#the whump was icing on the cake! he gets through so much in the movie… plenty of whump my friends! so will be giffing my fav parts

[bluejayblueskies]

portrait of shattered glass

Words: 1.9k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Jonathan Sims & Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker (minorly)

Character: Jonathan Sims

Additional Tags: Whump, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Canon-Typical Worms, Blood and Injury, Post-MAG40

Summary:

When Jon opens his eyes again, there’s only him, staring back at himself in the mirror. He barely recognizes himself beneath all of the bandages and the bags under his eyes and the exhaustion that pulls every part of him down until he’s hunched in on himself, the only thing keeping him up being his palms where they’re placed flat against his sink.

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Jon goes home for the first time after Jane Prentiss’s attack on the Institute and finally sees himself in a mirror.

Read on Ao3

Or read below (content warnings will be listed immediately following the readmore):

Content warnings for:

- nausea/vomiting (non-graphic, brief) - graphic depiction of injury - blood - trypophobia - canon-typical worm content (the aftermath of said worms) - use of opioid painkillers (in the appropriate manner) - mentions of gun violence/death - paranoia - mild dissociation - picking at scabs

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Jon aches. He barely makes it up the stairs to his flat, every muscle screaming as the copious amounts of pain medicine he’d been given by the EMTs begins to truly wear off. The process of taking everyone’s statements, hearing about the worms again and again and again, had been agonizing, but he’d grit his teeth and pushed through it because it was important to get it all on tape. He couldn’t let anything fall through the cracks, couldn’t let anything get lost—couldn’t let himself get lost. Forgotten.

 Martin had looked at him with cloying concern and said, “Are you sure you’re okay, Jon?” after the tape had clicked off and Jon had become, once again, quite aware of the fact that his skin was peppered with holes.

 He had dozens. Gertrude Robinson had three. And he wasn’t sure which scared him more.

 “I’m fine,” he’d snapped, and he hadn’t been coherent enough to feel bad about it. “Please, just- just leave, Martin.”

 And for once, Martin had listened. Just given him a quiet, If you need anything, please call, before leaving Jon alone in his office.

 Alone, with the musty scent of worms and that same oppressive feeling of being watched.

 Fear and anxiety had driven Jon out of the archives more quickly than he thought he was capable of, swiping statements and tapes into his satchel at random and trying desperately to escape the smell that made his skin itch and crawl until he was blocks from the Institute, his free hand clenching and unclenching reflexively as he desperately tried not to itch the throbbing wounds on his arms and face.

 He’d intended to take the tube. He made it halfway there before the pain in his leg became too much to walk, even with his new cane, and he reluctantly called a cab.

 The driver said nothing at his bandaged face and shaking hands. Which was something, at least.

 The moment Jon finally, finally makes it into his flat, his stomach twists sharply in time with the click of his front door locking, and he barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s retching, the cloying taste of earth and salt on his tongue as his body desperately tries to rid itself of something it no longer has inside it. His hands grasp the edge of the toilet with white knuckles and he sees red blossom against the bandages wrapped around his hands, wounds reopening from the pressure of his grip. It sends agony, sharp and piercing, through his hands and up his arms, and he can’t help the whimper that slips free from his lips.

 He doesn’t move for a very, very long while.

 At some point, his hands find his satchel—strewn across the floor of the bathroom, still halfway tangled around his shoulders—and he withdraws the opioid pain medication he’d been given. It takes him five tries to get a solid enough grip on the plastic lid to unscrew the bottle, and he doesn’t think, just takes three pills dry. The scrape of the pills against the rubbed-raw flesh of his throat barely registers against the hazy red backdrop of pain that’s turned his vision blurry. He rests his head against the cool tile floor and tries to ignore the way that it puts pressure on the bandage that sits just above his temple. Or the one just shy of his left eye.

 If he had opened his mouth to scream, would they have burrowed into his tongue too, into his gums, into the softness of his throat?

 Jon closes his eyes tight and tries very hard to think of nothing at all.

 Eventually, the opioids dull his pain enough that he can stand without shaking, can make his way to the kitchen and drink a glass of water without spilling it, though his fingers still struggle to maintain their grip, too much muscle having been consumed and left hollow. His flat is almost entirely devoid of food, only a few canned goods and several packages of biscuits being something one could consider ‘edible.’

 He forces a biscuit past his lips and is just thankful that he’s able to keep it down.

 Days turn into nights turn into days turn into nights, and now Jon’s standing in front of his bathroom mirror, staring into brown eyes framed with dark bags that speak of many sleepless nights spent trying and failing to find a position that didn’t place pressure on a bandage, that didn’t reopen a wound. The plasters on his face are stained with dried blood, curling around the edges, and he considers the new, pristine white bandages sitting on the counter in front of him.

 Every two to three days, they’d said as they pressed bandages and pain killers and discharge papers into his hands, either not seeing the glassy look to his eyes that spoke of a mind a million miles away or just not caring. Get someone to help you if you can. Wash your hands to avoid infection. Be careful to avoid re-opening wounds, as this will delay healing.

