#it is a birthday gift to myself to write it

[midnight-mourning]

I need y'all to know I chose violence with this next chapter, and by violence I mean I had a rare spark of brilliance while writing the secondary outline today and it's SO GOOD I am SO excited for this next chapter fr fr

[firapolemos05]

Manners

CW: suggestive, creepy whumper, lady whumper, pet whump, water deprivation, muzzles, defiant whumpee, forced to beg

The glass of water on the table had caught her Pet's attention.

Scarlet noticed him stealing glances over the book in her hands, eyes darting between the glass and the floor. Longing. Oh it was simply adorable how he tried to hide it.

'How long should I make him wait?'

She raised the glass and took a nice long sip, the cool liquid refreshing. Her Pet's gaze held longer that time, a glint of desperation sneaking into his eyes. Chapped lips pulled into a thin line under his muzzle, and Scarlet knew he was trying so hard not to waste any remaining moisture in his mouth on them.

It had been days since she last allowed him to drink.

A consequence of disobedience. 

Fluids and nutrients delivered intravenously would prevent any actual dehydration, but that did nothing to treat cottonmouth. The parched barren of his throat must be unbearable by now.

"You must be thirsty, aren't you, Pet?" she inquired. His eyes shot back to the floor, embarrassment marking his face at being caught. Scarlet chuckled. That pride of his made it too easy. "Come now, you remember your tenth rule, right?"

Mentioning the rules always made him flinch. Oh he remembered alright. She had made sure of that. Made him recite each one over and over, interrupting each mistake or refusal with a strike of her switch across his back.

He remembered them very well.

'Rule 10: Pets do not request, they beg.'

While knowing his rules was one thing, following them was another. And her Pet had a particularly difficult time with this one. A defiant little one, he was, but after several weeks of strict training, Scarlet had cracked his armor. 

Some beautiful cracks. 

The fear that flashed in his gaze whenever she entered his cell. The empty, resigned silence whenever she ran her fingers through his hair, or traced the masterpiece of scars over his skin. He was even getting better at remembering to call her 'master.'

Now Scarlet watched another crack form. Watched the show of emotions he failed to suppress: anger, humiliation, anxiety, craving. She took another sip from the glass and watched the unspoken threat fuel those last two. And soon she spots the exact moment of breakage. 

He turned towards her and bowed his head. His voice weak and rasping.

"May I please have some water. . . Master?"

Oh how delightful. 

It usually takes him far longer to beg. He must really be desperate. He didn't even growl this time. 

The satisfaction was like a drug.

"Good boy," she smiled and he bristled at the praise. He despised it now but it'll be a matter of time before he's craving that too. She pointed to the floor in front of her chair. "Come here."

Her Pet hated to crawl, but he knew better than to attempt standing without permission. Oh well. He can be grateful his arms are bound in front of him today.

He avoided eye contact as he approached, a glare glued to the tile flooring. But soon, he was where he looked best, kneeling at her feet.

His hands rose to reach for the glass, a gesture Scarlet swiftly corrected by catching the chain connecting them under her boot and pinning them down.

"Pets do not use their hands," she scolded and he grimaced. She held the glass out, hovering it just above his head. "Tilt your head back and open your mouth."

His face flushed dark at that, the anger and shame making a reappearance. He had earned his reward, but he still had to accept it however she wished him to. Even if it was a display of power such as this. It was too late for him to refuse, but he almost looked as if he was going to try. Fortunately for him, the desire to quench his thirst won out. He obeyed, his jaws parting as far as the muzzle would allow them.

Scarlet poured slowly, wanting to savor his reactions. She could be a gracious master now and then. She was careful to let the water fall steadily in between the muzzle's wires.

To his credit, her Pet tried to remain stoic, composed. But as soon as liquid passed his lips, the animal need took over. Like an eager dog he gulped it down, leaning closer, squeezed his eyes shut as he craned his neck to catch every last drop. The effort failed him, as his movements made the drops catch on the muzzle, splashing over the metal. Well, that was his own fault. Glossy streaks ran down his chin and neck.

Scarlet licked her lips.

She should do this again, just with her favorite red wine. Painting her Pet's neck with dripping red would be quite enticing. And it would be an order then, rather than a reward. He won't be able to refuse, and won't be able to stop her from pulling him into her lap to lick the wine from his neck.

Oh how he will hate it. And she will feast on his helpless fear.

The last drop of water fell from the glass.

It's barely enough to satiate. Her Pet gasped for air, greedily seeking more where there is none. It will be a short respite, and he closed his mouth to prevent his breaths from stealing that back. Then he noticed the amused expression of approval on his master’s face and turned away, abashed at his behavior.

Scarlet curled a finger through his muzzle, pulling him back to face her. "Now what do you say?"

Another rule he had difficulty with.

Contempt twisted his features, and before he could think better of it, the words already left his mouth. "Go to hell."

Scarlet grinned. She can already taste his regret. 

Time for another lesson. 

[yeonzzzn]

ITS MEH BIRTHDAY 🥳🥳🥳

[koifishscribbles]

Just hopping on again to remind folks of my wip long satosugu fic entitled I’m Sorry: In Various Translation!

Here’s the premise:

Gojo Satoru has not seen his ex, Getou Suguru, since college. Until he shows up one day teaching in the classroom across the hall from him.

Here’s a list of things that you might like about it:

- 56k so far and nobody’s kissed yet but it’s coming really soon. It’s definitely slowburning.

- alternating povs in a curse free AU. See satosugu in high school, then college, and finally as teachers!

- some of the major themes are grief and growing up (maybe that’s just a bonus for me)

Here’s a sample from the latest chapter (I picked an angsty bit for y’all):

“Smoke your fucking cigarette.” Satoru spits. It tastes like bile, but the only way he’s going to feel better is to cough it all up. “When’d you realize that you fucked up?”

The spark of the lighter burn his eyes. He still smokes the same cigarettes as Shoko. In a cloud of smoke Suguru responds, “I am still not sure I fucked up—“

“Fuck you.” It bubbles out of him and hangs from his lips before he can stop it.

“I deserve that. I think that if I had stayed, I might not be here, so I didn’t fuck up, I just survived. I felt guilty about leaving before I even did it. The question wasn’t you or me, because I like to think I would have picked to save you. The question was: save myself or we both drown.”

Satoru doesn’t expect to have anything left to say. The few words he’s already choked up have left his throat feeling raw, but this slips out coated in his blood: “I would have picked you too.” The phrase sits between them, garishly caring.

[lothcatthree]

a lesson in pushing and pulling

pairing: cal kestis/bode akuna

rating: explicit

word count: 5.3k

summary:

“Could be better,” Cal responds with gravel in his voice.

