's voice almost soothes Colson's panic right on the spot. Surely he wouldn't sound so casual if something had happened. 

It's enough to keep Colson from immediately pleading for Marshall's safety at the least. "H-hey, uh nothing really-" Maybe Marshall is even with him right now, realizing how fucking late its gotten and how shit of a boyfriend he's been and that's why Denaun sounds awkward too. "Just uh, waiting for Marsh to get his slow ass home ya know? Sorry, aheh, I'm probably sounding like a fucking needy girlfriend right now, calling his friends and shit-" the longer Colson rambles the more embarrassed he actually feels in the moment.

God he must sound pathetic right now. Panicking over Marshall being a few hours late.

"Waiting? Didn't Marshall head out like 2 hours ago?"

"W-what?"

Colson's blood feels like actual ice in his veins.

"He isn't home? I mean, I know he was gonna stop at- fuck is it already half past 8? Marshall seriously isn't home?" Denaun's sudden panic only heightens Colson's own, but he can't get any more words to come out. Not with how a rock feels like it's jumped up his throat. "Shit, Ryan are you getting through to him? Try Paul-"

Ryan's there too? 

"What? Paul's gotta fucking answer-"

They can't get ahold of Paul either?

"Kelly have you-"

Marshall's missing. Colson's been standing around making dinner for hours, worrying over the portion sizes and appearance of his plates and Marshall's been fucking missing. What kind of partner is he? What will he even tell Hailey? Alaina? And fuck Casie is supposed to be coming up this weekend so they can all go vacation together before his next tour-

The front door bumping into his shoe startles Colson out of his frozen panic. Denaun's angry shouting dropping from his ear, as he twists and meets a pair of sheepish blue eyes peeking around the hardwood.

"Hey." 

Marshall's…..

"Is that my apron?"

So fucking dead.

"Is this your--" Colson's fingers are curling around the edge of the door so fast he doesn't even care that it makes his phone fly to the floor. "That's what you want to fucking say to me!?" His anger is boiling fast, replacing the cold in his veins with lava. "You fucking piece of-"

Marshall stumbling inside with the yanked door is expected, but the flash of bandages and a sling douse Colson's flames like a bucket of water. "Ow, fuck just give me a second to explain-"

He's hurt.

Now with all of Marshall visible Colson's hyperaware of dry blood splattered on his white graphic tee and scratches partially hidden within the rapper's beard along his cheek. "I got in an accident out on the M-8, it was minor but-"

Colson really can't handle all these rapid mood switches Marshall is putting him through today.

“You fucking idiot-“ Tears are bubbling up in his eyes and it’s like his hands can’t reach his partner fast enough. Pulling Marshall into his arms for a tight hug despite the pained noises his actions inspire. “Stupid, old asshole-“ Marshall’s hurt, the cars probably wrecked, but he’s home and that’s enough of a relief to finally smother that pit weighing down his stomach. “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

A moment passes before he’s hugged back, shock more than likely freezing his partner up but when Marshall does loop his good arm around Colson he pulls him close. So close Colson is the one who’s bones feel like they might ache. “Can’t make any promises about that,” The older rapper’s palm feels warm when it climbs to cup his neck, Marshall’s face turning to press a kiss into Colson’s throat. 

That brush of lips is the final crack to release the flood gates.

"I love you."

"I know."

"I really really fucking love you."

"I know baby."

"I don't care how old your ass is, you better hold out and fucking die after me like a proper goddamn boyfriend, you hear me Marshall?" He's getting snot all over the older rapper's shirt. Full on smearing it across his own cheek and the fabric with every pointless rub of his face. "I love you so fucking much. Can't do this without you."

"Told you I'm not dying after you unless you kill me first, and I'm chasing you into the afterlife once you do go too. Fuck all the marriage shit, death ain't parting us either you brat." Marshall's tone is light and his palm is doing wonders to comfort him by rubbing circles into his back. It's enough to slow his hiccupped breathing down a few notches. "I dunno if you noticed but, I'm a little obsessed with you."

That drags out a wet snort. "Y-yeah?" When Colson pulls back to meet Marshall's eyes he swears he can see a wet shimmer starting to glaze over his partner’s as well. "Prove it then."

There's a flicker of something in blue eyes, so fast that Colson almost thinks he hallucinates the emotion altogether. But then Marshall's wrapped up arm wiggles between their bodies. The dark blue of the sling catching and sliding so his scratched up fist can shimmy its way partially out. "Planned on it-" There's something clutched tight there, black peeking out from between Marshall's finger and thumb. It's got Colson's heart dropping down into his stomach all over again. "What do you think I was driving so late on the M-8 for?"

"Marshall-" It can't be.

"Colson." But his shithead of an accident victim boyfriend is pulling back, both his good arm and slung arm awkwardly flailing in the air for a moment as he drops down on one knee. The visible wince not hidden as well as Colson imagines the man wants it to be. But Marshall's eyes are softening, and the blonde feels completely cemented in place. The only part of him moving being the uncontrollable shaky quiver of his bottom lip. "I had a whole moment planned, there were flowers, balloons, and those stupidly expensive alcoholic chocolates you love, but they all got absolutely trashed in the crash. Like, half of Detroit is probably going to think the Macies Thanksgiving parade started early. Paul called to have it all replaced, and honestly some intern is probably going to come banging on the door in about 20 minutes but I don't want to wait-" There's a flash of genuine worry that's furrowing the skin between Marshall's brows as he continues. "So I'm sorry this isn't gonna be that fancy perfect proposal you've always dreamed of-"

"Shut up." Colson's voice can't go above a whisper. His tone quick and clipped from how anxious he is to hear the man finally finish. "Just- shut up, ask me. Ask me Marsh, please-"

"Fine, always need to rush me."The rapper's lip quirks at the corners. Hands transferring the small box between eachother with a bit of fumbling. "Will you, Colson Baker-" Until Marshall can finally get it open with an audible clunk. "Legally commit to being with my annoying old ass forever?" 