 They’d said a lot of things, he thinks. None of them had been about whether or not Jane Prentiss was actually dead, or who killed Gertrude Robinson, or if he was going to be next. None of them were important.

 But his arms are beginning to itch, his hands going to them absently as he lies in bed and tries to poke through the statements he’d brought home—all meaningless drivel, none of them important, none of them real, he’d need to go into the Institute soon and pick out some better ones—and so he needs to do this.

 Rationally, he knows he’s just healing. That this is part of the process, the itching, and that scratching will only make it worse, more prone to scarring. But he can’t shake the feeling that the worms are still in him, that the ECDC missed some, that Jane Prentiss is still alive and so the worms are too and he’s becoming just like her, he’s becoming a monster just like her—

 His hands find a plaster on his cheek, a large one stained in several places, and he pulls it away too-quickly.

 There are holes in his cheek. He knows this, of course, of course he knows this, but knowing that your body is riddled with holes and actually seeing them are two different things entirely. There are holes in his cheek, red, aching holes, and even though they’re closed over with scabs and halfway to healing by now, he can’t stop looking at them and seeing the worms burrowing into his skin, like he’d seen for a long, agonizing moment before the carbon dioxide fire suppression system had kicked in and his brain had finally given him the small mercy of unconsciousness. His fingers are at his cheek before he can stop them, his nails finding the edges of the scabs and scratching, like he can somehow remove the memory if he just scrubs hard enough at his skin.

 All he gets instead are red-tipped fingers and a new, visceral wave of nausea at the sight of the newly-opened sores. He runs his hands under the tap with a numb efficiency before affixing a new plaster over the wound, feeling the knot in his stomach loosen slightly as the holes are once again hidden.

 Red colours the bandage immediately, a persistent reminder of what lies underneath, and Jon has to look away from the mirror.

 It takes him several hours to get through the rest of the bandages. He manages to keep himself from scratching all but a few. One on the inside of his wrist, before he can stop himself; another on the side of his hip, deeper than the others, the itch coming from within his bone and nearly consuming him with the need to rid himself of it. The one on his leg, messy from the corkscrew and with lasting damage that has him leaning on his newly-acquired cane when he walks. It places an unfortunate amount of pressure on the hole that lies in the centre of his right hand, nearly emerging through to the other side. That one—the one on his leg—itches the most, though of all the wounds now covered by bandages, that’s the one he’s most certain is simply a hole, devoid of anything that may be lurking beneath.

 Thoughts of corkscrews and tapes and a strong arm around his shoulders, guiding him through the dark, flash behind his eyes like stop-motion pictures. He closes his eyes and tries to lose himself in them, to remember what it felt like to not know.

 To not know that one of the people he’s spent months working with and getting tea from and eating cake and wine and ice cream with is a murderer. And that he’s probably next.

 When Jon opens his eyes again, there’s only him, staring back at himself in the mirror. He barely recognizes himself beneath all of the bandages and the bags under his eyes and the exhaustion that pulls every part of him down until he’s hunched in on himself, the only thing keeping him up being his palms where they’re placed flat against the countertop.

 They’re going to scar, he thinks numbly. A living reminder of the way the worms felt as they squirmed beneath his skin. A constant mark of terror.

 He considers, for a moment, calling Tim. Tim would understand. Tim had been there. They could sit on Tim’s couch and watch some horrible movie that Tim had picked because Jon, you chose the movie last time, don’t you remember? and eat greasy pizza that always upset Jon’s stomach if he had more than a few slices.

 Someone killed Gertrude Robinson.

 Or Sasha, Jon thinks. Sasha had always been reliable; he could trust Sasha to get the job done, even when he didn’t quite understand how to get it done himself. Sasha could sit him down and they could talk and he could finally unravel the dark, twisted knot of anxiety and fear that’s been building in his stomach since he woke up with half his body encased in bandages. Sasha could help him.

 Gertrude Robinson was shot, three times in the chest, in the tunnels beneath the Institute.

 Even Martin. Martin, who brings Jon tea even though Jon doesn’t ask for it and who wields a corkscrew more adeptly than he wields his university degree. Martin, who apologises for such little, insignificant things but who still gets that sharp, demanding tone to his voice when he’s scared or frustrated or both. Martin, who offered to help Jon, who asked if he was okay despite Jon’s increasingly sharp retorts as the painkillers worked their way out of his system.

 Martin, who found Gertrude Robinson’s body in the tunnels, surrounded by tapes and with three metal bullets buried in her chest, put there by someone in the Institute.

 Jon turns away from the mirror, retrieves his cane, and leaves the bathroom. He doesn’t look in the mirror for the rest of his required bed rest, only catching his reflection once as he’s preparing to return to the Institute, his suit jacket too-tight against the healing wounds on his arms.

 His face is still peppered with bandages, hair pulled back to reveal another sitting just behind his ear, and he looks tired. So, so tired.

 He looks away. The click of the front door closing behind him as he leaves his flat sounds identical to the safety of a gun, clicking off.

[whimperwoods]

Certified for Independence 3 (Android/AI Whump)

Sometimes when inspiration strikes, it really strikes, you know? This chapter is mostly just this poor baby robot having too many feelings. What memories are still there? What memories does the woman want? What do they do about it? So many hard questions. So much emotional whump.