“Kestis, you just had a dick down your throat and you still won’t shut up,” Bode huffs and slides his hands down Cal’s ass, lifting him up in a motion that shouldn’t be so easy, “What’s it gonna take, huh?”

-

Cal and Bode take down a cell of raiders on Koboh, and they decide to celebrate back at Pyloon's. Cal just wants to celebrate a different way and he's willing to play dirty to get it.

[buddie-buddie]

as long as you're right here (stay next to me)

2.2k - g - read on ao3

The fireworks show is Buck’s idea. 

Not that Eddie puts up much of a fight once he sees the hopeful glint in Buck’s eye. But still. Buck’s idea. 

“Fireworks?” Eddie asks, passing Buck the stack of plates he’d just pulled out of the dishwasher. He used to like fireworks. It feels like a lifetime ago, but he did. Before he was choppered out of a combat zone with a couple of bullets and some shrapnel beneath his skin. Before he almost bled out on the pavement in the middle of the day and added another couple of scars to his collection. Before sparks rained down in the middle of a parking lot and left Buck’s lifeless body hanging limply from the ladder truck. 

“It’s the Fourth of July,” Buck says by way of reply, putting the plates away before turning back to Eddie. “We have to see fireworks on the Fourth of July.”

It is the Fourth of July after all, and Christopher is sleeping at the Wilsons’ which means Eddie and Buck have the night to themselves. Fireworks might not be the worst idea. Sure, they’d have to go to the ones in the park to avoid running into Christopher and his friends at the pier, lest they commit the ultimate parents-of-a-preteen crime.

But it could be nice. Romantic, even. Eddie can picture it now. Just the two of them, laying side by side in the grass and staring up at the stars, hands intertwined as they wait for the show to begin. Although he doesn’t think there’s anything romantic about his chest tightening and his heart rate ratcheting up as soon as the explosions begin. Nothing screams “romance” quite like his palms sweating and his skin buzzing beneath an onslaught of anxiety.

Any protests Eddie might’ve had die on his tongue when he goes to pass Buck the silverware basket and instead finds himself lost in the sparkle in those beautiful blue eyes. There’s something hopeful there, something that has Eddie setting the basket down on the counter and stepping around the dishwasher door, something that has him snaking his hands around Buck’s waist, something that has him saying, “Okay, baby,” before meeting Buck’s lips in a kiss. 

Eddie understands why Buck wanted to come. It’s… well, it’s kind of perfect. The sun is dipping beneath the horizon, leaving the sky painted in shades of purple that slowly bleed into blue. The balmy air smells like popcorn and Buck’s lips taste like cotton candy, which makes the twenty minutes spent waiting in line for it completely worth it, as far as Eddie's concerned.

There are plenty of other people here, but there’s more than enough room for everyone to spread out and have their space. 

“This is nice,” Eddie says, once they’re settled on the blanket Buck insisted they bring. Buck hums in agreement, leaning his head against Eddie’s shoulder as their fingers tangle together. 

. . .

The first explosion startles them both. There’s plenty of warning, and yet Buck feels Eddie tense beneath him, the muscles in his shoulders coiling tight as the first round of fireworks burst in the sky above them. His own breath hitches in his throat, and he catches himself gripping Eddie’s hand just a little bit tighter. 

Eddie squeezes back almost instantly, without hesitation. It’s the reminder Buck needs that Eddie’s here, that he’s safe. That this won’t be like the last couple of times a similar sound echoed around them. That no one’s going to be left bleeding out in the middle of the street. No one’s going to be dangling lifeless in the air as a driving rain pours down over them. 

“We’re okay,” Eddie murmurs. Somehow, amidst the explosions and cheers and voices around them, Eddie’s quiet assurance rings the loudest. 

“We’re okay,” Buck echoes. He squeezes Eddie’s hand again. 

When the next round is fired off, neither one of them flinches. 

There’s something a little bit surreal about it, living in this moment. It’s the same feeling he has every morning when he wakes up next to Eddie, the same feeling he has every time he packs Christopher’s lunch, every time Eddie announces it’s Buck’s turn to take the trash out. It’s the same rush of warmth beneath his skin, the same flutter of his heart that happens every time they pull up to a red light and Eddie steals a kiss across the center console, every time Eddie texts him from the grocery store and asks if they’re out of eggs.

There’s beauty in the mundane, and even more so in the moments— these moments— that make up a love, a life that Buck simultaneously dreamed of and never thought he’d have. 

He’s never known happiness like this. 

He turns to tell Eddie as much when the first spark hits them. 

It takes a moment for Buck’s brain to realize what’s happening. At first, all that registers is Eddie grabbing him, his arms coming around Buck’s sides as he pulls him into his chest. One of Eddie’s hands is in the middle of his back, the other on the back of his head. He tucks Buck against his chest, holding him as close as he possibly can. And then they’re moving. Rolling, more specifically. There’s a flash of heat, a loud series of pops and sizzles and high pitched whines. 

Someone screams. Someone else does too. And then there’s another round of quick, loud pops. 

And then Buck doesn’t hear anything at all except for the hammering of his own heart. 

Maybe it’s Eddie’s heartbeat he hears. He’s still holding Buck against his chest, still has his own body draped over Buck’s. He’s still blanketing him— still protecting him. 

Buck doesn’t know yet what’s happening. He doesn’t know what it is that Eddie is shielding him from. But he does know that it feels safe here, wrapped up in Eddie’s arms and tucked close into his chest. 

“Buck?” There’s panic creeping into Eddie’s voice. “Hey, look at me.” 

His hands come to bracket Buck’s face, leaning back just enough so they can see each other clearly. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks. 

Buck nods. Part of him wants to look around and figure out what the hell just happened. But a bigger, more insistent part of him can’t tear his eyes away from Eddie’s. They’re wide and searching, filled with fear and concern as they rake over Buck’s face. Buck doesn’t miss the slight tremble in Eddie’s bottom lip, nor the way his breath seems to catch in his throat with each shaky inhale. 

“You’re sure?” Eddie asks, his voice equal parts hopeful and unsteady. 

Buck nods again, and lets Eddie hold his face in his hands and run his thumbs over his cheeks as the panic in his eyes melts into relief. 

“W-What’s going on?” Buck asks, his voice unsteady.  

“Some idiots brought homemade fireworks.” The disgust is thick in Eddie’s voice, each word dripping with disdain. 