[trillian-anders]

amor de mi vida - 1944

pairing: bucky barnes x latinx!reader

warnings: racism, prejudice, fluff, angst, graphic descriptions of concentration camps/gore 

word count: 2686

description: Bucky Barnes is a sweet young Brooklyn boy, just on the cusp of manhood, a hopeless romantic that falls in love with almost every girl he sees. when he sets his eyes on a young girl fresh off the boat from Cuba he finds out how hard love can really be.

for @cake-writes 1940s challenge.

note: in this year’s letters bucky goes into detail about what he sees out on the war front, it might be upsetting. 

In the middle of Harlem, almost an hour on the train from Brooklyn there was a movie theater you could go to. One that showed the movies of the war effort. Moving pictures that showed Captain America and the Howling Commandos. You could see him there, large and in black and white. Your husband. You cried the first time you saw him in action.

You wrote to him about seeing it. His hair was a little longer than he’d kept it at home. His face was more serious. You could see the dark circles under his eyes that sparked the memory of how he wrote to you about the lack of sleep. How he was always tired now. How the first thing he was going to do after getting home, aside from kissing you and eating dinner at his Ma’s, was sleep. 

He’d lost weight. You knew he wasn’t able to eat enough. Not like when he was home. You knew it was something he had to deal with. His last letter talked a little about hunger. The chocolate bars they gave them in their rations, he wrote, were chalky but the sweetest thing he’d had in a while. 

He asked if you’d make the dulce de leche you’d made not long before he’d left. Your Mother’s guilty pleasure. He said he could taste it in his dreams. That’s what he wanted, that and his Ma’s spice cake. He wrote about boliche and his Ma’s roast chicken. He wrote about getting ice cream at the soda shop, having a burger at his favorite diner. 

You watched a man you couldn’t believe was actually Steve lay out plans on the hood of a war vehicle. Laying out plans for a mission already completed. Your husband, a man you hadn’t seen in two years, fighting tirelessly beside him. You only hoped he would continue to do so. And that this war will end and he will be home soon. 

“I wanted to apologize.” Winnie lay her hand over yours, “I was taken off guard by what she said,” Winnie stopped by in the morning bearing a loaf of banana bread wrapped in cloth, still warm from the oven. “I shouldn’t have let her say those things about you.” Truth be told you’d already forgiven Winnie. You could understand that it’s hard, but times were changing. Slowly. But they were. 

“Thank you.” For the apology. Winnie cried when you opened the door, it broke your heart a bit. George conveyed her sorrow to you a bit earlier in the week. And the girls came over once or twice to check in and brought food with them each time, undoubtedly made by Winnie. 

Bucky and Steve. The Howling Commandos. He didn’t outright say it, but he was doing dangerous work. That you knew. These side missions, these bases they were infiltrating, something to do with a cell called Hydra. A brutal underbelly of the Nazi regime. Something deeper, more sinister with worse intentions. 

It made your heart leap in your chest every time there was a knock on the door. The fear that it would be someone from the government coming to tell you that Bucky was gone. That he wasn’t coming home. 

But his letters kept coming. Fewer in number than they had before. 

It’s harder to write when they’ve got us in the middle of nowhere. He says. They ship the commandos all over Europe. Chasing after Hydra cells. He sends out the letters in a thick stack when he can. Steve met a woman, he says. Margaret Carter. 

Bucky says you’d like her. And how when they get home the four of you should go out. A double date. Some realm of normalcy after the horrors he sees out there. 

He talks about something truly horrible. They were skin and bones, these kids. These people. Starved half to death. Flies on their bodies as though they were already dead. Taken from the concentration camps and put in these Hydra facilities to be experimented on. Bodies left to rot in the cells with them. 

The smell, he says. He doesn’t think he will ever forget that smell. 

These aren’t in the letters he sends to his family. 

He said he started having nightmares. He couldn’t understand how someone could do something so evil. To hate someone so passionately for what they believed. For who they were. But then again, he hates them for what they believed, for who they were. These monsters who ripped people from their homes and starve, beat, and kill them.

He just wants to be home. He sends a pressed peony on your anniversary. 

I love you, he says, more than anything. I can’t wait to see you again. 

He acts like he’s not afraid, because he doesn’t want to worry you. He says that the allies are winning, that he’ll be home in no time. 

“Are you Y/N Barnes?” Usually you don’t get bothered while out. Most women who shopped at this grocery store ignored you, the rumors of whether you were hired help or housewife circulated, but they were all too afraid to ask. It was impolite after all. And most believed you were the Help regardless. 

“Yes, can I help you?” Your english had gotten better but was still heavily accented. The woman behind you had a soft smile, you didn’t recognize her as someone you knew but the younger girl behind her looked to be Becca’s age. The Mother blushed, 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Her voice soft, so those around could not overhear, she stepped closer to you, “My daughter is infatuated with the dress Rebecca Barnes was wearing last Sunday in church and Rebecca says that you’re the one who made it.” You did. It was a soft blue for the oncoming spring. Yellow daisies hand stitched into the skirt. 

