#well that and i loved the idea of white ink on lance's skin

[thecowardlycreative]

High-School-English Symbolism

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Pairing: Klance

Summary: People have tattoos. That’s just a fact. And sometimes they have absolutely no deeper meaning at all. That’s just not the case in this instance. Lance McClain has three tattoos and he knows exactly what they all mean.

Words: 1909

WARNING: mentions of miscarriage and vague/implied references to abortion

Lance McClain has three tattoos, Keith discovers when they’re lying together, naked and sated, in his bed for the first time. He’d noticed, of course, the sleeve before – a complicated wave pattern made up of delicate line work that wraps around his elbow from mid-forearm to mid-bicep like a brace – and he thinks he might have caught glimpses of the one on his thumb before, at least enough to remember it looking vaguely snake-like. But it’s the third, a single lily, startling white against cinnamon skin, that lies in the hollow of his hip bone that takes Keith somewhat by surprise. It’s such a little thing; plain black and white, stylised and simple and all on its lonesome with no accompanying anything to draw attention to it… It just doesn’t really seem like Lance’s style.

Hadn’t stopped Keith from sucking on it hard until the stark white dulled to mottled purple and Lance was pawing at the sheets, tiny, desperate puffs of air escaping his mouth, though.

He runs his fingers over it then, as Lance dozes against him, warm and pliant, filled with equal parts satisfaction and guilt at the mess Lance’s soft skin had become. Lance hums and shifts a little closer to him, obviously not quite as asleep as Keith had thought.

“D’you like it?” he mumbles, voice rough.

Keith hums an affirmative. “S’pretty,” he replies. “Doesn’t really seem like you, though.”

Lance makes some vague sound that could either be agreement or confusion and rolls over fully so that he can bundle Keith into his arms against his chest.

“Did you know,” he says lowly once his boyfriend has been successfully restrained in a vice-like cuddle, “I was almost a dad once.”

Keith gives a little jolt at this information but doesn’t say anything.

“I was seventeen,” Lance continues, “and me and my girlfriend at the time – Allison, her name was – well, we thought we were in love. Maybe we were. I’m not sure anymore. But that’s why, when we found out Ali was pregnant – and who knows how that happened. Maybe the condom broke, maybe it was faulty, maybe we were drunk. God only knows. The point is, once we found out… If we were going to be together forever anyway, why not get started on a family right then, right? We didn’t worry too much about it. My parents… They weren’t wholly against the idea, not like Ali’s were, but they weren’t jumping for joy either. They were practical. They sat us both down and talked about the future – what we’d have to give up, what extra things we’d have to learn, what we’d gain in return; weighed up all the pros and cons. I can’t… I can’t really describe to you what it was like when, at the end of it all, my mama took my hand and said, ‘If you want to do this, we will be behind you 110%. But you have to be sure. You are not God, mijo. You cannot take a life back once it has been given.’”

Lance takes a deep breath and Keith presses his nose against his throat in all the unspoken reassurance he can.

“Turns out it didn’t really matter, in the end,” says Lance eventually. “My baby died long before he could be considered properly alive. And, afterward, Ali and me… we weren’t quite as in love as we thought we were.”

His hand covered Keith’s over the tiny, white flower, calloused fingers brushing against it, and Keith’s guilt multiplied exponentially at a sudden realisation.

It’s a white lily. A funeral flower.

He’d just given Lance a massive hickey on the remembrance tattoo for his dead son. He tried not to groan too loudly in shame but Lance just chuckled lightly, rubbed his hands lightly over Keith’s back and let him cling to him tightly in apology.

“I was going to get the date as well,” says Lance conversationally, “make it more obvious. But then I realised I didn’t really need to. I wasn’t really going to forget the date that happened.”

It’s silent for a long time after that. Lance’s fingers keep skimming delicately over Keith’s naked back, his slow, even breaths the only sound in the moonlit room, and Keith fights desperately for something to say – something he can possibly say after a story like that.

“You didn’t have to tell me all that,” he eventually decides on.

Lance hums. “I know.”

“Thank you,” says Keith.

“I wanted you to know.” Then Lance takes a deep breath, lets it out again, and sits up so quickly that Keith goes rolling off him like water.

“Oi…” grumbles Keith as he shuffles over so that he can drape himself across his boyfriend again.

“But that one was fine,” Lance continues as if the heavy atmosphere had never been there at all. “It only took, like, less than an hour and didn’t even hurt that much – probably because I’d been prepared for it to be excruciating, seeing as it was the first. The sleeve took four sessions over two months.”

“I’m actually impressed,” says Keith, grabbing Lance’s elbow to examine it.

“Why, thank you,” says Lance.

“You actually managed to sit still long enough to get this done.”

“Uh! Rude.” He grabs at his heart in mock-offence.

“I’m kidding, Lance,” laughs Keith. “Though I bet it has some really pretentious meaning.” A second of silence passes before he rethinks what he just said. “I mean, it just looks like that sort of thing. Abnormal and pretentious rather than something that could be understood at a glance.”

“Again: Rude. It’s not pretentious. It’s… It’s… You know… Deep.”

“Pretentious.”

“Dick,” says Lance with a smile and bends to place a wet kiss against Keith’s forehead. “I’ll have you know this is symbolic of all the important people in my life.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. See the wave?” He takes his elbow back to outline the thin, sketchy blue line in his skin. “That’s me. And inside it, filling me in and making me whole is everyone who helps make me who I am. The rocks are Hunk because he breaks me.”

“He breaks you?” says Keith flatly.

“Yeah, man, look.” And he twists his arm a little more to show the pale yellow rocks that are almost hidden against his skin tone. “He’s the rocks that break the wave, sets it off, gives it purpose, makes it actually a wave. The vines are Pidge.” His finger shifts to the leaves that sprout between the rocks and crest the waves.

“Doesn’t Pidge hate the outdoors?”

“That’s not the point! The point is that these vines aren’t even really doing anything, they’re just going about their planty business, and they still manage to curl around me, protect me from the salt spray, support me without even trying. Just by existing, you know? Allura is the flowers. She’s the beauty amidst the chaos.”

“Trust you to reduce Allura to eye candy.”

“Shame on you, Keith! Beauty is more than eye candy! Beauty is hope. And to be so beautiful while surrounded by such… such destruction that an angry sea can bring takes enormous strength.”

“And Shiro?” Keith prompts.

Lance twists his arm again, almost knocking Keith in the head, to try and show the awkward patch of skin just above his elbow where an eagle, all in black, sits perched upon the rocks, gazing out to sea. “He’s the eagle. He keeps watch and makes sure I’m always breaking in the right direction.”

Keith smiles but doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his fingers coiling tiny swirls over the waves, before he realises that Lance has stopped talking. “But… that’s…” he says, “that’s everything. I’m not… So, I’m not on there?

“Well, I don’t know who we are to each other yet,” Lance replies, sliding down the headboard again so Keith was lying on his chest rather than his lap. “You’re an enigma, Keith Kogane. I’m still trying to figure you out.” And he kisses him softly.

“And what about your family?” says Keith after a moment. “I know you…” He makes a vague gesture, the meaning of which is unknown. “Don’t they ‘make you who you are?”

Lance just laughs and hold up his thumb.

“Got them right here,” he says with a sharp thumbs-up.

“Right,” scoffs Keith, tracing the two coiling pieces of rope that run down the outside of Lance’s left thumb to pool into a tangled mess where it meets his wrist.

He’s trying to pretend that his fingers aren’t feather-light, almost reverent where they touch Lance’s skin but he’s not doing a very good job.

“And what sort of high-school-English symbolism does this one contain?” he asks.

“Oh, none,” says Lance easily. “Nothing at all. I just know this one is for my family and so, every time I see it when I’m, like, typing or doing the dishes or whatever, I remember them and know…” He trails off.

Keith waits barely ten seconds before he’s elbowing Lance in the ribs and prompting: “And know–?”

Lance coughs awkwardly and twists his hand to lace their fingers together probably more violently than he meant to.

“Oh, you know…” he mumbles, ears pink and grip tight. “That I’m not, like… ‘alone’ or… Like, I’ve always got family even if they’re not there right that second.”

Keith rolls his eyes; more because he doesn’t know what to say than anything else. It isn’t like ‘family’ was a topic he can heavily relate to, after all.

“Maybe that’s where you are,” says Lance. “Part of the family tattoo.” He feels Keith’s breath stutter at that and keeps talking, gesturing with one hand flying into the air, not quite sure what he’d just admitted to. “Of course, you’ll need your own.” No, that’s worse. More embarrassing. “If you want it, I mean. We haven’t exactly been together for years and it could be awkward if we ever broke up – not that I’m planning on that, it’s just that –”

It’s Keith’s turn to wrap his arms around the other and crush him into a cuddle. “Stop talking,” he says. “I’m trying to use my words – you know, what you always tease me about being unable to do.”

Lance laughs but it’s muffled against Keith’s chest and he snakes one arms around the other’s waist to draw him in closer. He’s so warm.

“I… don’t really… know…” starts Keith and then groans in frustration and Lance laughs again. “Don’t you laugh at me!” Lance laughs harder. “Honestly, I don’t really know if I can put it in words. You want to… put a permanent reminder of me on your skin that you’ll carry around with you every moment of every day?”

“I mean,” says Lance from under the blankets. “I’m not opposed to it. But if you think it’s weird or creepy, I won’t do it.”

And Keith is suddenly intensely glad that the blanket is blocking his boyfriend’s view. He really doesn’t need to know how much Keith was blushing right then, it would be a boost to his ego that Keith could live without. But the blanket’s also a barrier between them, a barrier that is intensely unwanted right now, so Keith ducks underneath.

Lance’s eyes are bright in the dark and he has a mixture of fondness and vague worry on his face.

Keith kisses him. “I really, really like you,” he says and Lance smiles.

[corvus--rex]

Semi-abandoned for now. I have a vague idea of the endgame, but absolutely no middle or coherent plot. It was originally meant to be another Omegaverse (which it still may be, idk rn), so it's a little weird not in that context. This one is modern magic and Lance and Keith are about 400 year old witches.

~*~*~*~

Crash. The sound of metal on metal. Muffled cursing. This was not what Keith was expecting to hear when he let himself into his apartment after closing the shop alone because Lance said he needed to work on a project. But that’s what he heard. And it was coming from the kitchen. He couldn’t help the soft snicker that escaped him as he kicked his shoes off and dropped his keys on the table. He silently padded across the living room to the kitchen, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. His boyfriend Lance had dropped onto the kitchen island. Supporting his weight on his elbows, he stared intently at his tablet while surrounded by disaster.

“Need some help with your project?” Keith asked, lips twisted in an amused smirk.

Lance shot up. His expression passed from panic to relief in a split second. “I have no idea how I managed to fuck this up. So, yes. Yes, I do.”