A second round explodes nearby and they scramble to get to their feet. Buck stumbles, his foot catching in a stranger’s blanket amidst the chaos. He hits the ground, though Eddie’s quick to haul him up and link their fingers together. People are still screaming, still running, the entire area having descended into madness as the professional fireworks continue firing into the sky.  

Eddie leads the way as they weave through the crowd. His grip on Buck’s hand is steady and unwavering; he doesn’t let go until they’re back at the truck, and even then it’s only long enough for the two of them to climb inside and shut the doors before Eddie’s hands are back on him. This time, they’re running over Buck’s hands, his wrists, the warm skin of his arms left exposed by his arguably too-tight t-shirt. They make their way to his face, pausing in time with the breath that catches in Eddie’s throat. 

“Eddie,” Buck begins. His voice sounds gravelly, like he’s just swallowed sand. He clears his throat and tries again. “Eddie, I’m fine. I— I’m okay.”

. . .

“You’re bleeding,” Eddie says. Voicing the realization doesn’t do much to stop the hammering of his heart, nor the way his breath is coming in bursts so quickly his lungs have started to burn. If anything, it magnifies it. “You’re… you’re bleeding. On your cheek.”

Buck brings his fingers up to his cheek, and Eddie guides them with his own trembling fingers to where the skin across his cheekbone is scraped. It isn’t bleeding heavily, but enough so that Buck’s fingers come back tinged in red. 

“Guess I am,” Buck says, his voice calm in a way that’s almost disarming. 

He’s bleeding because some imbeciles thought it would be fun to set off their own amateur fireworks a few feet away from them, and Buck is calm about it. Not that it matters — Eddie’s got enough rage for the both of them. 

Buck pulls down the sun visor, turning his face away from Eddie’s gentle hold just long enough to check out his scraped up cheek in the small mirror before turning back to face Eddie. “Nothing a little betadine and Neosporin can’t fix.”

“Buck—” Eddie hates the strangled edge to his voice, the way it threatens to break over the single syllable. He hates how scared he sounds, how weak and defeated. He needs to be strong for Buck. He needs to—

“I know,” Buck says, his voice soft and gentle as he brings his hand up to Eddie’s cheek. He runs his thumb over the freckle beneath Eddie’s eye, the same one he makes sure to press a kiss against every night and again every morning. “I was scared too.” 

He leans forward, his forehead resting against Eddie’s. They share a long, deep breath. Eddie’s hands have migrated to Buck’s neck, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath Eddie’s fingers grounding him in ways he’d never be able to describe. Eddie closes his eyes, breathes in the familiar scent of Buck’s shampoo, and thanks God and Jesus and every saint he can name that they made it. That they’re here. That they’re together. 

That they’re okay. 

By the time they get home, Eddie’s calmed down. Around halfway through the drive, his heart no longer felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. His hands were still shaking, mostly due to the adrenaline comedown. Buck had been quick to notice, though, reaching over and taking Eddie’s hand in one of his own.

“How were you so calm?” Eddie had asked, looking over at Buck and admiring the way his eyes sparkled beneath the glow of the streetlights. 

Buck had shrugged. “You had me. I knew it would be okay.” 

Eddie’s eyes shone with tears for the next two blocks.

Their hands are still laced together now, as Eddie leads Buck into the house and towards the bathroom. He pulls out the first aid kit as Buck sits atop the counter, spreading his knees to make room for Eddie to work. 

“I’m sorry,” Buck says after a moment, earning himself a frown from Eddie.

“Sorry?” Eddie echoes, his voice low and quiet as he focuses on getting the lid off of the betadine, but the concern in it perfectly clear all the same. “What for?” 

Buck sighs. Shrugs. Drops his gaze to where his hands grip the countertop on either side of his thighs. “This isn’t supposed to be how we remember tonight.” 

“Nah,” Eddie says simply, pouring the solution onto a gauze pad. “I’m not going to remember this part. Standing in the cotton candy line for twenty minutes because someone has a raging sweet tooth, though…”

Buck scoffs. “Well I’m going to remember you eating half of the cotton candy you insisted you didn’t want.” 

Eddie will remember that too. 

He’ll also remember the way it tasted even better clinging to Buck’s lips. He’ll remember that slow, sweet kiss right as the sun went down. He’ll remember Buck’s head against his shoulder, the way the tension bled out of him and how everything inside of him suddenly settled as their fingers laced together in the overgrown grass. He’ll remember his stolen glance at Buck as the fireworks display started, the way the shadows danced across his face beneath the shades of red and blue that lit the sky.

He’ll remember being together. 

He’ll forget the rest.

. . .

Later, once Eddie’s put the first aid kit back under the sink and eased Buck off the counter— despite his protests that he’s completely fine, baby, I promise — they make their way to bed. It’s there, with Buck tucked into Eddie’s side and his curls brushing the underside of Eddie’s jaw, where Eddie presses a kiss to the top of Buck’s head and murmurs, “That’s not what I’ll remember.” 

“Hmm?” Buck hums, looking up to meet Eddie’s eyes. 

“When I think about tonight,” Eddie says. “I won’t remember giving you first aid on the bathroom counter. Or those godforsaken idiots lighting off a glorified IED.”

Buck grins. “Yeah?” 

“I’ll remember being with you.”

“You will?” 

“And the cotton candy line,” Eddie deadpans. “But mostly being with you. That’s the only thing that matters.”

Buck tips his chin up to meet Eddie for a kiss. And even though this one doesn’t taste like cotton candy, Eddie thinks it still might be the best one he’s ever had.

[quinloki]

Birthday Request Event

"It's my birthday and I'll write what I want to \o/"

Gift Details ♥ Reader: Cis-fem!sub Reader Character: Donquixote Doflamingo Kink: #15 Bratty Reader #17 Degradation/Humiliation Prompt: #20 "Kiss me like you missed me." Gift Giver: @thus-spoke-lo

Summary: Doflamingo up and left you without and word, and upon his return home expects you to kiss him like you missed him. Instead, you snub him, and storm off to your room. Only to have the king of the castle storm in behind you.

Content Notes: degradation, dirty pet names, attitude from the reader and Doffy, string bondage, rough oral sex, edging

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

The large hand almost engulfs your face, forcing you to look at him. You can see the vein in his forehead throbbing, despite the wide grin on his face. He’s not amused at all, and frankly, you didn’t want him to be. You were mad.

He had left without a word. For days. You didn’t even get a single word from him over transponder snail and had to find out he was gone on business from fucking Trebol of all people. Which meant you didn’t just get a simple report, you had to humor him for nearly an hour, and he would not stop talking.

Nothing against Trebol, but you hadn’t been in any sort of humoring mood when you’d learned your one and only had just up and ghosted without a single word.