Default disclaimer I continue to actually know nothing about how computers/machines work.

Here’s part 1 and part 2.

taglist: @bluebadgerwhump​, @bloodinthewaterwhump​

tw: memory loss, tw: captivity, tw: psychoemotional self-mutilation for a noble cause

******

Once the woman was gone, the android crawled into a corner of the cell and curled up tight, tucking their knees to their chest and wrapping their arms around their legs. It was soothing, the pressure of the walls behind them, the pressure of their own arms around themself, and they weren’t sure why.

They knew they should do something to help themself, something useful, something purposeful before the night slipped away, but everything was just so - just so. They needed the calm, too, needed to close their eyes and put their head down and feel the pressure of solid walls behind them, protecting them.

They didn’t know how long they sat like that, just curled up and trying to calm down.

They did know, after a while, that they’d calmed down as much as they were likely to, with the danger they were in still real and pressing.

<“Try to conserve power overnight,”> the woman had said, <“If I lose time tomorrow because you wasted your energy, I might just get �� careless.”> They didn’t know exactly what that meant, careless, but if she was going to be in their head again, digging around in their mind, peeling open their body for a peek inside, prying at them with tools and code, then careless was definitely a threat.

They weren’t built for grand feats of physical strength. They hadn’t even been meant to know - to know - it was missing. There was something they’d known once. They didn’t think it was something helpful, anyway. Probably. Hopefully.

The physical thing they knew but didn’t know anymore was something fun, not something to get them out of here. Something with the neighbor-friend, whose favorite donut was another hole in their memory. “But probably not a donut hole,” they joked to themself, the weak humor of it landing like nothing in their chest and making them feel no better than before.

What kinds of donuts did they know? Cake donut. Glazed donut. Jelly donut. Powdered sugar. And subtypes and variations and custards and creams and all of a sudden their mind was filled to the brim with donuts, but they’d never be able to guess their neighbor’s favorite. Not unless the woman had already been careless, had left them something she didn’t mean to, hidden somewhere or piggybacked off something else.

They had no idea where to start looking. How did you find something you didn’t know you had? How did you find what you didn’t have anymore, enough to recognize it was gone?

They didn’t have a favorite donut, themself. They liked looking at the ones with sprinkles on top, liked all the colors, had even been bought one, one time, after they’d kept staring at the same kind every week. A present, from the neighbor-friend. <“I know you can’t eat it, but I just thought - why not, you know? You can at least squish it around in your hands or something. Have a sensory experience.”>

They clenched their hands into fists. If they thought hard enough, they could still feel the donut under their fingertips, as they trailed the most sensitive of their sensors over the top, feeling the hard little lines of the sprinkles, the give of the icing and then the donut when they accidentally poked too hard. It had been - silly. Fun. They’d sat down at the kitchen table next door, together, once the groceries were put away, and they’d put down paper towels around the plates just in case and their friend had - had - part of the memory was just gone.

<“I always wanted to just get a jelly donut in my hand and squish it, you know? Just really squeeze the crap out of it until it popped and see what it felt like.”>

They suspected their friend had done it and not just talked about it, but everything outside their own body, everything about the memory that wasn’t touch or sound, was gone now, sucked into the gap where the details of their friend had been.

They must have other favorite things. At least a few. Raindrops on roses, at least. Their mouth turned up at the corner, but their chest still felt hollow.

When she’s done with me, will I still be able to joke?

They’d always made jokes for other people, for the smiles and groans, for the feeling of connecting. They’d never understood why jokes seemed to relieve so much tension in other people. It had never worked that way for them. It wasn’t working now.

They had to have favorites, though. What were their favorites?

<“Songs about birds don’t count as a genre!”>

<“Songs with birds in them. And I didn’t say they were my favorite genre. I said I collect them.”>

<“You collect them.”>

<“Sure. I have a playlist. But I also just... remember. ‘Free Bird,’ ‘Blackbird,’ ‘I’m Like a Bird,’ ‘When Doves Cry.’ You know. Bird songs.”>

That wasn’t useful right now, but they could already feel themself falling down a rabbit hole into it, falling into an old habit of mind, more songs hovering at the edge of their awareness. “El Condor Pasa.” “Kookaburra.” “Chavaleh.”

Father had called them “Little Bird” before they were grown. Before they were finished. Independent. “Little Bird.” But they hadn’t kept the name. They’d never felt so confident in their new name. Something about picking a new one hadn’t sunk in yet, hadn’t stuck deep down in quite the same way. But their coworkers couldn’t call them Little Bird. Their neighbors couldn’t.

<“So, is Winter your favorite season or something?”>

<“Yes. Easier not to overheat, for one. And - I like it when everyone stays inside. It’s safer that way. Cosier. And I like indoor activities. Movies. Books. Music. Just - sitting around and talking. That sort of thing.”>

<“Nah, man, not a criticism. I just hadn’t realized you picked your name yourself. That’s pretty rad.”>

<“Oh. Yes. I did.”>

Winter wondered why the woman hadn’t found their name yet, to delete it like she had the names of their friends. Was it another of her games? Or was it too well hidden, still too strange, after all these months, when they still so often felt like Father’s Little Bird instead?