With a twist of his fingers, Keith cleaned up the mess Lance had made. Dishware was instantly cleaned and returned to shelves and cabinets, ingredients slotted back into place, utensils placed back into drawers. He sauntered into the kitchen and directly up to Lance, wrapping his arms around his long-time boyfriend and gently kissing him.

“Now,” he said, “How about I take care of dinner for us?”

Lance dropped his head on Keith’s shoulder. “Please. You’d think I would have figured this out after three hundred years.”

Keith just laughed. “Kitchen magic has never been your strong suit, love.”

“Well aware. But this was something Hunk sent me, so I figured that I’d at least be able to figure that one out.” He couldn’t hide the pout in his voice.

“Well, maybe all three of us can work on that. Do you not remember how much I used to suck in the kitchen?”

Lance snorted. “If by suck you mean how many hearths did you blow up, then yes.”

“Asshole. Anyway,” Keith said pointedly, “I’ll get started here if you could set the table.”

“Absolutely,” Lance answered. He kissed the tip of Keith’s nose before twirling away with a light laugh. He snapped his fingers, directing tableware across the kitchen to the table. He jumped, plates and silverware faltering in the air before returning to their path, when Keith smacked his ass on the way by. Lance let out a high-pitched scoff in mock offense. “Don’t make me drop everything!”

Keith just laughed again, violet eyes skimming over the tablet’s screen.

Elsewhere in the city of Altea, a lone figure sat at a workbench, hunched over the worn, pitted surface. Their hands passed over the herbs and crystals laid over a complex sigil, fingers twisting in precise, intricate motions. The lines of the sigil flared to life, silvery blue twining with pale lavender. The herbs smoldered to ash around the crystals, which absorbed the herbs’ essence and the light from the sigil, refracting the light around the room in a twisted, sickly rainbow. The crystals cracked, the lines breaking the rainbows into fractured pieces scattered across the walls. The cracks spread, splintering the crystals until they crumbled to a coarse sand and fell back to the bench’s surface. The figure chuckled softly, a wide grin spread across their face. The crystal sand rose and floated into a waiting glass bowl, raining down on a pair of miniature portraits.

Both portraits dated from the eighteenth century. One held the image of a pale young man in soft pink, raven hair pulled into a low ponytail tied with a black ribbon, the other of another young man with deep golden skin dressed in powder blue, soft, deep brown curls tied back with a navy ribbon.

The figure ran fingertips along the glass. “Soon it will all be over,” they whispered, voice hoarse with disuse.

“Oh, fuck me. Lance, we’re late,” Keith yelled as he sat up in bed the next morning.

Lance rolled out of bed, startled awake. He checked his alarms that should have woken him already. All three of them were turned off. He also noticed that they only had ten minutes before they needed to leave to get to the shop in time to open. “I’ll call Pidge. She’s closer and knows what to do. Um, my alarms were all turned off. Are yours ok?”

Keith grabbed his phone while pulling a shirt on. He checked, and his alarms were also turned off. “No. They’re all off. What the fuck?”

“I don’t know,” Lance answered, pulling pants on with his phone tucked into his shoulder, “Oh Pidge, there you are. Hey, our alarms didn’t go off. We’re on our way, but can you open up for us?”

“What? Um, sure. I’ll be right there,” Pidge answered sleepily, “You owe me coffee for this.”

“Totally. Thanks, Pidgey.” He hung up, tossing his phone on the bed. “She says we owe her coffee, but she’ll do it.”

“Oh, thank fuck. We’ll swing by Allura’s on the way. Not like we have time for breakfast anyway,” Keith said, coming back into the bedroom with his shoes.

The pair finished dressing, ensuring they had everything they needed for the day. Keith reached for the table by the door for his keys, finding the table’s surface empty. The floor around and under the table was also devoid of keys. He searched his old leather bag, still coming up empty.

“You haven’t seen my keys, have you?” he asked.

“No, but I have mine. They’ll turn up. They’re probably just behind something. We’ll find them, don’t worry about it,” Lance said soothingly while rubbing his knuckles in circles on Keith’s back.

“Yeah,” Keith sighed, “Well, we’d better get going.”

Keith settled into the passenger seat as Lance pulled out of the garage, still upset about the alarms and his keys. He knewhe’d dropped the keys on the table the night before and was at a complete loss as to where they could be. And the thing with their alarms being turned off. That was even stranger. Soon he was lost in thought, his brain attempting to pick apart the how and why. Lance knew better than to interrupt the train of thought, especially at this hour. He let it go until they pulled up in front of Café Oriande.

“Hey, we’re here,” he said, nudging Keith’s leg.

Keith snapped his attention from the window and his thoughts. “Hm? Oh. Yeah.”

“Ok. I admit that the alarm thing is weird, but the keys will turn up. It’s not the first time shit like that’s happened, and it’s definitely not the last time. Please, stop worrying about it.”

“I’ll try, but no promises.”

Lance laughed. “That’s about as much as I expected. Come on, let’s go get breakfast and fuel for the beast.”

Keith snorted. “Just don’t let her hear you call her that.”

“No thanks. I value my life.”

Walking into Oriande, they immediately spotted Allura behind one of the two espresso machines. She had her thick silver hair wrapped in a braided bun that day, her dark skin standing in stark contrast to the blue and pink of her uniform t-shirt and white apron that never showed the slightest sign of wear. Beside her at the other machine was the perky blonde barista Romelle. Coran backed out of the kitchen carrying a fresh tray of pastries, followed by Romelle’s brother Bandor toting a full ice bucket. Coran wove his way through two new faces Lance and Keith had never seen before.

Allura looked up as they came in. “Lance! Keith! I didn’t expect to see you until later!” she shouted from her position.

Romelle looked up from the drink she was making and waved excitedly with her usual bright smile. Bandor turned around, greeting the pair with a wave of the now empty ice bucket. Coran finished refilling the display case leaving the tray on the counter.

“And how are you two today?” he asked cheerily.

“Yeah, we’re running a little late today. Pidge is opening for us,” Lance said to Allura before answering Coran, “We’re good, other than that.”

“Speaking of Pidge, our resident gremlin demanded a caffeinated tribute,” Keith added.

“Oh!” Allura said, coming to the counter by the registers, “You have to meet our new recruits. This delightful girl is Merla,” she gently held the shoulders of the magenta-haired girl at the register before tapping the man behind her, “And this is my cousin Tavo.”

Tavo turned around from the drip coffee machines behind the register. He was taller and darker than Allura, his ink-dark dreads pulled up into a high ponytail. He nodded in greeting. “Always good to meet Allura’s friends,” he said before returning to the coffee machines.

“So, I heard something about a caffeine tribute?” Allura asked.

“Yeah, Pidge is opening the shop for us,” Keith answered.

“And your usual teas, or do you need something stronger?”

“Nah, tea’s fine,” Lance said, “But we will need rocket fuel for the gremlin.”

“And Coran’s magical pain au chocolat,” Keith added.

Allura snorted at the double meaning and went about filling their order.

Breakfast in hand, Allura waved them out of the café. Keith held his very large cup in both hands, adjusting the tea’s temperature to something immediately drinkable. It was half gone by the time they reached their metaphysical shop Marmora. It had been named in honor of the first coven Keith had been a part of. One that was long gone, lost to the mists of the past.

Pidge, who was a part of their current coven, made sleepy grabby hands at the coffee cup in Lance’s hand as he and Keith walked in to the shop. She tripped over herself clambering down from the tall chair behind the counter, nearly faceplanting into the old wood floor. Lance held the cup just out of her reach.

“Gimme my coffee, asshole,” she grumbled.

“I’ll do you one better,” he answered, handing her the cup and one of the boxes containing Coran’s pain au chocolat.

Pidge grabbed both, cradling them to her chest as she darted back to the chair, climbing the rungs, and settling herself cross-legged in the seat, her coffee between her legs as she tore into the pastry.

“Remind me not to feed her after midnight,” Keith said.

“I can hear you,” Pidge said through pastry and chocolate. She took a long sip of her coffee before becoming slightly more human. “So, what happened with the alarms?” she questioned.

“No idea. But all our alarms were turned off and my keys disappeared. I’ll do a summoning spell when we get home.”

“Yeah,” she answered through more pastry, “But that alarm thing is fuckin’ weird.”

“No argument there,” Lance said.

Pidge dropped the empty box in the trash beside her and made grabby hands at Lance and Keith again. “Gimme your phones, I’ll check them over.”

They both put their phones down on the wood counter. Pidge may not have been as old as they were, but she was a highly accomplished witch. She also had an almost preternatural gift for mundane technology. If there was any meddling with their phones, magical or otherwise, she’d find it.

She laced her fingers together and stretched her arms, cracking her knuckles. Fluttering fingers stilled, passing over the darkened screens. Both came to life, Pidge’s magic searching through their inner workings. A dark iridescence like an oil slick spread across both screens, filling them.

“Oh, fuck. Who’d you two piss off? This is pretty strong shit,” she said, staring at the devices in horror.

“No one that we know of,” Keith replied, “Not lately anyway.”

Pidge gave him an unimpressed look. “Define ‘lately’.”

“Fifty years or so?” he guessed.

“Ooh. Yeah, but that got taken care of. That bitch colossally fucked up and managed to drain her own magic. Do you have any idea how hard that is?” Lance added, remembering the incident.

“Very.”

“How very?” Pidge asked.

“Nearly impossible. So that would make it more like a hundred years ago, maybe a little more. I think it was about the turn of the twentieth century, right?” Keith turned to Lance for confirmation.

“Yeah, about then. But that wasn’t to do with us directly. We just got caught up in it.” Lance dismissed the idea with a flutter of his fingers. “Doesn’t matter anyway. No one’s heard from them since then. Like, at all. They vanished completely.”

Pidge was downing her coffee at an alarming rate, but put her cup down at that. “I need you to tell me everything that happened.”

“Tonight,” Keith said, “This might take a while, and I don’t want to get interrupted. Can you break that in the meanwhile?” He indicated his and Lance’s phones.

“I can try, but no promises,” she answered, taking them and her coffee to the back room.

Keith moved around to the other side of the counter, duplicating the chair for Lance. They both settled in, Keith leaning back with his tea. Lance licked the molten chocolate off his finger and turned back to Keith.

“I really hope this doesn’t have anything to do with them. If it does, we may be totally fucked.”

Keith nodded in agreement, then sat up. “But wait, didn’t the others abandon him immediately after that? He’d gone so far over they wanted nothing to do with him anymore. They went into hiding to protect themselves from him, like we did for a while. If anything, it’ll be him on his own.”

“That might be even worse. No one to hold him back after over a hundred years? We need to warn everyone involved.”

Keith put his cup down and got up, wrapping himself around Lance. “Not yet. We need to be sure it’s him first. This could have nothing to do with him. I don’t know who else would want to get at us, but we can’t just go off because of something like this. We’ll figure it out.”