Upon his return Doffy had explained to you that the business at hand had been severely urgent, and that he had been well and truly indisposed during the time he was gone. He wasn’t one who was overly interested in explaining himself, in any capacity, so the fact that he went that far should have been enough.

Normally, it would be.

But normally he didn’t leave you for days at a time without so much as an assurance that he wasn’t dead somewhere.

Implying that someone could take him down had been the wrong choice of words on your part, and now here you were. Face held, and an angry lover in front of you.

Your brows knit, anger welling up in you in return, and you pull your face away, batting his hand aside. You’re painfully aware of the fact that he allowed both actions. He’s always allowed you a level of bodily autonomy he didn’t have to, given his strength and position.

“I was worried. You’re dealing with all manner of people and who knows what lucky bastard fate’s set against you?” You grumble, crossing your arms and turning away. “I did miss you, but – ah!” You feel the strings over take you, binding your body, and forcing your arms behind your back in practice movements.

“Doffy! Let me-aaahhhhmm-shit.” You struggle at first, but his tongue against your neck, and his hand down your pants was too much all at once. He’s persistent, but gentle, and the gentleness is raising your temperature and addling your brain as he deftly teases your clit.

You can hear his laugh flutter against your skin as his voice threads through your ear. “My, my, you’re already soaking wet. My little whore wants to talk back to me? After I already gave her more than she deserved by explaining myself?

“It seems my favorite brat needs a lesson in manners.” He growls, a thick finger sliding into your mouth and pressing against your tongue before you can say anything in protest.

One of the biggest reasons that Doflamingo was able to manipulate you, had almost nothing to do with the fact that he was incredibly good at manipulating people. It was because you were weak to being bound, used, and pump full of either pleasure or pain. Your connection ran deeper than merely shared twisted carnal desires, but you were certain his reaction to your sass was because he had missed you too.

In more ways than one.

And this would handle two issues at once.

You could hear the sloppy wet sounds from your mouth and your thighs, the heat building in your core as you couldn’t hope to squirm away. Your breath was hot and coming out in huffs around his finger and you shiver in the threads around you as the pleasure was making your legs shake.

“ ‘Offy, ‘lease.” You mumble around his finger.

“Mmm, no.” He answers, finger leaving your clit just as you were certain you were going to cum. He cleans his finger off by wiping it on your shirt before he rips the garment away from you. Threads slip between you and the rest of your clothes, ripping them to pieces and leaving the tattered bits to hang from the other threads that held you.

“Not a word.” He growls, taking his finger out of your mouth and walking away. You can hear the shift of cloth from behind you. You aren’t surprised when his strings move you, to see him seated on the edge of your bed, nothing on except his feather coat.

He brings you between his knees, his hand pushing your head to his semi-hard cock. “Welcome me home.” He commands.

You’re already on thin ice, but you’re also still irritated with him, so you give his shaft a few licks and a kiss before you look up at him and stick your tongue out. The devilish grin on his face doesn’t have the throbbing vein to go with it and he laughs.

“I do love that about you,” he admits, grabbing your hair roughly and shoving himself into your mouth. “But it was not a request, my love.”

You do your best to adjust quickly to the assault. His dry cock stuck to your lips a few times until you were able to get everything nice and wet. The discomfort gave way to a more comfortable set up, and Doffy let go of his grip on your hair as you began to suck and lick him properly on your own.

“Much better.” He muses, shifting his hips every now and then to drive himself a little deeper into your throat. “That’s how you greet me properly, slut. I was too kind to request a simple kiss, it seems.”

You lean back to say something, but before you can even squeak, his hand is in your hair again, pushing you back down.

“I said, ‘not a word’, and I meant it, my sweet bird.” He hums, shoving his hard cock down your throat until you’re gagging and crying from the actions. He moves in long enough strokes to allow you to breathe, even giving you a moment to cough and sputter a few times before continuing. He never allows you enough time to speak, and after a few moments he pushes almost painfully deep, forcing your nose into his pubes and forcing stars across your vision.

He pulls out to you sputtering and coughing, tears and snot and drool sliding down your face before he adds his cum to the mess. He smears the mess around your face and down to your chest, pinching your nipples roughly and forcing a yelp from you before he stops.

“Speak, brat, what do you say?” He asks, leaning back and glaring down at you.

“Th-thank you, sir.” You gasp, coughing once more to clear your throat. “Wel… welcome home.” You add quietly, heat flushing through your body.

Strings lift you up, forcing you to straddle his large waist, spreading your legs wide. You can feel his dick twitching against your slit.

“Better,” he muses, pulling a larger scrap of your ruined clothes free and using it to clean up your face. “Now, my sweet little bird, prove you missed me and kiss me accordingly.” He commands.

You can feel some of the threads go slack and you’re able to move your arms again. You reach out, cupping his face in your hands and bringing the two of you together.

“I missed you, Doffy, you bastard.” You say with a genuine smile, closing the small distance between you and kissing him. Softly at first, peppering him with a few brief kisses before parting your lips and urging him to devour you in return.

He held you in place, kissing you sweetly, as you felt the tip of his hard cock prodding your slick folds, pushing slowly into your pussy. You gasped and moaned into the kiss, welcoming the dangerously thick intrusion that promised to properly apologize to you for his extended absence.

Check out the event - requests are accepted until 7/31/2023 EST

[hijinks-n-lowjinks]

first teaser for chapter 12 of my itafushi fic and i’ve been tryin’ not to feel it

[miyagi-hokarate]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Equalizer (TV 1985) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Robert McCall, Scott McCall (The Equalizer TV 1985) Additional Tags: No Plot/Plotless, Tense Switching, Ambiguity, Angst, Daddy Issues, Character Study, Sort Of Summary:

Scott was nine years old when he understood a few things: being nine was only a little bit better than being eight, his first crush was on the pretty bow and strings of a violin being played, and Scott’s dad did not love him enough to stay.

That final fact felt as heavy and wrong as the pair of black work shoes beside Mom's heels and Scott's sneakers. It wasn’t right, but the shoes stayed for far longer there than when his own dad was last around. The shoes had made a home here, Scott thought.

[kanvaskat]

hiiiiiii i'm super curious about your WIP "Wolf of Wellwood" and would love to learn more about it because i'm so in love with the vibes and art for it, but i wasn't sure if DMs would be ok so WAAAHH!!!!! I'll screm about it here!!!!!!!!

Thanks so much for the ask! I'd be more than happy to talk more about it, so I really appreciate you giving me the opportunity to! >:3

"Wolf of Wellwood" follows Charles Rowan, a mild-mannered, bookish, middle-class gentleman, who's always struggled with expressing his own anger, thus lacking in assertion and self-confidence.