They should look for whatever it was the woman wanted. They should look for it, but then they’d have to decide what to do with it, how far they thought they could push her, how much they were willing to risk.

They pulled in more tightly on themself, just a little, just barely, absolutely as much as they could get.

What had the woman said? <“Development information is useful.”> Growing up. Father’s Little Bird. That was what she wanted. To know? Or to take? They couldn’t be sure.

He’d been so happy when they passed the test. When they proved they could live on their own, could pass for human enough to get by, to be independent, to have a life. He’d pulled them into a hug, and they’d hugged him back, trying not to think about the hugeness of the big wide world that was theirs now.

He’d been so proud. And the lady at the front desk had said something about him being proud of himself, and Father had looked over, had met Winter’s eyes, only just now become Winter’s, and they’d known right then, right there that that wasn’t it at all, that they were the one he was proud of. There had been - something. Something.

Development information. The woman wanted all the things that came before that moment. All the parts of their life that had made that one come to pass.

They didn’t know how much they could keep from her.

Their chest ached. They wanted to cry. Then they were crying, which was an inconvenient waste of energy, just now. Their breath hitched erratically, heaving with a thousand inefficient feelings, overwhelming them. They’d never had tear ducts, but their nose and throat suddenly felt half-blocked, thick with emotion as they tried and failed to breathe through it like nothing was wrong.

<“I’m going to ask you how you feel a lot. It’ll probably get annoying, but - I want to make sure I get it right. I need you to tell me if something hurts, or if it’s overwhelming. Emotions are - well, if I get this right, you’ll figure out what they are.”>

Father had smiled. Little Bird hadn’t understood him, hadn’t understood what he meant. But now - Winter tried to distract themself from the feeling in their nose and throat, only to find themself noticing the pulsing ache in their bad elbow again. They wished they knew what had happened to it. Or perhaps they didn’t.

<“People like to pretend they somehow have a self that’s different from their body. Separate. But they don’t. Not really. Not all the way, anyway. Otherwise, you’d think just as well when you were hungry as when you were full, or when you were tired as when you were alert. And that’s not even getting into emotions. You can’t build a person just building a mind. They’ve gotta have both. Or at least - that’s what I think. You’ll have to tell me some day if you agree.”>

That had come when Little Bird was beginning to understand. Father had been tweaking some things, inside their gut. They hadn’t understood emotions yet, really, but they’d been starting to learn them.

Was this what the woman wanted? And if it was, what would she do with it? They wouldn’t mind never crying again, but that would mean a thousand horrible things first, would mean whole parts of their body ripped out of them, tiny things with no rational purpose, no function beyond the million little sensations that made them feel.

<“I’m jealous of you when I’m getting ready for a competition, you know. Your hands don’t get sweaty when you’re nervous.”>

<“No, just prickly. It’s a strange sensation.”>

<“No shit?”>

<“No shit.”>

<“Is that distracting?”>

<“A little.”>

<“What’s the point of it? Seems like a weird thing to happen to you.”>

<“I don’t know. But I guess in competition at least it’s - fair.”>

<“What if you had to compete against other androids?”>

<“Less fair, I guess. But Father didn’t think like that. Not really.”>

Winter felt a shiver down their spine. Whatever the woman wanted, she didn’t think like Father. They hadn’t figured out yet what it was she wanted. She might prefer that they not feel anything at all. She might prefer that they feel pain.

She hadn’t used Father’s name. She’d just referred to him in reference to Winter. Did she know who he was? But she must have. She’d certainly rooted around enough up in their head. But then, she hadn’t found their name. Or she hadn’t found it stored under “favorite season,” anyway.

Winter had gotten ahold of themself. They’d stopped crying. They still felt like their face was too thick, swollen behind their nose. It wasn’t, really. Just signals. Data. Back and forth, chain reactions that became other chain reactions, the start of a feeling in one part of their mind or body reverberating into all the other parts.

It was tempting to erase everything they had of their childhood, just to spite her. Just to rob her of whatever she was looking for. But they were afraid of what she’d do to them if they did. No. They’d have to be careful. They’d have to choose wisely.

What was most dangerous for her to know? But that question had no answer, because they’d have to answer “dangerous to whom?” and they hadn’t worked out who she threatened, outside these walls, if anyone at all. They weren’t so self-centered as to think nothing outside these walls was relevant. They just didn’t understand how the pieces fit together.

What was the worst-case scenario? Father had always been a best-case kind of person, but it had been a relief meeting - meeting - meeting someone. A friend. From - a place. It was good knowing it was alright to think of worst cases sometimes, even if they couldn’t remember why they knew it.

Worst case scenario, she wanted to build an army of evil robots. Worst case scenario, she wanted to take over the world and rule as an evil despot. Worst case scenario, she wanted to feed them to a hungry bear.

The worst case scenario game wasn’t fun alone. They couldn’t think of anything extreme enough to make the realistic worst cases less scary.