Lance returned the embrace, burying his face in Keith’s shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll let Pidge work and see what she comes up with.”

Ten minutes later, when Keith and Lance were finishing their tea, the door to the back room flew open, bouncing off the wall with a crack of electricity.

“OW! Shit! Sorry!” Pidge yelled, and pulled the door closed from her seat.

~*~*~*~

Links to the rest of the series:

1 | 2 | 3* | 4 | 5* | 6* | 7 | 8 | 9* | 10 | 11 | 12* | 13 | 14 | 15* | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19*

[hollywooduniversityalumnus]

1. burning glances, turning heads

He really should know better, Margot thought, to expect that his class would be paying attention on a Friday afternoon before the long weekend.

As Professor Hunt, the surliest yet most accomplished educator to roam the halls of Hollywood University, all but threw Lance Sergio out for being extremely obvious about taking excessively filtered selfies during the lecture, she took the opportunity to lean over to Addison, poking her with the eraser end of her mechanical pencil. The blonde, as if being suddenly woken, started, causing her gel pen to make a squiggle just off the doodle she was mindlessly making on the edge of her paper.

“What?” Addison asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Margot shrugged. “I’m bored.”

“I think we’re all bored,” Addison teased. “But at least some of us are more subtle than others.”

She nodded towards the front, where the professor had turned his attentions to Jenni Whitman, whose open laptop screen displayed one of the trashier celebrity gossip websites. Beside her, Bianca Stone surreptitiously slipped her phone into her pocket and bowed her head over her notebook, as though trying to commit the blank pages to memory, and Shae, another of Bianca’s friends, panicked and stuffed her phone in the front of her shirt, making a strange lump in the fabric.

As Jenni, too, packed up and took her leave at his insistence, Professor Hunt returned to the lectern, his jaw tense.

“While I understand that you are all incapable of delaying gratification long enough to pay attention in my class, I maintain my zero-tolerance policy for distractions. It would do the rest of you well,” he gritted out, “to not force my hand any more than it’s already been.” His eyes slowly took in the remaining pupils sitting in the hall. “Do I make myself clear?”

The lecture continued.

As he began a diatribe on romantic comedies, Margot turned back to Addison and gestured for her to look at her notebook. Addison subtly glanced down as she pretended to stretch, reading the message written on the corner of the page in very, very light pencil lead strokes.

Do you think he’s ever even seen a rom com?

Addison smirked and turned the page on her notebook, scrawling her reply in much more perceptible pink glitter ink.

Not on purpose, if at all.

Margot suppressed a laugh at the thought.

Like, maybe he sat through You’ve Got Mail thinking that it was about the postal service?

Or Mystic Pizza being about a magical pizza.

Or Crazy Rich Asians being a biopic.

Or-

“I thought I made myself clear.”

The two girls jumped in their seats, hearts pounding, expecting to find the frowning professor looming over them. Luckily for them, his attention was on Shae, whose poorly hidden phone in her shirt had become quite the spectacle, as the screen lit up behind the thin fabric and an instrumental snippet of a Top 40s hit blared from behind the buttons.

“Out,” Professor Hunt snapped. When Shae didn’t immediately move, he all but yelled, “Out!”

Dear God, she thought, this lecture is never-ending.

She was one of perhaps sixteen students left in the hall. Many others, including Bianca, had either flown the coop during the mandated fifteen-minute break, or were not-so-nicely asked to leave by the increasingly tense professor. She had flirted with the idea of beginning her long weekend early, too, but she knew she was already on thin ice with Hunt (to be fair, when isn’t she?), and she might as well learn something anyway. She didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to be. Unlike many of her classmates, she wasn’t heading home for the long weekend, and her plans for the next four days were most likely going to be a cycle of sleep, catching up on the show Chris recommended, and getting takeout.

“. . . and that is why we're discussing the decline of the romantic comedy, a genre that relies all too often on an unbelievable formula. Miss Sinclair?”

Addison’s head snapped up. “Yes, Professor?”

“Kindly give us an example of a trope commonly seen in romantic comedies. I am assuming you are familiar with them.”

“Y-yes,” Addison said, twirling her fuzzy-capped gel pen with her fingers. “Um, in, um, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, the two leads often fought and got on each other’s nerves but fell in love with each other anyway.”

Professor Hunt nodded. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. A topical example of an overused trope. How often have you seen the two lead characters spend most of a movie fighting with each other, only to end up together in the end because of some ill-established passion? Far too often, I’d assume.”

As he droned on, Margot reached over and patted Addison’s arm. “Good job.”

The blonde returned the smile, relieved to have survived the encounter. “Thanks, I was dying inside.”

“Real love is nothing like that,” Hunt said, sneering. “Real love, the kind that exists outside of a cinema screen or five-dollar DVD bin, is not a predictable, clearly laden path with a clear and promised conclusion. Expecting a happily ever after in a relationship is naïve at best.”

“Who hurt him?” Addison mumbled to her.

She poked Addison again with her pencil. “Can you imagine someone loving Hunt? Or even dating him?”

“No! It'd be like dating an angry bear. It’d be a miracle if they lived to tell the tale. I heard he's single, unsurprisingly.” Addison shook her head.

“He probably has crazy high standards. Do you think he has a type?” She bit her lip, assessing her professor from afar. Though his modelling days were far behind him, he still maintained a well-kept, impeccable appearance that often made her wonder what he would look like without the constricting suits he wore like second skins. His features were both manly yet delicate, as if the world had taken its sweet time with perfecting his visage. And his jawline . . . sharp enough to cut glass. He was definitely not lacking in looks, talent, or drive, which was what made his being perpetually single all the more intriguing, though his personality made it understandable.

“Yeah, if perfect is a type. Like, someone with a model hot body, a mind as sharp as a stiletto, and a Hollywood career that's skyrocketing.” Addison giggled.

She tapped her lip with the eraser end of her pencil, thinking. “So, a fictional person.”

Addison leaned into her, eyes glimmering with amusement. “I bet it'd be like getting graded all the time. He'd be judging your outfit, insulting your conversation, critiquing your kissing technique! ‘Too much tongue. You call that a kiss? Kindly remove yourself from my sight.’”

She chuckled. “‘You’ve got to do better than that if you want me to feel anything other than complete and utter monotony.’”

“‘I've seen more believable kisses on The Bachelor.’”

The laugh that bubbled out of her was loud enough to capture the attention of the very man they were emulating. His eyes narrowed as he spotted her quickly trying to clamp her mouth shut.

“Miss Schuyler! Is something amusing? Perhaps you'd like to finish off my lecture on the difficulty of realistically portraying love?” he asked.

She straightened in her seat. “Sorry, Professor.”

“. . . And in conclusion, once a genre full of heart, the majority of romantic comedies have descended into farce bereft of true emotion. Class dismissed.” The professor strode over to his desk and began the necessary routine of shutting off the projection screen. As he did, the rest of the class stood up, stretching, and began packing their things away. Excited voices began eagerly discussing their plans for the weekend.

Thank God, Margot thought. The never-ending lecture was over. Let the weekend-

His eyes met hers, a pointed gaze. “Except for you, Miss Schuyler. Come see me. We need to talk.”

. . . Shit.

Addison touched her arm. “Do you want me to stay back, too?”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she said, patting her friend’s hand. “You go on ahead. Don’t be late for your bus. I know you’ve been looking forward to seeing your mom.”

Addison grinned. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

“The least you can do,” she teased.

Addison’s smile waned. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on campus for the weekend? My mom said it would be no trouble at all for you to visit.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I’ll be fine. With almost everyone going away for the long weekend, I’m going to indulge in using up all the hot water. Maybe even sit at the good table in the coffee shop. Wild stuff like that. Thank you, though.”

“Well, then,” Addison said, smile returning full-force, “I’ll be on my way. Good luck! Hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “Don’t worry about little ol’ me. I know how to deal with him.”

Addison nodded and took her leave, one of the last of the classmates to exit the hall. Gathering up the rest of her things, Margot stuffed them into her tote bag and made her way up to the professor’s desk, where he was busy rifling through his own bag and muttering to himself.

“Just one second,” he said, placing a few handfuls of odds and ends from the depths of his bag on the table.

She nodded, more fascinated by the things that he seemingly carried around with him. Of the many things on his desk, she noted a mini Rubik’s cube, a slip of paper with very faded ink that might have been a receipt or a movie ticket once, a cellophane-wrapped green-and-white mint, three expensive-looking pens of various colours and sizes, and a tube of plain blue Nivea lip balm, identical to the one she had in her purse at that very moment. While the label on hers had faded from usage and being flung around inside her bag, his looked brand new.

After brushing those items back into his bag, he placed a stack of papers on the desktop. Among them, a bright slip of paper poked out, much smaller than the rest, and made of a thicker, textured material. Curious, she pulled it out until she could read the tiny lettering.

5th Annual Los Angeles Charity Masquerade. Admit one (1). $250 admission not including fees/taxes.

She’d never been to a masquerade. She imagined they were just like that scene in Labyrinth, with David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly spinning around the room, surrounded by people in grotesque masks that partly concealed their identities. Big poufy dresses and suits with coattails. Drapery and curtains and mirrors. But an LA soiree version of one probably meant champagne by the bucketful and crudités carried around by masked waiters. Perhaps live music, performed by musicians forced into formal wear, and maybe they were even masked as well. Was everyone there, guest or not, required to wear one? Were masquerades that strict? Do people who wear glasses have to-

You’re getting distracted, she told herself.

“A masquerade ball, huh? That sounds romantic.” She leaned against the desk, smirking at him. “And here I thought you were completely against the concept of romance.”

“Only someone delusional looks for love at a charity masquerade ball,” he replied scathingly. “It's a charity event and an obligation. I'm expected to attend, but there'll be no one worth talking to. As usual.”

“No date, huh?”

His eyes narrowed. “A date would require me to spend the entire evening there. I can't imagine anything worse. I'll be leaving as soon as I've made my donation to the cause. But I didn't call you up here to discuss my social calendar, Miss Schuyler. I wanted to talk about your behaviour in class. I thought, after seeing nearly all of your classmates get removed from the hall, you’d know better than to provoke me. I want to make it absolutely clear to you that it is unacceptable to disrupt my lecture. Save your chit chat for your own time, understand?”

She swallowed hard, feeling heat on her cheeks from his gaze. “Yes, Professor.”

He nodded once. “Good. You may go.”

As she left the hall, phone in hand, her heart was thumping in her chest from excitement. But not from the weekend finally starting.

She’d never been to a masquerade, after all.

But first, she’d need a dress. And shoes.

Without her stellar roommate and fashionista friend by her side, she felt entirely overwhelmed as she flipped through the overflowing closet Addi had insisted she make use of. Though she hadn’t told her the whole truth – just that she was attending an event that required formal wear – Addi had been thrilled to break up the boring bus ride with some advice.