Due to tense family matters, he decides to impulsively move from London to the quaint countryside town of Wellwood, Wales.

As he settles into his new home, a run-down house that has seen better days, he befriends his neighbours; Elisa Fletcher and her brother Patrick, who run a small sheep farm, as well as caring for their elderly aunt.

Just as he begins to adjust to his new life, Charles is attacked by a strange beast, which he barely survives, as the creature is shot dead before it could land the killing blow.

He is left permanently disabled and scarred, both mentally and physically, as he also begins to battle with unusual changes happening to him that he doesn't quite comprehend.

Throughout Charles' internal turmoil, rumours of an undefined monstrous creature spreads like wildfire throughout town (referred to as "The Beast of Wellwood" by the local newspaper) as the grisly deaths of livestock and humans alike escalate in numbers.

With a worrying lack of memory, and a sense of growing paranoia, Charles begins to wonder;

Is he truly a murderer, without even realising it?

The story itself is primarily a gothic horror, written under the genre of mystery/thriller/drama.

It carries themes of PTSD, anxiety, masculinity, self-image, masking, and repressed emotions.

...

[beatfreesmysoul]

//Another year older. I'll be on later but in the meantime, extending ya'll the best day with my surplus birthday luck!

[clochanamarc]

i'm actually so excited to write fiachra tho bc like. he isn't a likeable villain in the least, but he is understandable in terms of how he became the man he is today. and the fact that aisling doesn't talk about him, doesn't tell anyone he exists, nobody knows what he looks like, like. he could very easily be having conversations with your muses, and they wouldn't be any the wiser.

[ethereance]

мιяяσя мιяяσя

“So in this universe—”

“Reality.”

“—Uh. In this reality. Are you and me—?”

“Yes.”

He tries not to squeak. It doesn’t work. “So this means we—?”

“I don’t want to think about it,” she says.

(In which Lance and Allura get fast tracked to their happy ending whilst their alternate selves get thrown back into some robot lion action. Because sure, why not, this might as well happen.)

***

You’ll have to excuse Lance for thinking this is a dream at first, the haze of sleep still a thick fog in his brain, leaving little room for cognitive thought. But here he is, snuggled up under the covers of what’s easily be the cosiest bed he’s ever slept on, face to sleeping face with a certain silver haired beauty he could only ever dream of being this close to, and well, you can understand the confusion. This is Allura he’s talking about here. A princess Lance would compare to Aphrodite had he not gone through a Percy Jackson phase at age twelve and learned all about the consequences of a statement like that. Gods get up to some pretty petty stuff. 

So Lance silently thanks his brain for not only giving him the opportunity to have a waking up in space-Vegas dream about Allura, but making it lucid to boot, and savours the moment, silently begging real life Allura not to choose today of all days to hold an early morning drill, for, as alluring of an alarm clock she is, Lance needs to catch his zzzs somehow. You don’t think he wakes up every morning looking as great as he does without some form of rest, do you? It’s called beauty sleep for a reason, and there’s plenty of beauty in this particular sleep.

There’s something so peaceful about dream Allura’s sleeping face, at ease in a way Lance has only seen once, back when she was suspended in time by that cryopod. She’s a busy woman, always putting every ounce of her time into winning them this war. As much as Lance would love for her to kick back and relax, even just for a bit with them, she simply doesn’t. Maybe, once the universe throws them a parade for karate kicking Zarkon out of business, she’ll finally get the chance. 

Man, even her sleep tousled hair looks ethereal. Lance doesn’t know how Allura does it. He’ll have to ask her what shampoo she uses. L’Oréal for aliens or something. It has to be something other than the ten thousand year old soap they have all been given. Princess privileges, is he right?

Though, if he pays attention, there’s something about her face, subtle as it is, which appears older somewhat? It’s in the cheekbones, the skin. Enough to suggest some sort of passage of time within this dream world, though as to how old she’s meant to be, Lance can’t say.

Allura’s eye twitches, and Lance watches as she stirs awake, looking drowsily around. As her eyes land on him, they widen, snapping into focus. 

“Morning, beautiful,” he says as she sits up, pulling out his flirtiest trump card. Hunk once said his smouldering look makes him look a mix of goofy and constipated, and that it really doesn’t do him any favours—thanks Hunk—but he’s sure dream Allura will appreciate it. 

She stares at him blankly. Guess this dream gets points for its realism. 

“Lance,” Allura says slowly, critically, “Is that you?”

“Well yeah. Expecting anyone else?”

“I wasn’t expecting—do you remember anything that happened?”

Lance feels his face flush. Calm down on the dream lore. “Uh, between you and me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, seemingly appalled at the thought. Ow. “We were with the Prismariums. Do you have any recollection of their festivities? Our fight against the robeast?”

“The prismari…” Lance trails off, blinking away the last of the sleepy haze. He scrambles backwards, almost tumbling off the bed as he does so. “Holy quiznack. This isn’t a dream.”

“No, more like a nightmare,” she says, and again. Ow. 

***

𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

You know how it goes. Kick robeast ass, save a planet, stay around for the victory celebration. Lance is kinda sorta a pro at this now. Sure, he hasn’t been doing this gig long, the whole Voltron defender of the universe thing, but he’s starting to get a good idea of what to expect. And apparently what to expect are a lot of super thankful, super cool looking aliens. 

All in a day’s work. Or quintant? Lance thinks that’s the word Allura and Coran have been using. Anyway, it’s just what they do. No need to thank them. 

Though, yeah, all that thanks is very much appreciated. 

(It’s still super weird. Because him? They really have all this unwavering faith in Lance, in all of them, to end a war that’s been going on for far longer than his family tree has been alive?

How could—)

The prismariums are a species that can best be described as what would happen if you squeezed toothpaste into a human-ish shaped mould. That clear stuff with all the microplastics in. Their skin shimmers at the touch, pulsing in colours specific to the individual, blues and greens, and yellows, and reds. There’s this particularly beautiful one at the front of the group with eyes vaguely reminiscent of Allura’s, and pink scales lining her neck and upper arms. Her hair descends just past her shoulders, and has an overall effect that reminds Lance of that one fibre optic lamp he had as a kid, always enthralled by its colours. Even her eyelashes pulse with colour.

She introduces herself as Princess Evuth, the third daughter of Queen Naex, and practically begs them all to follow her to the castle to speak with her mother so she can coordinate the proper ceremony required for saving her people.

“We’re just doing our job as paladins,” says Shiro, who much to Lance’s disappointment seems to have no intention of accepting any reward. “The safety of this quadrant will be reward enough.”