“I did.” The basket in your hands was growing heavy with the fresh peaches they’d recently gotten in, you weren’t sure where this woman was going with this. 

“Would you be able to make my daughter a dress just as fine?” The woman asked, “I’d be happy to pay you.” The young girl, fourteen, looked hopeful behind her mother. “A dress like that would probably be ten dollars in the store? Does that sound fair?” 

“What color would you like?” Ten dollars was good money for a dress. You couldn’t say no and the woman and her daughter were both very sweet. You’d worked hard on the dress for seven days before she came to pick it up. Her daughter cooing over the fabric and turning around in the mirror as you made final measurements. The blush pink and white stitching, blush pink roses soft in the hem. 

“Thank you very much.” The Mother, handing you the money as payment for the dress now zipped in a garment bag they’d brought. “I’m sure once I wring a little more out of my husband's pockets we will be back for more.” 

One dress became another, and another Mother wanted a dress for her daughter, and then the other girls in Becca’s class asking for dresses. Suddenly you were making your own money, not in the factory this time, but enough to keep your fingers busy and give you something to do during the day with the help of Winnie. 

Winnie would help you measure and fit the girls. She would help you with the basic stitching when the orders piled up, you would work on the finer details. The small stitching. The tug and pull of forming flowers. 

You excitedly wrote to Bucky about it. 

Once you were married he didn’t want you working at the factory anymore. “It’s a death trap.” He explained. But people could get away with a lot when it came to immigrants. Poor working conditions, not having the proper ventilation, and the long hours. You were doing the very thing he encouraged you to do all along. 

But making dresses for family was vastly different than making dresses for strangers. When prom season came around you were up to your ears in tulle and velvet. 

It seemed a little arbitrary, but he praised you for it anyway. You imagined him covered in dirt, out in the heat of summer, blood on his boots and an empty belly, writing this letter telling you how proud he was that you were doing something you loved doing. It felt heavy in your stomach. 

Like it was unfair.

But his checks went into the same account you put this money into. And it was good money. A plan for the future. 

A woman brought her baby once. A sweet fat little thing. Yes, she wailed and cried, she tugged on your hair and just about ripped the earring out of your ear but it gave a new craving. You wanted to start a family.

You thanked God that you hadn’t gotten pregnant before Bucky left, a baby was hard to handle alone. And with the stress and heartache with him being overseas you weren’t sure you could have handled having a baby going on two years old now. But when he got home, it was something to be brought up. A maternal craving you didn’t know you had. 

The summer brought backyard barbecues and trips to the beach. For Bucky it was a little different. 

He wrote about some nice things. The countryside. Steve rambling incessantly about his new girl. A village that made them a decent meal. He said that he’d forgotten what good food tasted like. He wrote about how he got to sleep in an actual bed for the first time in a while. About how he got to meet Howard Stark. That Steve knew him. That Stark helped him become whatever he is now. Stronger, faster, a super soldier. 

Stark was talking about starting an organization to deal with people like this, Hydra. To keep groups like this from taking root. He offered Bucky a job when he gets back to New York. But that would be a conversation for another day, he writes, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. 

He also wrote about the Russians liberating a camp, how they felt like they were getting closer to the goal. He said this time next year he should be home with you the way it’s looking now. There were a number of hydra bases left, but they’ve spent the better part of a year eradicating them. 

These letters that were being read by you now, albeit slowly, but Suzy was no longer looking over your shoulder became brazen, a little racy. 

Bucky wrote about how he dreams of you, every night. How you feel against him. How you taste on his tongue. You felt heat grow in your cheeks reading about it. He talked about how he looked at your picture every day, how he craved your lips. How your hair felt in his hands. How your body felt under his. 

You wrote back about tracing your fingers over his back, trailing your lips there. The closeness that sex brought you. How it made you feel. A breath apart and panting with it. The reunion was craved by both sides. The longing in the letters was clear. But it quickly turned sour. 

There was a husband, he wrote, in one of the villages. He’d gotten to safety. But his wife was taken. There was a Hydra base nearby. These men, he wrote, come whenever they want, whatever time of day they want, and they rob these people who have no means to defend themselves. When they found the base, it was similar to the others. He didn’t want you to know what conditions he was put under, so he never described it to you. But you could assume it was terrible with the way they found the people there. 

The man’s wife was dead. And he described how this man fell in the street. The emotion of it, raw and powerful. It broke your heart. He lamented about how the man told him that he’d met his love as a child. He spent his entire life with her. And now she’s gone. He asked what he should do. Because he didn’t know. And he wasn’t the only civilian who experienced loss that day. 

The sorrow was palpable, he wrote, there were no songs of victory by the campfire that night. There was no celebration. The village was small enough that everyone lost someone, and it was felt.

The summer closed with the boys back in London, seemingly the home base for whatever missions they’d been working on. And there was something big, or so Bucky eluded to. He couldn’t say to compromise the mission, but it was something big. He didn’t know exactly what would happen, but it was the beginning of the end, the real end. Of Hydra and Nazi Germany. 

It gave you hope. Maybe he’ll be home soon. Maybe this war will finally be over and he’ll be home, safe. 

Communication was tight for the rest of the year. Something you chose to ignore by making the girl’s fall and winter dresses. Throwing yourself into your dress orders, an entire room in the house, one that would, god willing, be a room for one of your future children, covered in crushed blue velvet and rich greens and reds. You’d gotten a beautiful champagne colored tule you couldn’t help but buy along with some frivolous ribbons and playful buttons to change up the looks of the back of the dresses. 