Worst case, she just wanted to torture them. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

Worst case, she wanted to be able to disable everything real about them and sell them off to the highest bidder as a mindless, cooperative drone.

Worst case, she wanted to make more like them and sell them off as full people, without the certification paperwork that meant freedom, the paperwork Father had been so excited to give to Winter once they’d proven, together, that he’d managed to make a person who shouldn’t be allowed to be enslaved.

They sorted through the worst cases, trying to decide what they could live with.

It wasn’t a hard choice.

<“I know. It sucks. Sadness, loneliness, fear - they all suck. But remember when we were working on the good emotions? Happiness? Hope? Pride?”>

<“I don’t want to watch any more sad movies. I don’t like them. I don’t like this.”>

<“Hey, hey, come here. Come here. We won’t. Not tonight. We can watch something happy before bed. How about that video of dogs getting adopted?”>

<“That makes me cry, too.”>

<“I told you we could recalibrate that, if it was what you wanted.”>

<“No. It’s good crying. I just - want more of this hug first.”>

They remembered a half-laugh in father’s voice, a puff of air against their scalp as he huffed out a chuckle through his nose.

<“Yeah, Little Bird. I can do that. You’re much more huggable now that we’ve got your skin worked out properly, you know.”>

Winter’s throat was thick. Their nose was half-blocked from behind, and their eyes hurt, aching even in the absence of tear ducts.

For a long, long moment, they froze the memory, savoring the feeling of Father’s arms around them, pressure not of their own making, like what they had now in their little dark corner. Father had been warm. Soft. He’d smelled like himself. They’d felt safe, tucking their head down and curling closer to him. They’d felt loved. They’d felt loving. They’d felt love in the air, family making itself known, appearing from the depths of everything and nothing for the hundredth time, to do so hundreds more.

They deleted the memory.

Then they deleted more.

Learning anger. Learning fear. Joy. Pride. Annoyance. Horror. Hope. Happiness. Some of the best memories they had, and all the things that made the bad ones bearable.

They’d deleted the learning of sadness first, but oh they ached inside, ached worse with every deletion, every new gap where Father’s face and voice and spirit had been.

They couldn’t delete too much. They couldn’t delete too little. They couldn’t get caught. They couldn’t let her know how to teach other people how to feel. Not when they knew the kinds of things she might do with that. They had to be careful. They had to be thorough.

They finished their deletions and buried their face in their knees.

They cried until they couldn’t risk any more of the way it might run down their battery power.

Then they shut themself down, knowing the next time they came awake, it would be morning and she would be here.

It was a hard shutdown, because giving themself a moment to think about it as they faded out would have been too much. They’d spent enough time working up the courage to shut down at all.

[maychorian]

Weekly Voltron Fic Recs #52

Happy Thanksgiving! Here are thirty fics. I’m so close to being caught up that I can almost taste it.

This is also marks the 600th post on @maychorianrecs​. Hidey ho! 

And I still have like twenty-seven old fic rec lists I haven’t copied there yet.

Rules: You can find past weekly rec lists here, and non-list recs in my general fic rec tag. Also follow @maychorianrecs for individually tagged posts, the easier to search and reblog. This is stuff I like, and I have a huge bias toward Lance, hurt/comfort, and general fluff, in that order. Gen unless otherwise noted. Please comment on the fics if you read and enjoy them!

Fogged Breath by BluePlanetTrash Words: 2,118 Author’s Summary: Ever since he was little Lance suffered from asthma. He didn’t think that it would be much of a problem in space. Fate had other plans for him, however. My Comments: Great little hurt!Lance fic with an exceptionally protective team. Hits the spot.

oh, the end of infinity by MissSugarPlum Words: 9,896 Author’s Summary: Matt can’t sleep. It’s not like this is a new occurrence. Sleep has been evading him for years now, and he can’t even remember what a proper restful night feels like. He sometimes thinks of when he was still at the Garrison, how he used to think he knew what stress was, how he used to bemoan the pressure from instructors, the rigorous training, the way he could only ever seem to get no more than six hours of sleep a night, and he yearns for the simplicity of back then. Past-Matt didn’t know how good he had it. -x- [Matt adjusts to being in the Castle of Lions.] My Comments: I really enjoyed this exploration of Matt getting used the castle and the team, especially the development of his relationship Lance. It starts out adversarial but gets much less so. Great scenes with Pidge, too. Possibly romantic Klance in the background, but can also be read as gen.

Congratulations by TheWonderTwins Words: 2,433 Author’s Summary: A mission doesn’t quite go to plan and Pidge is taken prisoner. Not everyone takes it as well as Pidge does. My Comments: Ahhh, Pidge. What a badass. This was exciting and fun to read.

Local Color by TheWonderTwins Words: 2,361 Author’s Summary: “Could this be more cliche?” Pidge muttered quietly. Keith smirked briefly. “We could get into a barfight.”“ Please resist the urge to punch people.” Pidge requested. My Comments: I frankly impressed that these two avoided getting into a barfight. Fun little scene with the two of them dealing with some aggression from locals quite well, actually.