“But it is customary!” Princess Evuth protests, something in her tone triggering immediate action from Allura.

“Shiro,” she says, placing a hand on his shoulder. Lance does his best to suppress the slight pang of jealousy at their closeness. “I think it’s best we agree. We wouldn’t want to offend her people’s customs.” Lance recalls their time with the Arusians, all too ready to throw themselves into a sacrificial pyre. Perhaps Allura is currently doing the same. “And I would very much like to speak to the queen about joining the coalition.”

“Excellent,” says Princess Evuth, beaming with joy. “Please allow me to escort you to the castle.”

Lance hadn’t really had time to admire the sights earlier on, back in his lion, a little preoccupied at the time, but looking at this planet now, it’s easily a beautiful one, flush with greens, fields and hills as far as the eye can see, which it does pretty well, twenty twenty vision and all, rip Pidge (“What do you mean you don’t actually need glasses?”) Between triangular shaped crystal outcrops—their numerous windows suggesting that these are their homes rather than ornamental scenery—copious amounts of trees spring from the ground, leaves oddly translucent, a running theme on this planet. 

And if you think the prismariums are colourful, they have nothing on their castle, a giant glittering set of prisms protruding from the ground, reflecting beams of rainbow light every which way. They truly live up to their prismarium name, so it seems. 

“Ahh, it may be different, but it’s just as colourful as I remember,” says Coran, an achingly nostalgic glint to his eye, “I’ve only been the once. My old band, you see, we wanted to branch out to other music genres, find a wider audience outside of Altea. Those were the days. The Prismariums were famous for their Yarflemfloop, this long instrument that wobbles around like this, see?” He makes this wobbling motion with his whole body, his limbs suddenly jellyified. “Though I never could quite get any of the notes right. It does make for a nice hat. Though I wouldn’t recommend keeping it on unless you want it stuck there. Haha!”

Princess Evuth’s eyes widen, horrified. “Who in the stars would ever put a Yarflemfloop on their head?”

“Oh, you know.” Coran’s smile turns sheepish. “Just a fellow I once knew. Had one too many a pint of nunvil. Nothing worth dwelling on now, it’s all in the past.”

Allura rolls her eyes, shaking her head to herself. And yet, it’s an action that’s so incredibly fond. 

They make their way into the castle with significantly less anecdotes from Coran this time, giving Princess Evuth the opportunity to throw in some tourist trivia as they shuffle onto this large, circular platform to take them upwards into the castle. Stuff about the glamorous views in the Winter months—an approximately nine month long period in their twenty four month long year—and the planet’s musical history, such as how they managed to make their rocks ‘sing’ in a way, achieving notes through contact. 

The castle appears to have a hollowed out centre, though, which becomes obvious when the queen meets them in her throne room, large and spacious with a glass floor that has even Lance—a pilot with no history of having a fear of heights—feeling slightly queasy upon realising how far up they are. He has no idea how Hunk lives like this. 

“Esteemed paladins, Princess Allura, Advisor Coran,” begins the queen, red and purple where her daughter is pink. She rises from a triangular shaped chair to greet them. “I cannot thank you enough for protecting my planet’s safety, and by extension, the safety of my beloved daughters of whom are my greatest treasure of all. Please allow me to extend you my hospitality, and request that you attend our victory celebration later this evening.” She pauses. “I hope my invitation won’t delay you on your mission to recover peace across the universe.”

“We would be honoured to attend,” says Allura, and before they know it, they’re getting a tour of the castle as the chefs prepare. 

The rest of the castle lacks the transparent flooring that distinguishes the throne room, going for all of the colours instead of none. They get led down passageways completely orange, or blue, or whatever shirmple is (“I see. It appears your eyes cannot pick up the varied range of colours as we can.”) to just as vibrant rooms, some of the highlights being the music room (none of the instruments in there remotely resembling anything you’d find on Earth, though Lance does get to find out what a Yarflemfloop is as well as firsthand experience that Coran cannot play it), the golf course (which none of the prismariums refer to as golf), and the swimming pool (Lance does not know what that liquid is but it is not water. Looks rather rejuvenating though. He’d be open to trying it out). Lance supposes that, on whatever planet you’re on, rich people will be rich people.

“The legend goes that our people were cut out of the very rocks that form our land,” Princess Evuth says as they pass through an art gallery showcasing the works of various artists hanging from the walls. One in particular is of a prismarium emerging from a glittering crystal, all geometric shapes and angular lines. “Whilst I’m not sure that it is true, we have always had a deep connection with our land. Not quite in the way the Balmerans do, but enough to rely on the rocks for navigation. They tell stories in a way, echoes of history, and we listen. We are never lost among our stone.”

“Well, princess, if you were a rock, you’d surely be a diamond,” Lance says, adding in a wink for good measure. He ignores the groans, especially Keith’s. That guy wishes he had lines as good as his. 

Princess Evuth blinks. Then giggles. “I have no idea what that is.”

“Oh.”

“But I believe it was a compliment?” the princess adds hopefully.

Lance clears his throat. “Um. Yeah.”

“Then I consider you all diamonds too,” she says with such open earnesty as she leads them down the next hallway.   

“Smooth going there, Lance,” says Pidge, nudging him in the arm. Hunk rolls his eyes beside them.

“Oh shut up.”

***

The last stop in their tour can be summarised as the funhouse mirror room. Just. So many mirrors. Hunk and Pidge are already posing in front of one that makes Pidge look like Goliath rather than three apples tall in comparison to Hunk who looks like he has been shrunk in the wash. 

“Not bad,” says Pidge, raising her hand above her head to compare heights. “You know, I used to love these as a kid.”

“Uh, Pidge, you’re still a kid,” Hunk observes, “We’re still kids. Technically. I mean, my birthday’s coming up… uh… sometime soon. I think. Space time throws my head through a loop. But until then…”

“Well, this was years ago. Back when Mum and Matt would…” Pidge trails off, a nostalgia exchanged for the grim reality of the present. She deflates. 

Hunk squeezes her shoulder, a gentle encouragement. “Let’s look in the other mirrors.”

“Hey, Hunk,” says Lance, waving the pair over. He points at a mirror next to him, one that seems to have an in-built Instagram filter, making his skin glitter as if dusted in stars. “Do you think it captured my good side?”

“You have no good side,” comes a voice that is distinctly not Hunk. Thanks Keith.

“Yeah? Well, who was talking to you, huh?” Lance counters, glaring daggers far sharper than Keith’s ever touched. “‘You have no good side’, puh-lease. I’ll have you know that that was a trick question! Every side is my good side.”