It was something easy to focus on, mindful and relaxing tasks that took your mind off of the fact that letters were fewer than ever and your husband was thousands of miles away doing truly dangerous work. 

The Barnes household was buzzing with activity. All morning preparations for Christmas dinner, straight after Church you found yourself in the Barnes’ kitchen peeling potatoes, cutting carrots, and trussing a turkey. 

Softly in the background was a memory of last year. I’ll Be Home for Christmas. The optimism of last year drowned with the optimism for next year. Bucky said he feels like it will be over soon. And hopefully it will be. 

There was a stack of presents accumulated from last year's Christmas and birthdays, and the year before’s. Waiting for him to open. 

“Maybe he’ll be home by his birthday.” Ginny was twenty and beautiful, now with a steady boyfriend you were sure would propose any day now. 

The room was light and hopeful. George Barnes was stringing cranberries with Rebecca and Suzy, and now eighteen-year-old Ruth was reading a letter that had just arrived for the family. 

“They got to see a USO show before going back out.” Ruth reads, “Dinah Shore.” You looked at her confused. You didn’t know who Dinah Shore was. “She sings ‘Yes, My Darling Daughter’, she was in ‘Thank Your Stars’.” You shake your head, never having heard the song or seen that movie before. Ruth shrugs, a smile on her face, “She’s blonde and pretty.” As an explanation to why they would have Dinah Shore try to raise the morale of the troops. A laugh was shared. “He said that he’s never going to eat another can of beans for the rest of his life.” 

You focused on placing the turkey in the oven. There was some unfound jealousy at the thought of your husband screaming and shouting, hollering at a woman sent to perform for them. It was dumb, but it was there. 

You tried to remind yourself about his last letter, the one he’d written before he left for his mission. He’d written enough to stagger out some letters, but you were afraid they were going to stop coming all together. You felt like you were being silly having jealousy about some woman who you didn’t even know. And it quickly went away as you thought about maybe this time next year. Maybe it’ll be all over. And that extra spot at the table will be filled. 

You could only hope. 

.

.

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taglist //  @corneliabarnes​ @bookish-shristi​ @saturnki​ @jennmurawski13​ @geeksareunique​ @albinotigerpython​ @cake-writes​ @iheartsebastianstan​ @000bananaclip000​ @shadowbusiness @sprinkleofbooty​ @gifsbysimplysonia​ @vhsbarnes​ @loseralert @wendaiii​ @mcueveryday​ @alwaysbenhardysgirl @beck-alicious​

[solangelover]

Snow Days

A/N: It’s just about Christmas all over the world. So MERRY CHRISTMAS!! This was supposed to come out earlier in December, but oh well. Maybe I’ll still do an actual Christmas one. In the meantime, enjoy :)

Read on AO3 or FF.net

Fresh snow fell upon Camp Half-Blood early one morning. It was December, a time when Chiron held a vote to see whether or not campers wanted snow. Majority rules, so this year Chiron allowed the magical border around camp to let in snow. For some, it was their first time experiencing snow. In general, the campers enjoyed having the snow, especially around Christmas.

Nico di Angelo didn’t know how to feel about it. He couldn’t quite remember his experiences in snow, but he knows it was a long time ago in Italy. He vaguely remembered playing with Bianca in the snow, but that could be his imagination trying to give him just a bit of Bianca to hold on to. The anniversary of her death was in December too, which didn’t make this his favorite month.

He mostly told others that he didn’t like it. It wasn’t in his personality to like things. The snow was blinding, it made him even colder than he already was, and he had to walk through it every day. It was just annoying.

Just like most people, the cold made Nico stay in bed longer than normal. Unlike most people, this meant he woke up at around 2 PM. Or at least he would if someone didn’t bang on his door each morning.

“Get up, di Angelo! It’s 10 am, breakfast is basically done!” a certain annoying son of Apollo shouted outside Nico’s cabin door. “I know you’re still in bed, Nico!”

“If you know, then why are you waking me up??” Nico shouted back. He then realized it was a mistake to reveal that he was awake. His door flew open and Nico looked up to see Will Solace silhouetted against the bright white snow outside.

He groaned loudly and threw his arm over his eyes. “UGH why can’t you leave me alone?”

“No one likes to be alone, Death Boy. I’m giving you the company you don’t know that you need.” Will shut the door behind him and sauntered over to Nico’s bed.

“I like to be alone when I’m trying to sleep, Solace. And I never want company.” At this hour, Nico meant every word he said.

By now, Will was used to Nico’s grumpiness and negativity. He remained his ever-happy self, stating, “This is the season of togetherness! I shall not allow you to sleep for most of it. Plus, as your doctor, I am required to make sure you’re eating well and getting proper exercise.”

“You are insufferable.” Nico threw a pillow at Will, who caught it easily, as he sat up. He knew he was never getting back to sleep, even if Will allowed him to. He simply got up and stretched, lifting his shirt up a bit. As he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, he swore that he saw a bit of pink on Will’s cheeks as he looked anywhere but at Nico.

“Don’t you have an infirmary to tend to?” Nico asked as he walked to his bathroom.

“Nope, I don’t work ‘till later, so I thought we could hang out until then. Make snow angels, throw snowballs at each other, that kind of stuff. We don’t get snow every year here.” Will rambled on as Nico was getting ready for the day. Nico was comfortable with Will being in his cabin by now, considering Will just forced himself in all the time. Nico kind of liked having someone else there who would just talk without expecting him to say much.

“Why do you wanna hang out with me? Don’t you have friends?” It was a half joke. Nico still didn’t understand why Will always wanted to spend time with him. He was still getting used to people actually choosing to be around him.