“Not too much cleavage,” Addison said, her voice tinny through the phone speaker. “And not short, either. Knee-length or longer.”

“Do you think I’ll need gloves?” she asked. “Like Cinderella?”

Addison hummed. “Maybe. Pack a pair of elbow length white gloves in your bag, just in case. Oh my gosh. What bag are you bringing? It cannot clash. You hear me? Cannot.”

“Addi, I don’t even know what dress I’m wearing.” Margot frowned at her phone, balanced atop a stack of textbooks on her vanity. “I’m standing here in my underwear trying to figure this out. I’m pre-bibbidi-bobbidi-boo here.”

Addison’s laughter rang out of the speaker.

“I’m serious, Addi. Maybe I shouldn’t go.” She bit her lip, thinking of the money she’d spent on a ticket, money that might’ve been better spent. She was lucky that there were even tickets available. But that was beside the point. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“What’s a bad idea? Having a good time? Attending a charity event? Making career-defining connections? Come on.” Addison giggled. “Maybe you’ll even meet the love of your life there.”

“Right.” She flipped through the racks, eager to find something, anything . . . and then she saw it. A strapless, silvery blue ball gown, tight at the top but not overly cleavage-baring, that flared out at the waist to a full, silky skirt that would definitely conceal whatever shoes she would wear. She pulled it out of the closet and unzipped the clear garment bag to admire it. It was a princess dress if she ever saw one. Turning back to the phone, she quickly requested the voice call turn to a video.

Seconds later, Addison’s tired faced filled the screen. “What is it?”

Brandishing the dress out with a flourish, she ignored that she was standing in little more than a bra and panties as she showed the dress for her friend’s approval.

The gasp she heard confirmed her selection.

“You’ll be so stunning! A real-life Cinderella,” Addison said.

“Yeah,” she said absentmindedly, running her hand over the smooth fabric, already envisioning the makeup look she’d pair with the outfit.

“Except-” Addison narrowed her eyes in her best stern Hunt impression. “If you lose one of my shoes, it would be best to leave the country.”

Her taxi finally reached the front of the line, and a footman waiting on the sidewalk opened the door for her. She stepped out in her beautiful ball gown, giving the footman a grateful smile as he closed the door after her. Taking her time ascending the steps in her heels, she met another footman at the door who, after looking at her ticket and corroborating it with the guest list on a tablet, handed her a mask with ribbons.

She stepped into the hallway leading to the ballroom and found a mirror where she could put it on. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was more than pleased by her last-minute glow-up. As Addison had her closet, she had her vanity, stuffed to the brim with makeup products that she used to make herself look as chic as possible. After adjusting the mask to fit her face, she smoothed a layer of lip gloss over her lined lips and smiled to herself.

With this mask, I could be anyone . . . well, anyone smokin' hot, that is, she thought.

The ballroom was packed despite its tremendous size. Decorated Regency-style, it dripped with decadence, glass, and shine. Gold chandeliers tipped with crystals dangled from ceilings with painted murals, and tables spilled over with decadent food and sparkling drinks in crystal flutes. Famous actors and big names in the industry, though shrouded by masks of varying hues and designs, gossiped at the edges of the room, while couples danced and twirled on the floor. As she envisioned, masked waiters masterfully navigated the room, offering bite-sized treats that made her mouth water just looking at them.

After making her way around the room, taking in the splendor, she came to a stop near a pillar and sighed.

“This is incredible,” Margot said aloud.

“Isn’t it?”

She turned her head, surprised to see a man with a dark blue mask eyeing her from where he sat by the nearby bar.

“Come sit with me and let’s talk about it,” he said. The invitation, though innocuous in its wording, made her uncomfortable.

“Um,” she said. Her mind, which was usually buzzing with quips, did not offer her an out.

“Don’t be shy, baby,” he pressed, voice a little too firm and sharp for her liking. “I won’t bite. Come here.”

She swallowed hard at his leery gaze, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. “I-”

And then she felt it, a hand circling around her elbow, and she was not alone. She tilted her head up to appraise her saviour, who was looking down at her with a smile. Her saviour, tall and silver-masked, looked and spoke to her as if he knew her.

���There you are.” He led her to the other side of the bar, all the while chattering loudly as though they had come together. “Nearly lost you in this crowd.”

She knew that voice. Knew it quite well, in fact. She’d heard it in lecture halls, offices, in her nightmares and dreams, and in places unexpected.

This was one of the latter now.

He gestured to a pair of empty seats, and she gratefully took one. As soon as she was comfortable, he turned his head to look over at where that man who had been speaking at her sat. Then, he leaned against the bar, standing over the other empty seat, and picked up a half-empty glass, presumably abandoned by him when he came to her rescue.

“You should be careful,” he said sternly.

For a moment, she thought he recognized her, and she prepared for the lecture that would undoubtedly come.

“Even charity events attract the lecherous,” he continued. “You’re very welcome, by the way.” A smirk played on his lips before he took a sip of his drink.

“Thanks,” she said, for she had no clue what else to say.

He nodded once. “Do be careful with yourself. You’re bound to attract some unwanted attention. It would do you well to keep your head clear so that you may avoid future encounters. You can’t expect someone to come to your rescue every single time.”

“Nor do I expect rescue at all,” she replied. “I am no damsel in distress. Though, I guess, I kind of was for a second there, huh.”

He laughed. It wasn’t sarcastic or mocking. A genuine laugh that made him tilt his head back ever so slightly. She’d never heard him laugh like that before, but now that she had a taste, she wanted to hear it again and again. It was so unlike him, the caustic and cold professor she knew. It made him even more attractive.

“At least you’re honest.” He tilted his head at her. “I prefer to be honest.”

“I like that.” Sitting up a little straighter, Margot added, “Honesty's refreshing. One thing I've learned since I've been here, in Hollywood I mean, is that too many people are willing to lie to your face or cheat to get ahead.”

He glanced at his watch. “Is that so?” He killed his drink and then levelled his gaze with hers. “And you’re not one of them?”

“No,” she said, then thought better of it. “Not yet, at least. Not if I can help it.”

“So, you want to get ahead.” He finally lowered himself into the seat beside hers.

He gestured to the bartender for a refill, and she took the opportunity to order herself a drink. The bartender nodded at them and turned away.

“I want to be a household name. A famous actress.”

He leaned forward, close to her. “Here's some more truth for you . . . everyone here wants to be something. But not everyone here is going to succeed.”

Stubbornly, she said, “I will.”

“You're brash, naive, and overly confident. I used to be that way, before. . .” His smirk waned, then disappeared altogether. It was clear he was not mentally in this room anymore.

She wondered what he was thinking about.

The bartender slid his scotch refill to him, then delicately placed her drink on a coaster in front of her. He picked up his glass and took a rather large gulp.

“. . . Ahem. Excuse me. I'm Thomas. And you are?”

Honesty’s refreshing, she had said just moments earlier. Too many people are willing to lie to get ahead.

She truly didn’t want to lie to him, not now. But she also sensed that revealing herself now would mean that she wouldn’t get to keep talking to him like this or hear that laugh.

And, honestly, what good would come out of angering him after he’d been so kind to her?

“Someone who doesn't like to reveal all her secrets.” She smiled coyly, taking a sip from the paper straw in her drink. “It's a masquerade ball, after all.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “You don't have to be so coy. I don't need a name to figure out who you are. Or anyone in this room, for that matter.” Turning so that he could assess the crowd around them, he nodded towards different masked guests. “Timothee Chalamet; his hair is distinctive, as is his stature. Charlize Theron; note the regal way she carries herself, much like several of her most notable characters. Adam Driver; tall, kind of awkward gait, a low voice that carries over the crowd.”

“Very impressive, Thomas,” she said, trying out his name on her tongue. It was sort of strange to refer to him so casually, but she’d have to adapt if she wanted to keep this going on.

He took another sip, clearly pleased to be right. “Told you, didn’t I?”

Though she enjoyed the game they were playing, she decided to really test him. “Here’s a harder challenge: do you know who I am?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I've been wondering that the moment you arrived. Something about you is familiar, almost loathsome, yet at the same time, forgive me, attractive.” He tilted his head. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”

Though her heart was pounding, she kept it cool. “Maybe at the end of the night. Unless you're planning on leaving early. Are you?”

“No.” He broke eye contact with her long enough to get the bartender’s attention, and he gestured for another refill. “No, I’m not.”

At some point, in the midst of their conversation, the music had noticeably gone softer and slower. He finished his drink and sighed, placing the glass onto the countertop, but just as he was about to request another refill, she captured his attention with a hand on his arm.

“We should dance,” Margot said, springing out of her seat. “Care to join me?”

He hesitated, and her glossed lips pouted.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat, all the while maintaining eye contact with her. He straightened his tie and gave her a smirk.

“Do try to keep up,” he teased, buttoning his suit jacket before offering her his arm. They slipped through the crowd, the guests not dancing parting for them as easily as water. As soon as they reached the dance floor, he took the lead, taking her in his arms and guiding her. She was slow, cautious. He watched her fight her instinct to look at their feet.

“If you're nervous, this dance will be over before it even begins,” he warned, though his grip on her tightened.

She pulled him closer, emboldened by the drink in her system and the fact that he didn’t know who she was, and smiled up at him.

“Do I seem nervous, Thomas?” she asked.

He smiled. “Not at all. I’m surprised. You’re not completely horrible at this.”

She batted her eyelashes. “You say such charming things.”

They both laughed as he whirled her around the room.

She didn’t know how long they’d been dancing for, but she knew they were being watched. The crowd of dancers had thinned considerably since they had first arrived on the dance floor, and now many spectators lined the floor, watching with increasing interest as she and her partner weaved around the other dancers, doing increasingly interesting moves at his lead.

Her heart was pounding, the music was building to a crescendo, and he spun her around the dance floor faster and faster.

Don’t puke, she told herself. Do not do it. Your reputation will not recover. Not with whoever’s in attendance, and certainly not with Thomas.

His voice came from somewhere to her right. “Keep to my tempo, or you'll fall behind.”

He spun her out and away from him.

The world beyond the dance floor seemed as if was moving in slow motion, while she was stuck on fast-forward. She felt like she was one of the fairy toys that spun around and around in the air, aimless and free, before meeting a wall or piece of furniture and clattering to the floor. She braced herself for impact.

But then her hands connected with his again, and the crowd that had gathered to watch the dancers applauded as he pulled her back into his embrace.

“You learn quickly. I wish you were one of my students,” he whispered in her ear.

Her stomach, which had felt so light just moments before, now felt heavy and twisted.

“You’re a teacher,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “I teach at a local university.”

“How . . . nice.” It was the best she could come up with at the moment.