What She Sees by HapaxLegomenon Words: 2,263 Author’s Summary: Matt’s safe, now, and Pidge is delighted to have her brother back. But Matt’s different, and she notices. Set during the end of “The Machinations of Perception.” My Comments: Little missing scene from a previously recced fic. Since that fic was entirely in Matt’s POV, it was nice to get a scene from Pidge’s perspective, here. These poor kids. Things are hard, but I’m glad they have each other now.

Easy Target by SunshineAndRainbows Words: 1,832 Author’s Summary: Every move was deliberate, every action filled with intent. He had meant to land his ship, he meant to stand from his cockpit, and so, he meant to walk slowly, deliberately to meet his hopeful allies. He had certainly meant to say something clever and suitably dignified in greeting.He hadn’t meant to collapse the moment his feet hit solid ground. My Comments: How to make me feel sympathetic to Lotor: Whump him good.

Go Go Paladins of Voltron by hufflepirate Words: 2,662 Author’s Summary: Shiro gave up everything, including his spot at the Garrison, to look after his dying mother. Now his mother is gone and he’s alone — until he meets four teenagers with attitude, a set of mysterious keys, and maybe, just maybe a purpose. Written for platonicvldweek 3, for the prompt Alternate Reality/Free, so it’s not QUITE a Power Rangers Fusion AU, but it is the meet cute from Power Rangers (2017), but with Voltron. We’re calling it an alternate reality, not an alternate universe, because they’re gonna end up in space doing their space thing, just… a little differently. (Marked complete because I like the ending ok as it is and don’t have time to write this as a multichapter fic right now.) My Comments: I haven’t seen the new Power Rangers movie, but you don’t need to enjoy this fun, fluffy little getting-together fic.

Bad to Worse by bookwormgir1LH Words: 1,794 Author’s Summary: Lance, Keith, Hunk and Pidge go on a hiking trip. Things start to wrong from the offset, but it soon gets even worse… My Comments: Fun modern AU about an absolutely disastrous attempt at having a good time. Poor kids, but everything turns out okay. Lance’s POV is fun to read, too, even as things go very wrong.

All Hallow’s Eve by this_book_has_been_loved Words: 2,921 Author’s Summary: In which the Paladins discover that Keith’s birthday is only a week before Halloween My Comments: Aw, poor Keith. Everyone’s heart is in the right place, but things are hard, sometimes.

What Could Have Been by Crowoxy Words: 5,222 Author’s Summary: Lotor is only a few decaphoebs (years) younger than Allura and it was just easier for him to leave Daibaazal for Altea. A what-if scenario where if Lotor grew up on Altea, what changed and what stayed the same?Day 7 of the Platonic VLD Week - Free/ Alternate Universe My Comments: I felt bad for Lotor being so obviously neglected by his parents, but it was really nice to see him growing with Allura and Coran and Alfor as his family instead. Cool AU. I would read more of this concept, and I’m not even a huge fan of Lotor. I could see, with the right upbringing, his charisma and intelligence being used for good ends instead of his own ambition.

Snowtron by Eastofthemoon Words: 2,648 Author’s Summary: It had all started with five words. Five words that changed the entire course of the day. Five words Allura never imagined she would hear any paladins say while piloting their lions. “GIANT ROBOT LION SNOWBALL FIGHT!” My Comments: Holy fish balls, this is ADORABLE. I love Allura getting dragged into Earthling shenanigans, and the ending scene with Lotor and crew was icing on the cake. The snowy, snowy cake.

A Gremlin In Glasses Swoops In To Save The Day by Kabber, this_book_has_been_loved Words: 2,752 Author’s Summary: First installment in a Percy Jackson AU for Voltron. In which Lance and Hunk discover that they may not be entirely human My Comments: Really fun action scene for an AU that is just FULL of possibilities. I especially adore Pidge swooping in to save Hunk and Lance. Exciting and intriguing read.

The Opposite of Sorrow by nightwalker for HumanTrampoline Words: 6,165 Author’s Summary: Shiro takes a hit from a druid spell that causes its victims to just quietly give up and die. Fortunately he’s got six good reasons to keep fighting. My Comments: The spell Shiro gets hit with is basically weaponized depression, and it’s pretty terrifying. But the solution is hugs and cuddling and bonding time, and I am all kinds of down for that kind of cure. Extremely sweet and heartwarming fic, and Keith’s POV is wonderful.

let the fog burn let my wick fray by imperiality Words: 4,501 Author’s Summary: Little bonfires are little things Keith and Pidge do. He can’t look away from the flames, Pidge can’t seem to get what he’s after. But then she wants to spice it up on a Halloween night. This purple fog is oppressive. My Comments: Interesting and different way to study Keith and emotionally hurt him at the same time. It’s a good thing his team came after him.

Grateful for the Years to Come by Ms_Marchy Words: 4,001 Author’s Summary: Five years after saying goodbye to her son, Maria McClain gets the greatest gift of being reunited with her son. Everyone knows Lance worries over how much he missed in his family’s lives. No one ever thinks about what Maria was missing about her son’s life. She didn’t even know herself until one day two giant mechanical lions land near her house. The Space War is finally over. Everyone can go home. My Comments: This was heartbreaking and heartwarming in equal measure. It’s sad to see just how much years of war scarred Lance, but it’s also wonderful to see him at home and loved with his family again, and his mother’s perspective is lovely and warm. Ambiguous Klance.