Will rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated at the number of times they had to have this conversation. “Neeks, do I really have to tell you again? I LIKE spending time with you. You ARE my friend. And I WANT to do fun stuff with you while I’m not working. It’s not a joke, Death Breath.”

“Gods above, will you stop with the nicknames? They’re terrible.” Nico was a bit embarrassed by the way Will talked about him, like he was worth something. It’s all a work in progress.

“I won’t stop until you stop being self-deprecating. So, by the looks of it, you’ll be getting nicknames for the rest of your life, Nicolo.”

“Wow, Solace, I see your faith in me. And I already told you that’s not my real name,” Nico rolled his eyes at Will, accepting that he’d be spending the day with him. Not that Nico really minded, but he had to pretend that he did.

At that moment, Nico’s stomach grumbled. He looked up embarrassingly at Will, “So… is breakfast really done?”

Will just sighed, grabbing Nico’s hand and pulling him out the door as he mumbled something about eating regularly. Nico felt momentarily flustered by Will’s hand in his, but it was quickly replaced with annoyance when he walked out into the blinding snow. He all but hissed like a vampire at the light, to which Will looked back with a smirk. “I feel like the coffin beds suit you more than you think.”

“Shut it, Solace,” Nico snapped with a glare (or squint). Will only laughed and kept pulling him along to the pavilion.

---

“Why would someone want to lay in the wet, cold snow just to make something that looks nothing like an angel?” Nico watched as Will wiggled around in the snow with a bright smile on his face. The snow didn’t look particularly inviting to Nico.

“Oh, come on, Nico! You said you’ve never made a snow angel! You gotta try at least once.” Will carefully stood up, then turned back to admire his work of art. “Look at that. You can’t tell me you don’t want to try. Who wouldn’t want to lay in the snow? It’s so fun!”

Nico was surprised with how the snow angel turned out, but still felt no need to make one of his own. “First off, I said I didn’t remember if I made one before or not. Second, like I already said, why would I want to lay in the wet, cold snow that will make me even colder than I already am?” Nico was bundled in a gray puffy snow jacket that Chiron had let him borrow. Even so, he still felt the chill of the cold through his black jeans and combat boots. He was in no way prepared for snow.

“Look, I found you a fresh patch of snow. There!” Will herded Nico towards the snow. Nico stood looking at it and was about to turn to Will and complain when he was tackled to the ground. Will had launched himself at the son of Hades and sent them both into the soft snow.

“Agh! Will! Dammit, why are you like this?” Nico shoved Will off and sat up in the snow. The newly fallen snow was now ruined, but Will was laughing anyway. When Nico looked up at Will, he had intended to tell him off and shadow travel back to his cabin. Instead, the words died in Nico’s throat as he took in the son of Apollo. The snow in his hair coupled with his laughter made Will look like an angel playing in snow. Nico supposed that was pretty accurate. Will’s cheeks were red from the cold, but his freckles were still visible. When he finally stopped laughing, Will locked eyes with Nico. Nico noticed that his eyes were a paler blue than during the summer, but they still had that lively twinkle in them. Nico could get lost in those eyes.

When he realized he was staring, Nico glanced away, feeling a blush creep up on his cheeks. He hoped the red from the cold hid it.

“Hey, Nico?” Will asked softly. Nico had expected more jokes or teasing, but the tone of Will’s voice made Nico look back at Will.

“Yeah?”

Will looked almost hesitant, his smile softening a bit. “I don’t know much about your past, not that you necessarily do either, but I hope I can make this Christmas fun for you.” Will glanced down at his hands buried in the snow. “I know this time of year is hard, but I want you to know,” Will reached out to put his hand over Nico’s in the snow, “that I’m here for you and I want to make it better.” Will finally looked back up into Nico’s eyes.

Nico was stunned. He didn’t realize that Will had thought about all that. He didn’t realize that the purpose of Will’s silly antics was to make new, happy winter memories for Nico. Will cared, a lot, and it still didn’t make sense to Nico, but it made him feel hopeful nonetheless.

Nico broke into a smile, a real, genuine one that scrunched his nose a bit. “Thanks, Will. I—” He didn’t really know how to outwardly express his appreciation; it felt awkward. “Um, yeah. Thanks. But maybe next time don’t push me into cold, wet snow when I have no snow gear at all?” Nico felt relieved when Will smirked and rolled his eyes.

“I’ll find you some proper snow pants and boots then, because this is only the start of the snow fun, di Angelo. We have got to make a snowman!” Will stood up and offered Nico a hand, which he gratefully took. When Nico looked in Will’s eyes, he saw understanding in them. Will understood what Nico couldn’t say just yet.

Nico desperately wanted to tell Will how grateful he was. Maybe he’d even say how his feelings towards Will have been growing. With so much to say, Nico knew he had to build his courage. But Will understood that. He’d wait for Nico, however long he needed.

Will didn’t let go of Nico’s hand as they walked toward the infirmary for some hot chocolate and warmth.

[iguana012]

The Lord of the Wedding Rings: The Return of the King - iguana’s 2017 HELLsinki Worlds recap

This is it guys, the last big competition before the Olympics. So much potential for great skates, great disasters and great distress; this competition did not fail to deliver. Nor did the announcers, who were screaming out names and scores as if it were a wrestling match. And it was, in one way or another. Albeit a sparklier one. For a brief couple of days, we thought Javier Fernandez was gonna win his 3rd consecutive World title and I almost had those memes ready but at the same time I knew coming from behind like a wrecking ball was Yuzuru Hanyu’s specialty. To nobody’s surprise Evgenia Medvedeva broke a record; to everyone’s surprise, she only broke it in the long program. Meanwhile, Wenjing Sui and Cong Han’s blues for koolk brought the pairs crown back to China and Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir purple rained on Gabriella Papadakis and Guillaume Cizeron’s parade. Let’s start the recap!