“… Uhuh,” is all Keith says. Lance will take this as a win. 

“Oh man, that is a cool mirror. My skin’s all spacey,” says Hunk, now standing next to him. After waving at himself a few times, his attention is distracted by another mirror nearby. “Oh hey! Look at this one. Everything’s all red. Keith, you should check this one out. That colour’s, like, your thing, right?”

“Yeah, Keith, you should check it out,” says Pidge, a rising smirk that suggests some sort of jab is coming. Hah! Take that Keith. “You wouldn’t want to come between Lance and his reflection after all. Just leave them to it.”

“Hey!” protests Lance, feeling the sting of betrayal, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Allura sighs, shaking her head. “Paladins, please. We’re in company.”

“It’s alright, Princess, no one’s destroyed anything. Yet,” says Shiro, giving off the aura of an amused parent watching his kids scramble around on the play equipment. And he calls himself too young to be ‘space Dad.’

“Agreed,” says Princess Evuth, “You should see me with my siblings.” 

“Uh, Princess. I think your mirror is broken,” says Keith, peering at his complete lack of a reflection in the largest mirror here, with a grand, ornate swirling frame, encrusted with many a priceless jewel. True to his word, its surface remains distorted, a haze of colour and nothing much else. Poor excuse for a mirror if you ask him. Can’t even mirror right.

Or—

“Or maybe you’re just a vampire,” suggests Lance, “Would explain the fangs.” He points to his own teeth. Lance swears up and down, left right and centre that Keith’s canines were a tad on the pointy side when he caught him munching on that space goo. Does he spend all that time in the bathroom sharpening his teeth?

“They’re not—” Keith whirls around to face him. “I have very normal teeth, thank you.”

“You’re joking, right? Have you looked in the mirror lat—oh. Wait.”

“Lance,” chides Shiro, and come on mr. favouritism. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

“Oh! I see you’ve found the oldest mirror in our collection,” says Princess Evuth, making her way over. “It’s remarkable, really. It predates even this castle. It’s over hundreds of thousands of deca-phoebs old.”

“So it needs a clean, then?” says Lance. He finds it strange how dust manages to land on objects vertically. What’s even keeping it there?

“No, it simply doesn’t reflect. The legend goes that a meteorite fell from the sky unlike any our people have ever seen before. There wasn’t much of it, but my ancestor, Queen Oleeria, had it crafted into this very mirror you see before you by her own hand, wanting a metal so precious to be displayed in her room. It was strange. Despite it not being of our world, she found a way to connect with it in a way that defies words.” 

Lance casts the Princess and Coran a curious look, noticing how they both suck in a breath. Huh.

“They say that it’s a window,” Princess Evuth finishes, “A window to other realities.”

“Other realities?” repeats the echo in the room, Pidge, “Huh. I’ve read many theories about them from plenty of respected researchers, but that’s only speculation. And if it were possible, it would require a device much larger than a pane of glass.”

“Like I said, it’s just a legend. What matters is that my mother holds it dear. Please go careful near it as I… Princess Allura, are you quite alright?” 

Allura seems to snap out of some sort of dazed expression, pulling her hand back from where she was unconsciously reaching for the meteorite mirror. Double huh of the day. It’s not like her to space out like this. Coran similarly regards her with concern.

“Forgive me for interrupting. You were saying?”

Whatever Princess Evuth was saying, they’ll never know, as her eyes seem to fall on someone behind Lance. Turning around, he sees a prismarium with orange scales, dressed in a simplistic attire, signifying them as one of the castle staff. “Ah. Yes?”

“They’re ready for you, Princess.”

Princess Evuth glances at them all. “Perfect. Shall we?” 

***

The dining hall is utterly extravagant, maybe something reminiscent of Altea’s in its heyday, crystal chandeliers and a table so long the only way to communicate with the other side is via messenger pigeon. Atop the table boasts a bountiful feast fit for kings. Which makes sense. There’s a lot of royalty present. 

Princess Evuth ushers them past nervous castle staff and guests to the head of the table where the Queen currently sits, accompanied by two others Lance surmises are the Princess’ siblings, one red, and the other a darker shade of pink. Hot pink. And yet, just as equally hot as her sister. 

“Now this is what I call a feast,” says Hunk as they sit down, Lance opting to take the seat next to him and Allura (heck yeah). Hunk’s gaze lands inquisitively on a dish in front of them, and whilst Lance isn’t exactly chomping at the bit to eat food so fluorescent his insides could be glowing for decades, it’s a step above food goo. And at least it doesn’t move of its own accord. 

“It’s a special occasion,” says the Queen, and then a little louder, projecting her voice so at least half of the table can hear her. “Another quintant of our planet being free of the Galra. Let us pray that they do not find us here. Or if they do, we will have Voltron to keep them at bay.”

“Then can I assume you’re accepting our proposal to join the coalition?” Allura asks, hopeful. 

“Of course. It would be my pleasure. We are long due an era of peace.”

As Lance starts searching around for food he’ll be able to digest with minimal consequences (“Paladin, are you eating garnish?” Princess Evuth asks, clearly amused), and Hunk’s talking to Pidge about seasoning and five star reviews or something, Lance notices Allura’s got that weirdly glazed look in her eyes again. She hasn’t even touched her plate. Or added anything to it.

“Allura?” Lance prompts, his worry growing. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” She seems to come to. “Oh, yes.”

Lance doesn’t believe it for a second. The worry stays.

“Lance,” she says, “I’m fine. Truly. I—” She grunts, cradling her head. 

Coran jumps to attention. “Princess?”

“I’m okay,” she says through clenched teeth. “It’s just a headache.”

“Perhaps you would like to take one of our guest rooms to rest in?” suggests the queen, “I can have one of my staff escort you there.”

“I’ll come too!” says Coran, never one to waver when it comes to Allura’s wellbeing. 

“Please, there is no need to cause a fuss. I should be here to…” Allura winces. 

“It’s no fuss at all,” assures Queen Naex with a sympathetic smile. And before Allura has any more time to insist that she’s okay, she’s being led out of the room with Coran, the latter of the two returning about five-ish minutes later. 

After the feast, there’s a period of time where they mix and mingle, giving the chance for many of the other prismariums to ask them about Voltron, and what it’s like to fly the lions. Lance, of course, isn’t one to keep a crowd waiting. 

Allura’s still gone. 