After she had become too dizzy from the spinning, he escorted her off the dance floor with an amused smile. He led her through the ballroom and out onto a private balcony cordoned off by a thick dark velvet curtain. Taking her hand, they stepped closer to the railing, into the cool evening air.

After giving her a long look, he let go of her hand and slowly removed his mask. The silver-lined blue barrier fell away to reveal him. He looked even more handsome up close, with a shy smile on his lips and the bright light from a single lantern hanging above them illuminating his debonair features.

“Disappointed?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, stunned by seeing him so unguarded, and even more handsome up close. “Not at all.”

The ocean waves below were muted by her heartbeat. Above them, she noted the sun setting, the sky becoming an ombre canvas of oranges, reds, and pinks. It was truly a stunning sight, but her gaze kept coming back to him. Still smiling, he reached out and took her hands in his.

His voice was husky, low. “You are definitely the best part of the night. I wasn't expecting to meet someone like you. I can sense something about you, a connection . . . I never thought I'd feel this strongly about someone I just met, but I can't seem to stop myself.”

She felt as though she was not breathing. As if she might never breathe again.

Moving even closer, he circled his arms around her waist, tilted her head up, and leaned in, eyes closing just before they made contact.

She was surprised by how sweetly he kissed her, how delicately he held her, as though she would slip away in the faintest breeze. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer to him until they were nearly inseparable. She thought she could hear fireworks somewhere, and wondered if she was only imagining them, but when they finally pulled back from the kiss, she saw flashes of colour illuminating his face in vibrant hues.

“Thomas,” she said breathlessly.

And then his mouth was on hers again, pulling her closer still, until his back was against the wall, and her hand was on the back of his neck, holding him to her. She felt his fingers on her back, just above the silk of the strapless dress, and she shivered and pressed herself tighter to him.

“Please,” he whispered raggedly once they separated again. “I have to know who you are.”

Margot stilled.

He reached around her and began tugging on the ribbons of her mask. She watched him closely, letting him untie the knots, savouring what very well may be the last moment she would have with him like this. 

The mask fell away from her face, and she watched him recognize her, watched his eyes widen and face twist in betrayal and anger before he stepped back and pressed a hand against his mouth in horror. Her blood ran cold as his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened to one of complete disdain.

“Margot? How - how dare you?” he gasped. “You – you – I cannot believe this! You lied to me! You deceived me! You seduced me! How could you?”

His rejection, though expected, pained her in ways she couldn’t even describe. As though his words were branding irons, burning his hatred into her flesh.

“You’re the last person I wanted to see behind that mask,” he spat. “You, of all the people in the world.”

He kept hurting her, hurting her, like he didn’t care. And perhaps he didn’t, now that he knew the truth.

“I can’t believe I - Dear God, I kissed a student.” He leaned back against the wall, forcing himself to take deep breaths to keep himself steady.

Tears slid down her cheeks as she watched him denounce her in every way possible. Even though he’d bragged about being able to identify anyone, he didn’t expect her, didn’t even cross his mind to guess her, and for some reason it hurt her more than anything else.

“Some part of you might’ve known it was me,” she said indignantly. “You were bragging that you-”

He let out a caustic laugh at that. “Why would I want you to be someone I despise? Someone I don’t respect? I’m disgusted with you and myself.”

And that was all she needed to hear.

Pushing past him, she covered her face – and the tears streaking down them – as she rushed out of the gala and into the night.

The taxi ride back to the dorms was awkward, mostly because she spent the entire ride sniffling, trying to hold back her tears, and using up the Kleenex the driver kept a box of by the rear windshield. After tipping him, she sprung out of the taxi and didn’t stop running until she was safely back in her room.

It was there that Margot allowed herself to fully break down. In that beautiful princess dress, she flopped onto her bed and sobbed, hugging herself tightly, letting out all the anger and frustration and pain that she felt at being so heavily and heartlessly rejected by him. She cried for the way he looked at her. Sobbed at the beautiful moments they shared that were now tainted by the conclusion of the night. She ached for what could have been and wept for her naivete.

A part of her knew that there was no way anything could’ve come from it. But she’d let herself fall into the fairy tale, accepting him as her stand-in prince for the evening, and felt charmed by their conversing, their somewhat playful banter, and the compatibility in their dancing skills. And the kisses they shared . . .

Though her chest and throat ached from crying, if she closed her eyes tight enough, she could still feel his mouth against hers, languid and sweet in its kiss.

There was something there. She knew it.

It hurt her to know that, even if he sensed something too, he would never acknowledge it.

Twenty minutes away from the Hollywood U dorms, Thomas Hunt sat on his bed, still in his suit from the masquerade, drinking scotch straight from the bottle. Two pairs of masks lay beside him, one slightly more rumpled than the other from its owner stepping on it as she ran from the private balcony.

Setting the bottle down on the bedside table, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, forcing himself to think back to the beginning of it all, pushing past the haze the alcohol left in his head.

He’d spotted her the moment she walked in and had kept an eye on her since she began making her way around the ballroom. And, from the sounds of the men sitting close by him, he was not the only one who had noticed her.

The dress she wore made her ethereal, like she’d stepped out of a dream. The shiny silk that hugged her frame before flowing to the floor, coupled with her demure yet entrancing makeup and the awed look in her eyes from behind her mask, set her apart from the rest.

He took a large gulp of his drink and loosened his tie.

She got closer, and one of the wolves made their move.

As if by an unknown force pulling him forward, he found himself walking up to her, his mind struggling to catch up with his actions as he offered her a way out of the clearly unwanted interaction.

“There you are.” He led her to the seat he had previously occupied and was pleased to find that one of the men had taken flight upon seeing them interact. She sat down and looked up at him curiously, as if wondering why he had saved her from being potentially preyed upon.

“You should be careful,” he said. “Even charity events attract the lecherous. You’re very welcome, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

He knew that voice. The sincerity of the gratitude, tinged with sarcasm at having to reply at all.

She seemed not to have recognized him. He wondered how long it would be before she did. Though the mask concealed some of her features, with his close proximity he was quick to identify her by other things that gave her away, like her high cheekbones and dark tresses she’d pulled into a half-up hairdo and, now, her distinctive voice.

He felt tempted to call her out on it and send her on her way home, but at the same time, he wanted to know where this would go. Revealing what he knew would mean that he wouldn’t get to keep talking to her like this.

And it was a masquerade ball, after all.

[demented-dukey]

lol this is urs now

“I don’t think,” Roman says, softly.  “That I’m supposed to love you.”

Remus just smiles and presses their foreheads together.  “When has that ever stopped you before?”

They were the same person, once upon a time.  Romulus, King Creativity, making drawings of electrocuting Thomas’s brother and playing war with the earnestness reserved for little boys who don’t know what death is.  He dashed through the mindscape, trusty lance in hand, enamored with his life and his existence.But that was before the darkness of the world dimmed the corners of Morality’s starry eyes.  It wasn’t his fault, not really.  They all had their jobs to do.  Even later, neither could bring themselves to blame him.

It hadn’t hurt Roman, just a sharp tug and a sudden feeling of coldness, like something was gone.  He staggered to his feet and looked down at the other boy, eyes smudged in purple and hair streaked with white.

He was shaking, jaw clenched so tightly it threatened to crack.

Later, Remus told him it felt a little like being cast from heaven.

“Remus,” one of the broken halves addressed the other.  He hadn’t said his name, but Roman knew it, as surely as he would if it were ink-stamped on his own skin.  The name was pleasantly sour in his mouth, zinging as if trying to counteract the taste of copper.  “Remus, are you okay?”

Remus didn’t move from his huddle, eyes shut tightly.

“Romulus,” he said.  “I’m supposed to be Romulus.”

“So am I.”

Slowly opening, dark, murky green eyes stared out at him.

“Your eyes are red,” Roman’s other half said.  “They look like blood!  Gushing blood!”

He was suddenly up on his feet, chattering excitedly about how pretty blood was, how pretty Roman was.

Roman didn’t realize he had moved until he was crushing the other boy to his chest.  He warmed, just a little.

Remus paused his chatter, wriggling like an earthworm until he could look into those red eyes.

“Roman,” he said.  “My Roman.“  He twisted his lips.  "I don’t think we’re supposed to be apart.”

Roman swallowed down the strange lump in his throat.  “Nor do I.”

Somehow, their fingers intertwined.

When the other sides found them, a while later, they were still holding hands.

Theirs becomes a world of stolen glances, hushed murmurs.  Their hands touch when they trade papers, sparks shivering up spines at each chaste brush.  Remus leans just a little too close when they’re huddled together over scripts, their bangs brushing.  Roman lets himself be drawn closer, yet closer when they’re murmuring over a particular idea, lips a whisper apart.  They’re waltzing on the edge of something dangerous – dizzy and exhilarated with each almost-misstep and twirl.

They’re brothers; that’s undeniable.  Yet, still, that’s not all they are.  They’re two parts of a whole, weaker, lesser without each other.

There’s a rubber band around them, pulling painfully tight whenever they’re apart.  It never breaks, just snaps them back together.  Relief washes over them.  Roman can always breathe a little easier when he hears tuneless whistling, and Remus stops checking anxiously over his shoulders when he can smell oak and pencil led - scritch, scritch, scratching against parchment.

How can they resist, when they’re literally each other’s missing piece?

“Your lips should be red too,” Remus says, rhythmically throwing a half-rotten orange in the air and catching it.  “Then they’d match your eyes.”

“Hm,” Roman says noncommittally, absorbed in sketching the outline of a lance.

“I’d cut them, if you wanted,” Remus continues, tossing and catching, tossing and catching.  “Slice them open with my teeth.  You’d look so pretty.”

Roman’s hand jerks across the paper, slicing in half a picture of what once was.  “You…"  His hand is trembling, and he forces it shut and still.  "That’s a new thought.”

“No, it isn’t."  Remus isn’t looking at him still – tossing, catching, tossing catching.  "Not at all.”

“So you think about my lips a lot then?"  Roman’s voice tries to come out teasing, escaping almost panicked.  This is against the rules, against the unspoken boundaries they’ve been toeing around since the beginning of them.

"Yup!” Remus agrees cheerfully, still toying with that damn orange.  “How pretty and soft they look, how much I could bite them before you started crying, how they’d look stretched around my-”

Roman is across the room and snatching the orange out of the air before Remus can finish his sentence.  He looms above his brother, flushed and shaking.  His fist clenches just a bit too hard, and the fruit splatters open, sticky citrus dripping from his hand.

Remus grins up at him.  “What’d you do that for, brother?”

“Do me a favor,” Roman says, lowly, “and look at me next time you decide to ruin my life.”

Remus shrugs.  “Okay."  He sits up, languidly, eyes locked with Roman’s, and takes Roman’s orange-dripping hand in both of his own.  "How’s this, then?”