It began with the forging of the Great Rings. Three were given to the Technical Panel, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Nine to the Judges, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And the rest of the rings were gifted to the race of Men, who above all else desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and the will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived, for another ring was made. Deep in the land of Eden, in the Fires of Mount Timshel, the Philosopher Lord Machida forged a master ring in secret, and into this ring he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate Hanyu’s all life. One ring to rule them all.

But on April 1st 2017, the world had changed. Yuzuru Hanyu could feel it in the ice. The stars were veiled. Something stirred in the East of Eden. A sleepless malice. The ring was THERE.

Ok seriously now, this guy had been waiting for this gold for 3 years. The first time he got it there were HOLY SHITS and OH MY GODS and CONTROVERSIES because 2014 Worlds is still remembered as that one competition where the difference between gold and silver was 

None of that shit here. Yuzuru Hanyu’s long program performance should be framed and taken into the church. Because no one else comes close to his ability to make those quads look like spinning on a fucking chair, all the while hearing music in the background and interpreting it. He really needed this gold medal and I’m glad he got it. 

World Silver Medalist Shoma Uno has been skating to Fantasy for Violin and Orchestra (aka Ladies in Lavender) all season and that’s a song I will personally forever associate with Tatsuki Machida’s retirement (ahahahah) but that program gave Shoma a new personal best, a medal, and a 2nd place in the World standings. Not too shabby going into the Olympic season. 

Boyang Jin has successfully defended his bronze medal with two great programs. I just can’t believe it was only 2 years ago when he and Shoma were battling for the JUNIOR Worlds gold and now here they are giving some uncles a run for their money. His quad lutz is a masterpiece. It can probably belong in the Sistine Chapel. 

Javier Fernandez’ Elvis wasn’t successful enough for the long program. While he dominated the short with his Matrix Malaguena, Hanyu skating a flawless program before him proved to be too much pressure for the two-time World Champion (how the fuck). tl;dr it was a mess. Probably a ~hot~ mess for some ladies and gents. 

Patrick Chan has successfully defended his 5th place from last year but this time he got a small bronze medal and joined the 100 club in the short! He also landed a quad salchow and not so Canadian axels. His programs this season were great and his skating is great. 

Nathan Chen had boot issues huh? Well honestly, after US Nationals and 4CC I would have been very surprised to see him skate another clean competition because: it’s his first senior year, he is pressured af, he will be even more pressured going into the Olympic season but hey - at least he got a nice, cold bottle of Coca-Cola to make him feel better. 

THE LADIES

And here’s the most disastrous event of the whole shebang. Well at least it was disastrous enough for Evgenia Medvedeva to refrain herself from smiling during a 9/11 program?? I guess??

Heavy silver medal favorite Anna Pogorilaya reverted to the old Pogofalls in the long program. It was almost like she’s been under a spell since Boston and it broke near its 1 year anniversary. That was certainly not what the Russian federation wanted to see, but Maria Sotskova wasn’t much better either. All in all Ilia Averbukh proved his point; his programs can save the world and Russia’s 3 spots at the Olympics. 

Speaking of spots, the Canadian ladies managed to get 3 spots for the first time in a millennium and they did it in high fashion; both Kaetlyn Osmond and Gabby Daleman made the podium. Who would have guessed? Figure skating is full of surprises after all. And it looks to me like the judges are more ready to reward Osmond than Pogorilaya. She’s going with a good reputation in the Olympic season and she has the support she needs to follow the footsteps of Joannie Rochette. All she has to do is deliver. 

Delivering is not always the best solution for other girls though. Wakaba Higuchi was criminally underscored in the short program. And by criminally I mean she can sue those judges for boycotting Japan getting 3 spots. With a 3Lz-3T and a 3F in the second half of the program she was 9th after the short. Really bitch? Really? They suddenly decided they were gonna punish the lack of steps into the solo jump? The fuck? Mai Mihara was great but that mistake in the short program was very costly Veeery costly. And lastly Rika Hongo was very brave. She was tired, she was injured, she wasn’t supposed to be there. But she was brave and I applaud her. 

The American ladies were lucky. And they did enough to keep 3 spots. The judges also did enough there I said it. Karen Chen did great, I love her short program. 

Basically everyone got back home having fulfilled their main goal, except for Japan, who has the deepest field in the World after Russia. For the first time in over 10 years, only two ladies will represent Japan at the Olympics. Figure skating fans are speculating who JSF will favor which ladies are more likely to get it. Will Mao Asada get her triple axel back? Will Satoko Miyahara manage to get back to her top form after injury? Will Marin Honda make a splash in her first year as a senior? Will Mai Mihara continue to stay consistent? This topic probably needs a separate post of its own. 

PAIRS AND ICE DANCE

Aliona Savchenko is a badass. The height she gets on the triple twist is probably the equivalent of two, two and half quad lutzes of Boyang Jin. Also throw triple axel!! Wtf bro my ankles hurt just looking at it!!

But Wenjing Sui and Cong Han were no doubt the class of the field. Two A-M-A-Z-I-N-G programs. You can see how connected they are. Not a single movement is wasted. Truly a gift in the field and I’m so grateful Wenjing recovered so well. 