“Do you think she’s hungry?” asks Hunk, a second conductor on the Allura train of thought, “I mean, there’s all this nice food, and she didn’t take anything. It seems like a shame that she has to miss out.“

“Ooor I could take some to her,” offers Lance, seeing an opportunity to check up on Allura. He’s worried, okay. And can you blame him? She always looks so strong, it’s easy to forget that she’s only human. Or, rather, altean. Guess they aren’t exempt from headaches. 

“Is this really the best time to try and make a move on Allura?” says Hunk, giving him an unimpressed look. 

“That’s not what—just help me find something she might like.” 

Considering they’re guessing here, they pile a plate up, the more the merrier, the greater chance at least one of the snacks will be a hit, and Lance starts making his way to the general vicinity of the guest rooms after getting one of the staff to repeat the direction to him about five times. Hey. He’s just being careful. You could get lost in a place like this. 

He’s about halfway there when he spots Allura, having apparently decided a walk would clear her head. 

“Allura!” he says, rushing up to greet her. “Is your head feeling better? I’ve brought you some food from the feast and… uh. Allura?”

Not for the first time today, her eyes are glazed over. She’s also continuing on her walk, oblivious to Lance’s presence. 

“Allura?” he says again, hoping it’ll snap her out as it did before. When it doesn’t, he starts waving his hand in front of her face, accidentally bonking her on the nose as she walks into it. Still no response. “Yoohoo? Princess? Are you still in there?”

Again. No response.

“Allura? Wakey wakey?”

Nothing.

“Uuuhhh. Are you sleeping beauty, because girl, you’re stuck in a trance.”

Well. Pick up lining her awake doesn’t work. But this does get Lance thinking. It does appear to be some sort of trance, one that started in the funhouse mirror room.

She had been trying to touch that mirror.

And now—

Lance remembers this hallway, remembers the door at the end.

“Nu-uh, Princess,” says Lance, attempting to hold Allura back. “I can’t allow you to do that. I know it’s a pretty cool mirror and all, but it’s super old and grimy. You don’t want to put your hands all over it.”

Allura pays him no mind. No anything. His cheap attempt at restraining her simply doesn’t go noticed when a) she’s under some sort of sleeping beauty curse that’s gonna get her to prick her finger or something on a mirror (?) and b) Allura’s an altean with unthinkable level of raw strength. Lance wouldn’t last two seconds against her in an arm wrestling contest. 

He could really do with backup right now. But he doesn’t have his helmet comms, and there’s no time to run for help. He’ll have to play this smart. 

A barricade. That’s it. He needs a barricade. That should slow her down, long enough for him to get the others. 

Lance runs ahead, and drags some fancy cabinets from the hallway over to the door, mentally apologising to the prismariums for any damages that might occur. It’s very much not a one person job, but he makes do, pulling together a makeshift barricade out of what he has.

“Now, if this can stop you long enough—” Lance is interrupted by the sound of splintering wood as Allura breaks through. 

Oh cheese. Even those barricades you see in movies hold longer than that. 

Lance is desperate now, holding her arm and refusing to let go as she gets closer and closer to it. Lance can power of love this, right? That’s usually the hero’s last trump card, and it always works at the last possible moment. 

“Don’t do this!” Lance says, then starts wracking his brain for other quotes, noticing how the mirror’s surface starts to swirl like rolling smoke. “You have to fight it, Allura. We need you, here, with us, to save the universe. We can’t do that if you get possessed by an evil mirror. Or—Or—Whatever it’s doing to you! Don’t listen to it!”

***

𝙽𝚘𝚠

“But, uh, long story short: you listened to it. So I guess we’re here now?” Lance says, finishing up his own abridged version of the story. There really wasn’t much for him to tell. “Wherever here might be. Hey, does this mean we’re inside of the mirror? Is this some freaky mirror world?”   

Lance has played some horror games like this before. Very brain trippy. The reverse controls were a pain. 

“I can’t be sure. Wherever we are, it’s certainly not Queen Naex’s castle.” Her eyes scan the room, taking in the blue walls, and high ceiling, all incredibly familiar. “The Castle of Lions I believe? Though I can’t say I recall this room. Or this… photo?”

From a nightstand, Allura picks up a photograph, looking at it for no longer than a second before her face is flushing. She immediately presses it down, frame first, back where she found it. 

Now, that’s curious. “Uh…”

“It’s nothing important,” says Allura, not looking him in the eye. Weird. She clears her throat. “Remember what the Princess said? About the mirror being a window to other realities?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s as if it… called to me, wanting to show me something. It felt warm, and familiar, and I at first mistook it for my bond I share with the lions. It felt like coming home.” She takes a steady breath. “There could be truth to her tale. Though instead of a window, it is a door.”

Lance blinks. “Well huh. Aliens and now the multiverse. Sci-fi’s starting to feel like a documentary.”

“You’re remarkably calm.”

“You kind of just learn to roll with it. Takes a lot to phase me, you know.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep,” says Lance, sliding himself off the bed. Huh. Something feels off. “Is it me, or am I taller?”

“It’s not just you. We seem to be occupying the bodies of our variants. They’re a little older than we’re used to.”

Lance splutters. “Older?! Don’t tell me I have wrinkles!? Do I have wrinkles?”

“… Well.”

Her pause is telling. “My skincare routine! How could you future me? What about our future?” Lance laments, a great tragedy indeed. All his hard work and age is failing him. He’s too young to be this old!

“Were you not just telling me about how it takes a lot to phase you?”

“And this is a lot! I mean, we wake up who knows where, in a bed… together. Um.” Backtrack, backtrack. He gulps, feeling his face warm once more. “So in this universe—”

“Reality.”

“—Uh. In this reality. Are you and me—?”

“Yes.”

He tries not to squeak. It doesn’t work. “So this means we—?”

“I don’t want to think about it,” she says, curt, to the point. It betrays no emotion.

“Oh. Okay,” says Lance, that buoyant feeling in his chest sinking into a wreckage of scraps. Cool, cool, cool. No thinking about this very real reality where he and Allura may be in a committed relationship. No prob. 

“We need to focus on finding our way back.”

“You’re right.”

Something in Allura’s eyes softens slightly. “Look, Lance. We can talk later. But for now, we must find our entry point into this reality. Voltron needs its blue paladin.”

“And its Princess,” adds Lance, because if they need him, they sure as quiznack need her. “Let’s get looking.”

[maldito-arbol]

Me: I can finish chapter 11 by my birthday

Also me: *is only halfway finished with chapter 11*

No you can’t Mal

[eldritch-nightmare]

happy belated birthday to me specifically. i turned 20!!

[cosmic-hoboandthehighlander]

Gotta love being at work, having a fleeting thought about your favorites and having that “oooohhhhhh” moment and sprinting to write that sucker down before you forget it!