Slowly, he brings Roman’s hand to his mouth and licks a stripe up his palm.  Swiping his tongue against the pad of Roman’s thumb, he sucks the finger in, cleaning it.  Never looking away from Roman, he repeats the action on the other four, until Roman’s hand is wet with spit and his face is flushed with something other than anger.

“You’re awful,” Roman says.

Remus smiles, bright.  “I love you too.”

He tastes like citrus, just turned sour.

The rules change.  Hands that only brushed become intertwined tightly.  Eyes that had looked hastily away meet and become heated.  Words and thoughts that had been suppressed become whispered between kisses.

Thomas has some of the most creative ideas he’s ever had.

“You’re my soul mate,” Roman tells him once, between increasingly fevered kisses.

Remus laughs - licks a stripe up his cheek and whispers in his ear.  “We don’t have souls, baby.”

Maybe they don’t.  They aren’t real, after all.  They’re less than a thought – just a collection of sparks and neurons in the mind of a man much more whole than they could ever be.

But here, with his other half deep inside him, flush against him, green eyes staring down, Roman feels complete.

“He didn’t like me at all.” Remus says, softly.  They’re lying beside each other in an open, grassy field, counting shooting stars.  “Am I scary?”

Roman is quiet for a long moment before he responds.  “Everything is,” he says eventually, “before you know it.”

Remus scared him, once upon a time.  Before he knew what the hollowness in his chest was, before he knew that you can’t change how you love, before he knew that Remus would love him back.

Remus’s shoulders relax, just slightly. 

“I must not scare you at all then,” he purrs.  “Since we know each other in the Biblical sense.”

Roman is straddling Remus before his other half can react.  “Well,” Roman says coyly, leaning down.  “I wouldn’t mind getting reacquainted.”

They do.

“We’re broken,” Roman says.  It’s not the first time he’s said it, nor will it be the last.

“I could fix us,” Remus offers, half-joking.  “Chop off your arm, put it on my shoulder, and pop in a few stitches.”

It’s almost enough to make Roman laugh.

“No,” he breathes.  “Some parts are better like this.”

He can look at his other half now, hold him in his hands, watch his eyes glow with a new idea or darken with more wicked intentions.  He can talk to him, speak of things only the two of them can understand.  They can venture into the imagination – play knights and soldiers and war, the way they never could when they were together.  Sometimes, it’s nice not to be together.  It means they’re never alone.

Roman probably isn’t meant to love Remus.  He’s loud and crude and obnoxious and hypersexual.  He and Roman pick at each other’s ideas until what they have left is better than what either of them could create.  He’s everything that Roman isn’t.  Everything that he’s missing.  They should hate each other. 

Roman doesn’t think he’s supposed to love Remus.

He does anyway.

~

(the above was submitted by Squidward)

DD: Dear Squidward,

Forgive me for hanging on to your submission for so long before posting it. It brought me so much joy and made my heart ache so sweetly every time I opened my inbox and saw it sitting there. But it’s past time for me to finally post your work and share it with the world.

“I don’t think,” Roman says, softly.  “That I’m supposed to love you.”

Remus just smiles and presses their foreheads together.  “When has that ever stopped you before?”

Oh. Oh fuck. Oh fuck me gently. This was like a fucking punch to the chest every time I read it. How dare you begin a fic so fucking beautifully and heartwrenching. Two lines in and I already knew I would die for this fic.

Later, Remus told him it felt a little like being cast from heaven.

Oh, ow. my heart… I love the subtle biblical references… headcanon accepted…

They’re waltzing on the edge of something dangerous – dizzy and exhilarated with each almost-misstep and twirl.

Your wording is so beautiful, I’m dizzy with it.

Roman’s hand jerks across the paper, slicing in half a picture of what once was.

*sobbing* the imagryyyyy… once again Remus “causes” what once was to be sliced in half…. *flails*

“Do me a favor,” Roman says, lowly, “and look at me next time you decide to ruin my life.”

Fuck. Me. Please. This liiiiiiine.  💚 💚 💚

He tastes like citrus, just turned sour.

*whimpers*

The rules change.  Hands that only brushed become intertwined tightly.  Eyes that had looked hastily away meet and become heated.  Words and thoughts that had been suppressed become whispered between kisses.

Thomas has some of the most creative ideas he’s ever had.

*sobs and whimpers, flailing*

“You’re my soul mate,” Roman tells him once, between increasingly fevered kisses.

Remus laughs - licks a stripe up his cheek and whispers in his ear.  “We don’t have souls, baby.”

That’s it. That’s Roman and Remus in a nutshell. This is so fucking in character it hurts.

“I must not scare you at all then,” he purrs.  “Since we know each other in the Biblical sense.”

Roman is straddling Remus before his other half can react.  “Well,” Roman says coyly, leaning down.  “I wouldn’t mind getting reacquainted.”

*rips my hair out, tears my bosom* I love this sooooo muuuuuuch *sobs*

Sometimes, it’s nice not to be together.  It means they’re never alone.

THIS. FUCK. THIS IS WHY I LOVE REMROM. FUCK. THIS IS AMAZING.

They should hate each other.

Roman doesn’t think he’s supposed to love Remus.

He does anyway.

*crying*

I love this fic so much. Thank you for writing and sharing it.

Love, DD

[storm-driver]

A drabble for an idea i’ve had for over a year now

While the waves lapping at the beaches on the shoreline would provide their own chilling massage, the cold could not compare to that of the snowed peaks. While barren grassland may lay here in years past, white blankets of frost now coated the ground, killing off any hope of gardens and pastures. The stone buildings ran cold and the paths in the snow only revealed as people walked through its harsh grip, paving the way for those who walk after.

“Damn it...” The young whelp hissed. Metal coating his finger tips was beginning to frost and the leather protecting his skin turning cold. Even the compass in his hand hardly survived the blizzard, the glass fogging immediately and resisting his every effort to thaw. “Stupid dreadwyrm...”

The heel on his greaves tapped on the side of his chocobo, spurring its tired legs to continue walking across the tundra. Where his armor could not cover his skin, he shivered and regretted every leaving behind the city which he called home. Where there was a warm fire waiting in the Forgotten Knight, and stories to be heard about heretics and wyrms and mad priests and all the sort. It wasn’t always happy, but at least it was lively.

The chocobo squawked and reared up, flapped its black-feathered wings and nearly throwing the boy off. He almost bit his tongue grabbing the reins, but clung to his mount like a child to their favourite toy.

“Oi, what’s wrong now?!” He barked. Using the muscles on his face felt soothing as the ice worked across his skin. Moving his jaw and wrinkling his nose as the bird disobeyed him, breaking the frost barrier that he’d hardly noticed forming. If he hadn’t the visor’d helm over his head, his eyes might have frozen by now.

His chocobo squawked again and refused to advance forward. He tugged on the reins and gave another kick with his heel, and the bird still fought his every command.

He sighed and hung his head on his neck. “I didn’t think they’d raised a chicken in place of a decent mount...” His grumbling was almost lost in the harsh winds of the blizzard. Head snapped back up and he took in one deep breath. Then began to slide off the saddle.

His black-metal boots landed in the snow, the armor over his body clanking as he moved. The lance clinging to his back bounced in its holster before settling again, ensuring that he hadn’t lost his weapon. He held one hand on his chocobo’s wing. Then slowly let it slip as he walked forwards.

There was no strangeness to finding dead animals out in Coerthas. The wasteland of snow was not fit for anything but the cold-blooded and the hibernating to live in. Often times, animals that crossed the border looking for food or adventure could be found dead in mere hours, corpse buried in the snow after succumbing to frostbite, blood tainting the blanket where other animals dug out its internal workings and marrow.

The dark lump in front of him didn’t seem much different. There was a trail of blood fading fast, leading right up to the corpse. It might have tried to limp away in an effort to save itself, but never found the help it needed. It was pitiful, but it was all it could do to survive. A valiant effort and one to be remembered till the day’s end.

He stared a moment more, eyes straining past the falling snow to glimpse the corpse. To check if there were marks on it to alert him if there were nearby animals ready to pounce. Or if the King Behemoth had left its den at last. It wasn’t safe to touch dead animal bodies, but knowing what may lie ahead would be a good means of safety, as well.

He neared the corpse and kept glimpsing over what he could only assume were its legs. It was terribly mangled, the poor thing. He hoped it wasn’t suffering in its final moment. It must’ve had something with it, as well. Someone reflective, for he could see the shards shining off the sun hidden in the clouds.

He froze. Shining? Something was actually shining in there. Why would an animal have something of that kind of value? What was it-

The boy threw himself forward as the dread creeped into his limbs. He nearly fell right into the snow, but landed on his knees, hands flying forward to grab the corpse. What he thought was a leg was a horribly disfigured arm, and he grabbed and pulled. The body rolled over and the arm nearly tore right off, staining his gauntlets with the red ink of life. Dark fabrics revealed to be heavily stained, white blots of the falling snow beginning to sink into the hole in the body’s chest. Their face a frozen memory of horror and pain.

Their pale skin and wide eyes, mouth hanging open and face covered in blood splatters. Their black hair an atrocious mess and limbs bent at every wrong angle. The black robe pierced in the center by what he could only guess was a man’s attempt at murder.

The cold from the blizzard could not override the utter fear driving through his veins. He’d seen dead bodies before, but here? In Coerthas? Without so much as a mention from the knights? What happened? Who did this?

What did this?

His shaking eyes shifted back to the broken glass in the snow. Some pieces more put together than others, curved in places to give hints as to its original shape. A bottle of some sort. Probably with something important inside.

He grimaced and narrowed his eyes, mouth straightening and head turning down, trying not to sight every grotesque detail. A horrible sight that one at such a young age shouldn’t have born witness to. Yet despite this, he must’ve seen so much worse, to be donning the drachen armor as he did. A young prodigy who clearly still had much to see in the world.

“Mine apologies...” He muttered, voice raspy. “For what has befallen you.” He stood up one leg at a time, arms hanging at his sides and head still low. “May the Fury guide you through her halls, my friend...” He lifted up his right hand and grabbed at helmet covering his face. In one swift motion, he pulled it off from the back and felt the cold winds blow across his face. The short blond hair, spiking in certain spots, his bangs almost covering his eyes with no visor to hold them back. The brisk feeling nearly sent him into shock, if not for his steady vigil at the man’s corpse.

“What’s become of this land...?” He mumbled. He blinked a few more times and swore he could feel himself tearing up like the child he was five years ago. When the damned wyrm wrought its chaos and took away those that he loved. “What have we achieved that this is how man lives...”

As the Azure Dragoon, it will be your purpose to protect Ishgard from the Dravanian onslaught. Should you render yourself unable to do your duties, we will find a new champion. But for now, we entrust the power of the Eye to you... Roxas.

In a sickening voice, he snorted and nearly laughed. “What a bad choice...” Roxas turned around and smiled. “Ran off at the first mention of my brother... What kind of Dragoon am I.”