Shoutout to Xiaoyu Yu for her potato finish! She’s done so well this season considering circumstances. And she’s so beautiful to watch!

Gabriella Papadakis and Guillaume Cizeron had pretty uninspiring programs this season but the free dance they put together was perfection. Yeah it’s nothing we haven’t already seen but everything about that performance was top stuff. 

Scott Moir had to fuck up to showcase Tessa Virtue’s flawlessness. But their Prince SD is great stuff. So great it broke some nice records. Including most of the free dance event (seriously what the fuck was that mess).

This is probably all I have to say about Worlds? This review sucks big time but I’m so tired I feel like I've been competing myself. Well that and the fact that Japan losing one spot really put me off. And I’m constantly worried about Satoko Miyahara so my snark wasn’t as sharp as it usually is during other competitions. This one was too much of a Real Deal y’know what I mean. 

Meanwhile the GP competitions next season look something like this

10/20-22 Cup of Russia 

10/27-29 Skate Canada 

11/3-5 Cup of China 

11/10- 12 NHK Trophy 

11/17- 19 Trophee de France 

11/24- 26 Skate America 

To be more exact 

Ah it smells like Olympics already. 

Just like last season and the season before last season I’m gonna make a top 10 programs of 2016-2017 sometime soon. But first I gotta get your requests done lmao sorry for the delay /o\ 

But since it’s (almost) the end of this season I want to thank you all for following me, sending me nice messages and being interested in my childish ramblings. You’re the bestest. 

[fairylaughing]

Klance Fluff Week Day 5: F.I.N.E.

Summary: It's been fifteen years since they started fighting Zarkon, three since they defeated him and returned to Earth, and just over 16 months since Lance's first break down.

Klance Fluff Week Day 5: Feelings

Okay, but like, how to do this prompt without angst? I gave up, there’s both angst and fluff, so it’s maybe more h/c? Deal with it.

Established Klance, about 15 years after series. Very minor season 2 spoilers, but if you haven’t seen it you probably won’t even know. depressed!Lance, head-canoning Keith as lactose-intolerant

Sorry I'm late by a day, today's and tomorrow's will both be posted tomorrow!

Trigger warning for depression/suicide attempts (non graphic/specific).

F.I.N.E.

Fifteen years. That isn’t that long in a person’s lifetime on the large scale of things, but for the members of Voltron it felt like a lifetime ago since they’d started fighting Zarkon. It had taken them twelve years to defeat him and return to Earth. The first two years on Earth had gone by in a blur of parades and diplomatic tours and weddings, but now that it had all settled down, Lance and Keith were trying to settling down together as a couple. Keith was managing it fine, surprisingly, but Lance wasn’t handling it quite as well.

Keith was an instructor back at Galaxy Garrison, preparing young cadets for their explorations into space. At first Lance had been working with international diplomacy agencies, since he was bar far one of the best recognized paladins of the team among visiting aliens (he’d probably attempted to Captain Kirk at least half of them), but lately he’d let the others do more of those appearances, and the aliens visiting Earth were less concerned with meeting the paladins of Voltron and more concerned with meeting the leaders of Earth.

That was alright by him. It was alright by Keith too. Lance was in no shape to deal with people day-in and day-out. He’d had a couple of melt-downs, and a scary spell where he wasn’t eating or sleeping and ended up fainting during a celebratory anniversary gala, and overall he was sick. Lance was sick not in body, but in mind. This was something they didn’t know how to fight, they hadn’t had time to deal with this sort of thing in space, so it built up, trauma layered upon trauma, but now it followed him everywhere. There was a black dog haunting the shadows wherever he went. It was so strange for someone as upbeat as Lance to have succumbed to this, but perhaps it was just because it was his fake-it-until-you-make-it attitude that had caused his psyche to crumble. They had all been through terrible things that no young person should have had to endure, but while Keith, Pidge and Hunk had weathered the storms, Lance had let the rain in until he was a sinking ship.

They were taken care of. They were heroes and so they were taken well care of financially, Keith and Lance had come together during their time as Voltron and they had remained so on Earth, purchasing a comfortable house for themselves with a large yard. Lance’s family had loved Keith right off the bat, and, although Keith’s dad was a little more reluctant to accept Keith’s sexuality, they had worked it out and he had come to really like Lance. In fact, Keith swore that his dad liked Lance better than he liked him.

Nowadays though? Nowadays all Lance felt like was a burden.

“I’m just getting groceries,” Keith said, pulling up their car in front of Lance’s counsellor’s office, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”

“I’m fine,” Lance said stiffly.

“If you don’t like this one we can find you another.”

“No, it’s okay,” Lance sighed. This was his third counsellor this year. No one on Earth seemed equipped to deal with him, but perhaps that was because no one else on Earth had ever spent twelve years, twelve very formative years, in space fighting a rebellion against an evil emperor. “Just come get me when you’re done?”

“Of course,” Keith said, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Lance didn’t believe him. Lance knew he was just doing it out of obligation, because Keith had married him before, when he was like he used to be. No one wanted to deal with him now, driving him to and from appointments, harassing him to take his meds, making sure he didn’t self-medicate, asking him how he was feeling, and listening to his senseless rambling while his eyes streamed. The counsellor was paid to do that. Of course, Ella was good about acting like she didn’t. Sometimes Lance could pretend that she actually cared.