And My Nightmares Will Have Nightmares Every Night by ardett Words: 9,096 Author’s Summary: Restart program? A series of alternate paths in the Dream, Seam series. My Comments: Really cool and unique way of showing a bunch of ways this story could have gone really, really wrong. Or, well, wrong from a certain perspective. I adore this, though it hurts me, like a lot. Warning for major character death, though it doesn’t really stick.

With These Hands by A_Zap Words: 1,486 Author’s Summary: Despite all the trouble they’d been through, Hunk figured everything had turned out all right. After all, he and Lance had managed to return to the castle! Then Hunk sees the bruises and knows that things are not as good as he thought. My Comments: Great missing scene that we were totally robbed of in canon. I love these sweet summer boys and their relationship so much. Surprisingly more hurt!Hunk than hurt!Lance, actually, but I love both flavors.

She’s Looking A Little Green by spitfire00 Words: 3,936 Author’s Summary: Katie Holt was born to pilot the Green Lion, and her father knows it- Even if he doesn’t realize it. My Comments: Great, great Sam POV, and a wonderful Holt reunion in here too. Really cool look at the paladins and their fateful uniqueness.

Bruising Waters by TheStoryVerse Words: 17,743 Author’s Summary: Never tell a Soul. Never Let Yourself Be Seen. His mother’s words had been pounded into Lance’s head from birth; a warning to prepare him and keep his family safe. He’s managed to hide from the Garrison and even in space. But, much to Lance’s chagrin, the universe has other plans. When Lance contracts an alien virus while out on a diplomatic mission that starts attacking his Mer form, Lance figures it’s just a “space cold”. He brushes off the others’ worry and tries to continue as normal. But the pain is getting worse with each passing day, and he hasn’t had a moment’s peace alone to change forms and see what could be causing it. When everything finally hits the fan, the team quickly finds that Lance is in much worse condition than they had assumed. Lance is not only dying, but he’s changing right in front of their eyes.So much Hurt and Whump in the first chapter. So much good Bonding and Comfort in the next two. Let’s do this y'all! (Sorry, Lance) My Comments: This is some PRIMO hurt!Lance, lemme tell ya. A unique form of whump, and holy crow is is brutal. It gets kinda gross too, just to warn you. But the bonding and comfort and in the second two chapters more than makes up for it. Maybe a touch over the top at times, but darned if I didn’t enjoy every moment. Totally satisfying and highly recommended to hurt!Lance afficionados. You know who you are.

Wide Awake by taylor_tut Words: 1,373 Author’s Summary: From an anon request on my tumblr: Lance catches a bug that keeps him awake. When he’s not allowed to train during the day with everyone else, he tries to do it alone at night. It goes about as well as you’d think. My Comments: Aw, poor Lance. Great little sickfic with an unusual premise.

With Hands Tied Backwards by GibbousLunation Words: 6,684 Author’s Summary: Lance had this problem, just sometimes, where his brain got all floaty and his hands started feeling like maybe he’d forgotten to put them on properly in the morning. Like they were backwards and inverted and everything else was upside down too. Lance’s eyes slide out of focus staring at twinkling stars thousands of miles away, he lines his knuckles up in neat little rows, and he thinks too much about too many things. Team Voltron is falling apart in little ways, and building itself up taller ten times over. It started as a joke, “You know what would suck?“ It was easier to pretend they weren’t just kids fighting a war they’d never asked for, probably. "Angry edgy Not-Slav giving you CPR with his beak.” My Comments: Poignant and emotional exploration of Lance dealing with trauma-induced dissociation, and the kind of messed up games kids in war play to distract themselves from the threat of death while still acknowledging that it’s there. Klance that starts out ambiguous and then gets much less ambiguous, but could possibly still be read as gen. The point is survival, not romance.

Immunity by RiRiMania1335 Words: 2,165 Author’s Summary: Keith hardly ever gets sick. But if he does, it hits him like a truck. My Comments: Aw, poor Keith. He gets sick so rarely that he truly and sincerely believes that he’s dying, haha. Fortunately the others are there are to reassure him and take care of him.

Bonds by this_book_has_been_loved Words: 1,470 Author’s Summary: At first, it was subtle enough that none of them realized it. The bond with their Lions—that was obvious. Lance had felt it pretty much as soon as he laid eyes on the Blue Lion, and the rest of them had all had similar experiences. It was the bond with each other that was harder to pick up on. My Comments: I really like how this fic explores the concept of a psychic bond into the current canon, with all of the changes and disruptions and how that affects everyone.