He paced back to his chocobo and looked up at the feathered friend. It squawked once, though much more calmly than before. Its wings fluttered and it settled, letting Roxas get a hold of the saddle.

He threw one leg over and sat back in the saddle, one hand still gripping his helmet. He almost wanted to put it back on, to shield his face from the winds. His eyes from the sights. His mind from the tragedies. Roxas stared at his helm and pondered. Was this really him wanting to go to find his brother? Or was it... did the Eye have something to do with this?

Roxas’ blue eyes narrowed and he shook his head. With the helmet still in his grip, he reached forward and grabbed the reins.

“Damn it...” He clenched his jaw and eyes shut. “We’ve got a hell of a journey ahead...” His expression softened and brows furrowed. Eyes turned back up to the path he was following through the mountains. “Right, Sora?”

One kick to his chocobo’s side. It squealed, but there was no more resistance. No more hesitation in its steps. No second guesses about his choice. For if he had messed up, at least he was doing it for the right reasons. His chocobo ran across the snow and the stone bridge. Ahead, he could see the clouds parting. He could see the distant spires of the flats’ ruins. And he could feel in his heart... his brother was out there. And their reunion was long-overdue.

[sassysweetcollegegirls]

I’ll Love you No Matter What pt2

Allura’s room wasn’t to far from Shiro’s and Keith was hidden pretty well in the huge hood of Shiro’s sweater. He couldn’t seem to get past the feeling of the things on his chest. With every step they jiggled and it annoyed him.

“Shiro are boobs always this bouncy?” He asked his honey sweet voice was dripping with annoyance. That bothered him to, since when did HIS voice become honey sweet.

Shiro stopped for a second to look at him and then he shook his head,” if you have questions about Boobs or girl stuff, your going to have have to ask Allura or Pidge.” He mumbled and Keith saw the red on his face.

“PIDGE IS FLAT AS A BOARD.” Keith hissed as they reached Allura’s room.

“She is still a girl regardless of the size of her breast Keith.” Shiro reminded him as he knocked politely on Alluras door,” One I expect you to treat with respect.”

Keith rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. The action was harder to accomplish with breast as he had to tuck his arms carefully under the two orbs and pretend they weren’t there.

Allura came to the door wrapped in a blue robe rubbing her eyes sleepily. “Shiro it’s 4am what’s going- Who is that?” Her eyes immediately drew to Keith who still had his arms crossed and was hiding in the hoodie.

“Allura we have a bit of a situation... Can we come in?” Shiro asks looking down the hall quickly ,” Also it would be good if you called Coran.”

“Shiro you can’t bring CONSORTS onto this ship you are a Paladin of Voltron! You can’t go sticking things in any weary traveler you find!” Allura looks panicked as she leads them into her room which is beautiful and larger than any Keith has been in including Shiro’s. She has a wide window that shows the floating outside of the ship and Keith approaches it with wide eyes.

“She’s not a consort Allura first of all. I like dick. Secondly that would be way to gross in this situation.” Shiro shakes his finger in her face he’s the only one allowed to be slightly combative to Allura in any manner.

“THEN WHAT IN ALL THE NAME OF LIONS IS GOING ON?!” Allura shouts and Keith takes off the hoodie and turns around and in the voice that belongs to him but really isn’t his he responds.

“My Name is Keith Kogane. I am Paladin of the Red Lion and I have boobs.” He looks at Shiro who has his hands over his face as Allura is standing mouth open almost appalled as he has lifted the tank top to show Allura the two fleshy orbs on his chest.

“Shiro please tell me she is joking.” Allura pleads rushing forward and pulling the tank top down and wrapping Keith in Shiro’s sweater again.

“Afraid not Princess. Keith I told you not to do that. “ Shiro groans

Keith mimicks Shiro carefully and then shifts away from Allura.

“And we’re one hundred percent sure this is Keith?” Allura is begining to pick at his clothes and look at him ,”did it take the umm?”

Keith rolls his eyes and drops his pants leaving his ass bare to the window for all of space to see,” I lost my penis to.”

“Can you not just flash people like this.” Shiro tries to wave his hand in front of his face blindly still attempting to give Keith modesty.

“Shiro is right Keith granted you and I now share a gender. Shiro is still male and generally we want to make sure that we have some modesty around them.” Allura says as Keith carefully pulls his pants up his point made

“THANK YOU PRINCESS!” Shiro uncovers his eyes and sighs.

“ I am still concerned on how this has come to be. Is this a normal human thing?” Allura asks innocently and Shiro has to stop to pinch the bridge of his nose and count to fifteen

“Just tell me Coran is on his way in.”

“Coran at your service! Though I will say it’s a bit early... what seems to be the DEAR WEBLUM! WHO BROUGHT A CONSORT ON TO THE SHIP?!?!” Coran is still in his royal silks and his hair is a disarray so when he arrives and says things like WEBLUM and Consort loudly Keith feels like he’s looking at someone who did drugs.

“I’m not a Consort! I’m Keith I just got fucking Boobs.” He opens the sweatshirt this time but he doesn’t lift up the shirt and Coran comes closer to inspect.

“How do we know this is the Red Paladin.” He asks picking at Keith’s clothes his hair and then eventually poking at one of the boobs experimentally.

“CORAN.” Shrio warns him the Dad Voice evident

“I am checking for the authenticity because if she is who she says she is then where is her penis?” Coran looks shamelessly in Keith’s shorts and Keith finally feels like someone is looking at this properly.

“Thank you! Finally someone whose not like ‘protect the boobs.’” Keith grumbled the voice like honey to smooth for his liking.

“Oh on the Contrary lad! I’m all for protecting the boobs. It’s just how did this occur?”

“I woke up like this. I was hoping you could tell me.���

Coran looked at him for another moment and then he stroked his mustache. “ I’d like to run a few scans and test to see what we can find. I’ll DNA test you as well. Then we’ll have to develop a plan from there. “

Keith didn’t like being a lab rat but the sooner they found out if he was fixable or if this was permenat the better.

***

Keith was waiting inside the pod completely naked (a new development ) as Allura ran a few scans of his body. They had already done a DNA test which had been 100% match to Keith. Shiro and Coran we’re outside playing blackjack until Keith put on a white robe that Allura found.

“Everything is normal.” Allura reported her head tilted and she looked at the scans “Coran can read these better though.”

Coran took the tablet and looked it over and then looked at Keith,” it seems you’ve completely switched genders overnight. Congratulations Lad.”

Keith wanted to cry. He had no idea what it meant to be a girl or even how to handle the body he was given it felt so fake almost Alien to him.

Shiro was the one who spoke up,” Is this permanent?”

“It’s hard to tell, part of our scanner is reading energy levels off this place on his neck. May I Keith?” Coran approached pointing to the spot on Keith’s neck where E’s symbol was tattooed.

Keith moved the hair carefully and held his neck out and Coran looked at the tatoo. “Lad when did you get an Altean spell tattooed on your skin?”

“It wasn’t a tatoo. I can’t get it to come off.” Keith hissed attempting to wipe it off. Of course the honey sweet voice of his had no bite and it just seemed pathetic when he said it.

“What on earth.” Allura said and she came to examine it. “Desire of thine heart.” She whispered.

“Keith where did this come from?” Coran asked tone serious and all of a sudden Keith felt self conscious about the woman in the woods calling herself E.

He looked to Shiro who nodded and then he recounted the tale of meeting E. How the ink had disappeared and then he’d woken this morning to it being back and how he had swapped genders and now he was here.

Keith rubbed his arms they were slender but they were still conditioned like Keith’s own muscles were. He looked at all the faces confused,” Can I go back please?”

He wanted back into his own skin. The one that Lance teased him about. He wanted to feel the scrape of his stubble when he forgot to shave which would be often, and the way the muscles in his shoulders seemed to ache when he got cold. This body just felt cold all over. It felt like it needed an extra layer and Keith wasn’t mad but he wanted to be able to wear his tank top and sweat and threaten to rub it all over Pidge if she didn’t move out of his way and something told him that this body wasn’t going to do that for him.

“Unfortunately until you’ve found what you truly desire you are stuck... though I don’t think I’ve ever seen the spell manifest this way before. And your sure she said her name was E?” Coran asked running his hand through his hair

“Yeah and she had white eyes and white hair.” Keith whispered looking at his hands.

“Do you know her?” Shiro asked and Keith looked to his brother wanting clarification for what was happening who had done this.

“Nope but I’ll do some digging. For now, Keith your going to have to survive. I’ll see if I can find a reversal, Altean spells are hard to solve though more like complicated riddles.” Coran tried soothing and Keith wanted him to clap him on the back like he normally would but Coran did no such thing because Keith was a girl now. Girls had to be handled differently.

***

Keith was standing in Allura’s room his arms crossed uncomfortably as she dug carefully through some of her drawers. 

“I know how difficult this must be for you.” She claimed as she held up a black article of clothing that Keith had no clue what she could possibly do with because it was was simply two strings and and a triangle. 

Keith rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. Shiro’s hoodie had provided warmth and comfort and strangly this weird smell that Keith wanted to hide in. So he kept the hood pulled up. “ Really does your genatilia switch randomly?” he asked. He was still not used to the smooth honey voice that had somehow become his. His voice had been gravely and coarse but it was still attractive in it’s own way. This new voice was soft and smooth and it sounded like it was filled with want. 

“Well No, but some Altean’s decide to switch later in life.” Allura shut a drawer and then she turned to smile at Keith,” Some feel so uncomfortable with their bodies they just switch permanently. You have the opportunity to learn here Keith.” 

“Learn what?”

“What it’s like to be a woman. To be treated like a woman in battle, there are numerous lessons here Keith.” 

“What about all this Tatoo shit?” 

“OH. That too. I need you to strip for me please.” 

Keith looked down at Shiro’s sweater and then at Allura who stood in front of him holding a black what he thought to be a black bra and a pair of panties that were lacy and cute and that looked like they would be really soft. “ What are those?” 

“Well this is a pair of panties. They are super soft and comfortable.  And THIS little number is a Bra. That I hope will be big enough for you because you are quite a bit bigger than I am.” She held each article explaining as Keith undressed suddenly shy about what he was doing. He knew that the body he had now was different and he had been showy with it earlier but that had been because he felt like no one was taking it seriously. 

“Wait bra’s have different sizes?” He exclaimed

“Yes, Pidge wears AA’s and I wear C’s and this is a D” Allura claimed looking at the tags as she approached and handed Keith the panties. Keith put them on and he had to admit they were soft. Softer than any set of boxers he had ever worn. The thought made him blush. “Do you know how to put this on?” 

“Does it look like I know how to put this on?” Keith grumbled as Allura handed him the bra. His hair was flowing down his back and he was holding his breast in his arms. He shifted from foot to foot cold. 