Ella was only perhaps a decade older than Lance, in her mid-forties, but she carried herself with such dignity that she seemed older, a wealth of wisdom in her body. Her office was filled with bits of art work and quotations she liked, a zen writing board, yarn projects that she was working on, and a mess of houseplants across her desk and one long ivy-like vine that wrapped all the way around the room, awkwardly pinned up so that in enveloped the otherwise institutional space. Lance flopped onto the couch, immediately reaching for the soft crochet blanket on the top so that he could bring it between his fingers and ground him into the space.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional?” she asked.

Lance gave her a bitter grin, “Yup.”

“Let’s get started then. We’ll do some breathing, get you settled, and then we’ll try to figure out how you’re really feeling.”

___

��Grumpy’ the large cardboard square read with the appropriate yellow emoji. ‘Happy’, ‘Hip’, ‘Hurried’. Lance flipped through the cards, so many emotions streaming through his mind that he couldn’t pick just one, he didn’t know, he couldn’t choose. Eventually he settled on ‘Overwhelmed’ because it was the closest. He held it to show Ella.

“What’s overwhelming you?” she asked gently.

“I-I don’t know. Just… just… all of it.”

“That’s okay, just let yourself be overwhelmed then.”

___

Lance was overwhelmed, and then Ella walked him through some exercises, forced him back into his body, grounding him, but not going as deeply as she usually did, as if she sensed that today he was especially bad. Lance was especially bad today.

Keith was already waiting outside her office and while Lance booked his next time with the receptionist Ella took Keith aside. She handed him something, a book?

The ride home was quietly domestic. What was for dinner tonight, tomorrow’s agenda, when were Pidge and Hunk coming over to visit again… this weekend?

Lance couldn’t take it, “What did Ella give you?”

“Oh, it’s a mood book. Y’know, like a desk calendar, but with emojis. She wants you to pick one every morning when you wake up and every night before you go to bed and write it down.”

“This is useless,” Lance spat out.

“It’s easy though, you just have to pick a mood.”

“I mean all this counselling crap is pointless, it’s just covering up the problem, I’m barely coasting along, I’m a burden.” Lance’s words began to pour out, along with his tears, “I’m a stupid, useless waste of time, of space. I’m a waste of fucking air and oh God, I’ve fucked up everything and everyone I’ve ever laid my hands on. I’m so sorry I put you through all of this Keith, you deserve so, so much better. You should just let me go, leave me here. Pull over now and put me on the side of the road, in the ditch with the rest of the garbage!”

“I want nothing more than to pull over,” Keith said, “And to wrap you up in my arms and hold you forever.”

“You don’t mean that,” Lance screeched, “You’re just saying that because you feel like that’s what you’re supposed to say. You don’t need to.”

“I mean every word,” Keith gritted out, catching Lance’s eye in the rearview mirror. “I can’t pull over just yet, we’re on the freeway.”

Keith took the first available exit and, in a move that would make the stunt drivers of The Fast and the Furious jealous, he pulled off to the side of the road in a spot too short for most vehicles without his quick manoeuvring skills.

Lance burst out of the car onto his hands and knees and began to dry heave from stress. This was not unusual for him; stress went straight to his stomach.

Eventually Lance finished and Keith, picking up the metal water bottle from the cupholder, exited the driver’s side and joined him at the side of the road. He opened the bottle and offered it to Lance who took a large sip, swished it, and then spat it out. Then he took a real drink of water and shut the bottle before returning it to Keith. All this time he wouldn’t make eye contact, staring at some unspecified place just past the ditch. It was a pile of dead weeds trimmed with old, dirty, snow. They hadn't had any fresh snow in weeks and that crap at the side of the road, although not melted, was ice hard and blackened with car exhaust and grime. There was nothing pure about that snow, just as there was nothing pure about Lance.

“I really do mean it,” Keith said, coming up behind Lance.

Keith didn’t touch him. Lance knew he would react with anger, and that Keith knew this so he held back, but he still wanted to be touched. Badly.

Lance shook with uncontrolled emotion.

“Listen,” Keith sighed, crouching down, “I’m not going to lie. This has been hard for me. It’s just one problem after another and I start to wonder how long we’ll be doing this for.” He paused, “But I don’t mind doing it because I love you and I made a promise to be there for you.”

Lance sniffed, “Yeah, back before I fell apart. I’m a wreck now and you can’t want me still.”

“I do,” Keith gently set a hand on his shoulder, tense, as if he expected to be refused, “You’re still you, you’re still the Lance I fell in love with.”

Lance knew he wasn’t though, not anymore.

“How are you feeling?” Keith asked.

“Worthless.”

“You have worth to me,” said Keith.

“I don’t know what you see in me,” Lance replied, bitterly, pausing to look Keith in the face.

“Oh Lance,” Keith sighed, and then kissed him gently, fully, on the mouth. When he drew back he said, “I love you.”

“Okay,” said Lance, not quite willing to accept the love but willing to accept that Keith was stupid enough to love him.

“Can we go home now so I can make you some dinner?” Keith suggested, “I got the ingredients for that creamy shrimp pasta Hunk served us.”

“Can you eat that?” Lance asked, “Cause I’m not sleeping next to you if you get the same thing that happened after Hunk’s dinner party again. That was toxic.”

Keith blushed, and then laughed, “I think I’ve worked out a dairy-free version that’ll hopefully be just as good.”

“Mm, okay,” Lance said, letting Keith lift him from his knees to standing up. He was momentarily dizzy, not that he said anything, but Keith seemed to notice, or perhaps he just wanted to hug him, and took Lance into his arms, resting his head on his shoulder.

Keith whispered into his ear, “I love you, I don’t care if you believe it or not, I know it’s true, so don’t you ever forget.”

“I won’t,” Lance said, “You won’t let me.”