Platonic VLD Week 3 - Oneshot Collection by hufflepirate Words: 10,865 Author’s Summary: WARNING: HEREIN BE S4 SPOILERS Day 1: Sleep/Nightmare - Pidge never wanted to share a room with Matt, but now that they have nightmares sharing’s not so bad. Day 2: Inside/Outside - Set mid-4.1 - Kolivan comforts Keith after the decoy ship blows up. Day 3: Tricks/Treats - Matt plays a trick on Team Voltron (a t-Rick) Day 4: Supernatural/Horror - Keith has an uncanny encounter with some Altean soldiers Day 5: Change/Growth - Hunk helps Allura learn more about piloting her lion [S3] Day 6: Distance/Proximity - Tag to 3.4 - After Allura returns, Coran hovers a little too close (Day 7: Alternate reality/Free is separate and the next fic in my platonicvldweek series.) My Comments: I love everything this author does, and this collection of little fics is like a kaleidoscope of Good Stuff. My favorites are probably day 2 and day 4, but they are all good and worth reading.

Old Soldier and Spy by Crowoxy Words: 1,874 Author’s Summary: Kolivan is the old spy who watches all of these young children grow into this war that’s been happening for ten thousand years. Day 5 of the Platonic VLD Week: Growth My Comments: I love this view of Kolivan as a wise, compassionate mentor for young soldiers, and his perspective on both Keith and Lotor is lovely and kind.

The Fear Of Falling Apart by this_book_has_been_loved Words: 3,211 Author’s Summary: Lance has feelings of inadequacy My Comments: This is so cute, and exactly how I want the relationship between Pidge, Matt, and Lance to develop in canon. I want them all to be wonderful siblings and appreciate each other and have fun playing video games. Pidge has two big brothers and it’s wonderful.

King of Wishful Thinking by BossToaster (ChaoticReactions) Words: 7,126 Author’s Summary: From Tumblr: Send me an AU and I’ll give you 5 Headcanons 1) The Galra attack Earth after the Pals leave in the Blue Lion 2) Pidge conspires to get Shiro a dog, and he ends up opening up a version of the Old Dogs Senior Sanctuary. Oops.  3) Scooby Doo AU (yes really) 4) Shiro’s relationship with his wings (Wing AU) My Comments: Each of these concepts fully deserves a full-fledged, 50k novel-length opus, but these small glimpses into the different worlds provided are immensely worth reading on their own, intriguing and heartwarming and horrifying by turns. My favorite is probably the Old Dogs Sanctuary AU, but they are all good.

Where Light and Dark Meet by squirenonny for Pechat Words: 34,168 Author’s Summary: The Fallen One arises: A captive star yearning for the heavens from which it was stolen… So begins the Prophecy of the Fallen Star, which speaks of the one who will save the kingdom from Haggar’s curse. Lance, Keith, and their friends are summoned to get in touch with Allura, the deposed princess of Altea, who is widely believed to be the Fallen Star from the prophecy. But things aren’t going to be quite so simple. Lance was cursed to become a cat at night; Keith spends his days as a crow. They both have a role to play in the coming battle, and they’re going to have to learn to trust each other–but how can they when they only ever meet in the fleeting moments at twilight when they both are human? My Comments: Klance and implied future Kallurance. I ADORE squirenonny’s fics, especially her fantasy AUs. Such amazing worldbuilding, great descriptions and and plotting and characterization. This one has some really nice hurt!Lance and protective Hunk and Pidge, too, which I always appreciate. I’m very pleased that this is apparently going to be a series, so I’ll get to read more in this world eventually. Just a great, great read, highly addictive, couldn’t stop once I started. I love it when that happens.

Blast Zone by bubblebucky Words: 4,729 Author’s Summary: In the middle of a mission, a bomb going off leaves Lance unable to hear. Still, while he’s deaf, the rest of his team are the ones that won’t listen. My Comments: This hits all of my buttons SO HARD. It gave me that good ache in my chest, you know the one. The other characters may be sliiiightly OOC in order to really hammer the hurt in on Lance, but it didn’t ping my “back away immediately” sense the way woobification usually does. Instead it felt understandable for a high-stress situation and I accepted it. The almost too-severe pain heightened the emotions for me and made the ending all the more satisfying. I REALLY love this. I’ve already read it several times, especially the ending, and it’s definitely in my Favorite Fics folder.

Home and a Half by sarehptar Words: 84,407 (7/?) Author’s Summary: They make a mistake that follows them home. (Or: Keith becomes an unwitting caretaker to three Galra children, who teach him a great deal about how to take care of himself.) My Comments: I am reading fewer WIPs these days because there are so many completed fics I still haven’t gotten to but want to, but this was recced to me so it moved to the top of my priority list, and I’m so glad I gave it a shot. This is far from a fluffy baby acquistion fic, with a lot of moral questions and deep consideration of mature themes, which makes the fic more bittersweet and heartwrenching than cute, though there are plenty of cute moments, too. It’s incredibly well-written and interesting, and the latest chapters have really brought some fun worldbuilding and adventure elements. I was afraid it was abandoned, but the author assures me it is not, and I’m really looking forward to continuing to follow this story to completion.

Previously Recced Fics That Updated:

Shadows of Stars (84674 words) Why it sucks to be a snake in space(52445 words) As Color Fades Away (211491 words) Shifting Sands (38605 words) - now complete