“You truly are our red paladin.” Allura smiled,” Alright bend forward and let your breast go. Im going to bring the bra around your front and you slide your arms in the straps and I’ll clip it in the back. Alright? Ready?” 

“Do I have a choice?”

A hand goes to his back pushing him forward and he complies with the directions,” Not really.” 

Of course the feeling of his breast sitting in cups is different than of them being free. Keith thinks he likes them better free but the feeling of them contained is kind of relaxing to him. He isn’t worried about them bonking into his arms so much as he is and the band around his chest doesn't prevent him from breathing. “Are they always this bouncy?” he asks standing as he looks down at them. The flesh is still there just not so free to sway. 

“I’ve never thought of them that way but yes. You get used to it after a while. Now we will have to find you something appropriate to wear.”  Allura says starting to dig through all the dresses and things. 

“I draw a hard line there. I absolutely refuse to wear a dress.” 

“But Keith. You cannot expect to wander around in sweats and Shiro’s hoodie all Day.” 

“My clothes are just fine.” 

“NO. NO  and NO. They are not tailored to the phemonen physic.” Allura has a yellow thing in her hand and Keith is looking at it with fear. 

“Pidge wears boys clothes.” He challenges. 

“Pidge’s clothes fit her.”  Allura crosses her arms. She is not giving in. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“I SAID NO.” 

“I said yes and there are no two ways about this. Or would you rather I toss you out in the hall in your undergarments?” Allura has taken Shiro’s hoodie and Keith’s sweatpants and she is holding them high above her head. 

“This is not a fair fight.”  Keith whines giving in as she stows the articles away. 

“ Now put this on. And I’ll brush your hair and We’ll be ready for breakfast!” Allura sang tossing Keith a short yellow floral dress that didn’t make sense but he pulled it on closing his eyes. He kept his knee’s together and gripped his wrist an sat in her chair. 

“Your going to pay for this I hope you realize.” He challenged. 

She smiled at him through her mirror and Keith’s own soft feminine face looked back grumpily ,” OH. I Know.” 

***

Keith stood outside the kitchen. He was picking at the the hem of his dress and looking at the toe of his boot. He knew that avoiding everyone wasn’t going to fix it and being afraid was natural but he wasn’t sure how everyone was going to take the whole ‘ I turned into a girl overnight and my voice is soft as honey and I have boobs now.’  

The dress Keith wore was cute he had to admit it was cute with a little scoop neck and short sleeves. If someone like Pidge wore it or Allura he was sure they would have trouble keeping their eyes to themselves.  Keith though. Keith just felt like a little imposter who was trying to hard. When Shiro stepped up next to him and gave him a once over he waited patiently. 

“ I should let Allura get ahold of Pidge.”  He said gently 

“ I tried using that as an excuse not to dress me like this and She said that Pidge’s clothes fit her. I feel naked Shiro. “ Keith grumbled the honey sweet sounded sticky instead of grumpy. 

“Well to late to back out now. Time for breakfast. Are you ready?” 

“No.”

“That’s the spirit.” Shiro smiled guiding Keith forward one hand on his lower back as the door to the kitchen popped open. Keith closed his eyes not entirely ready to face the reality of what was about to face him on the other side of the door. 

[paintedface]

Doubted Love

Prompt from anon: Can I get a Lance Tucker Drabble where the reader is stressed out about school (college), her work schedule, and keeping up her relationship with Lance? Thanks love!

Pairing: Lance Tucker x Reader

Word Count: 1752 words

Notes: next part of king of anything will be out tomorrow, hopefully!

You splash water on your face, letting it blend with the tears that are flowing down your face. You don’t even have to look at the mirror to tell that you look like an absolute wreck. You can feel eyeliner streaking your cheeks and you let out a soft sob, gripping the porcelain sink with clenched hands. The bathroom is slightly dingy, and not the place to be having a meltdown, but what did you expect from a bar? Lance wanted to go to the bar with you, and despite your hectic life, you wanted to spend the time with him. You were prepared to forget about your work schedule, college, to make sure he knew he was a great boyfriend. But he had other ideas. The moment you turned around, you saw him on the dance floor, large hands around a girl’s waist. They were pressed up against each other closely, Lance murmuring something in her ear, making her blush and giggle flirtatiously. Your heart clenches as you watch him grind on her, and you look down at your lap, blinking back tears. Obviously, he’s not interested in you anymore. A moan catches your ear through the loud crowd, and you realise that it came from Lance, fingers gripping the girl’s tight dress. You inhale sharply, before setting your drink down on the table, standing up, and fleeing to the bathroom. You’re hoping nobody stops you on the way, with tears pooling at your eyes. You grab a tissue from a toilet roll, wiping off your ruined makeup, before grabbing your purse shakily. You check if the hallway is clear, before you run from the bathroom, out the back exit. A taxi swoops by, and you’re able to get to the safety of your apartment, just in time before you burst out into another round of tears, letting yourself properly get it all out.

You’ve collected yourself, and you’re sitting on the kitchen bench, working on one of your many essays that you have to do. You still have a box of tissues beside you, and a bar of chocolate, as well as being in lounging clothes, a clear contrast to the dress and heels you were wearing only a half hour ago. The door slams closed and you jump, eyes widening when you see Lance at the entrance of your apartment, his face tense with anger. He’s clad in an ensemble of a tight white t-shirt, drenched in sweat, and tight, black pants. God, he looks so attractive like that, and you wished that his expression was kinder, it’d make him look a whole lot better. “Lance? Wh-why are you here? I thought…” you bite your lip, looking down, your vision blurring the inked words of your essay, “I thought you were still at the bar…” He strides forward, throwing his keys onto the hall stand, before glaring at you fiercely. “I was, but then I realised you fucking ditched me! What the hell, Y/N?!” He growls, slamming his hand on the tabletop, making you reel back, heart racing. He stops when he sees you flinch, his expression softening a little. “I didn’t ditch you, you did! You…” you gulp audibly, and you look away, trailing your pencil over your notes, “You seemed that you didn’t need me. You had company.” He pauses, carding his hand through his soft, brown hair. “Well, I mean, you didn’t seem like you wanted to talk to me and…” You jolt up from your seat, stepping towards him, hands fisted in your sweatpants. “I put aside my schedule to spend this night with you, and I was willing to forget all my worries, to be with you! But then you threw it all away for…for another girl, like you just forgot all about me and my feelings! I’ve been under so much fucking stress, which you wouldn’t understand because you haven’t needed to study since high school, and I’ve been trying to keep this relationship alive, through all of this hell! University is fucking awful, and I try so hard to put some time aside for us, through all the studying for my final exams!” You stop to take a deep breath, not looking at him. “So why? Why would you do that to me? When I was going through all of this, why did you flaunt her in front of me?” You know that more tears are coming, and you let them fall, hiccuping on your sobs. After a moment, you hide your face in your hands, falling backwards onto the chair, fingers weaving and tugging at your locks of hair. From the corners of your eyes, you can see that Lance has frozen up, eyes wide as he comprehends what you said. You grab your pencils and book, sniffling and getting up from the chair. “I-I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom tonight.” You move away before he can say anything.

You’re lying on your back, staring up at the ceiling, your finished essay strewn to the side, long forgotten. A light tap sounds on the door, and you sit up, rubbing at your eyes. “Y/N, can I please come in?” Lance asks quietly, and you bring your blanket closer around you. “I guess.” You say, barely audible, but you know that Lance can hear you. The door opens a crack, and Lance steps in hesitantly. His eyes are red rimmed, and his face pale, looking worse for the wear. He has a small bouquet of roses in his hands, along with a soft-looking teddy bear. The sight makes you smile a little, but it fades almost instantly. Lance sees your smile fade, and his eyes flick down to the floor. You move along the bed to let him sit on the edge of it, though you keep your obvious distance. He sets the bouquet and teddy on the bedside table, wringing his hands nervously. “You’re not here to break up with me?” You swallow thickly, blinking away tears and his eyes widen. “What?! No, no, no, of course not Y/N.” Lance exclaims hastily, taking your hands gently. He looks at you from underneath his lashes, shuffling closer to you. “I came here to tell you, that I’m so, so sorry, baby. I feel like such a horrible person.” He murmurs, gripping your hands tightly. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, before he continues. “I was too caught up in myself that I didn’t realise what you were going through. I had always been the one night stand sort of person, and no matter what people thought of me, it always made me feel alone, that I’d never have an actual person to love, and who would love me back. Then I met you,” He brings your hands up to his lips, and kisses each knuckle softly, “And when you started getting distant, for a perfectly valid reason that I couldn’t understand, I felt alone again. I thought that you didn’t want me anymore, and that was stupid, I really didn’t understand cause I’m an idiot. And then I went and danced with that girl, because she was just a cheap replacement for you, but really, nobody could replace you, Y/N.”

“After that, I couldn’t find you and I got scared, scared you had left with somebody else, even though I had done the same thing. You can’t imagine my relief when I saw you back here, but I still felt so mad that you had left me at the bar. And I couldn’t see the bigger picture, the one that mattered. While I was off in my head, you were struggling with handling college and me. I couldn’t see that you were trying to keep the relationship alive, all I could see was the space in between, the space that you were trying to fix. You’re right, I don’t understand the things you’re going through, and it was selfish of me to assume all these things and leave you alone to push through on your own.” He bites his lips harshly, looking away from you ashamedly. “And I’m sorry, I don’t deserve you, sweetheart. The fact that you even stayed in this apartment… You could’ve left me, and you would have no reason not to.” Lance has tears pooling in his eyes, something you thought you’d never see from your cocky and arrogant boyfriend. You can’t help it, you reach out and smooth his tears into his skin with your thumb. His eyes follow your movements, and he lets out a weak sob, shaking his head. “I don’t deserve you.” He repeats with a trembling voice, hands fisting in the bedsheets. You touch his shoulder gently, offering him a soft smile. “You do, but you have to stop assuming that I’d leave you without communication. And that I’d leave you full stop.” You tell him, and he nods, sniffing. “And yes, you were being a dick but you gotta realise that I love you, so much, and you’re perfect, your arrogance and all.” At this, Lance lunges forward and pulls you into a close hug, reeling you in by the waist and burying his face in your hair, taking long, shaky breaths. “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so, so sorry.” He cries, and you hug him closer, shushing him and rubbing his back in circles. After a while, he pulls away a little, kissing you gently and weaving his hands through your hair. It sets you on fire every single time his lips touch yours, but you haven’t had his mouth in yours recently, so it sends sparks up your veins as you laugh softly into the kiss. “I love you, Tucker.” You murmur, and the wide smile on his face is blinding. “I love you too, Y/N.”

“I promise I’ll help you with your work from now on, you shouldn’t be working through this on your own.” He says, as you trace patterns down his bare, muscular chest. He snickers, batting your hand away with the teddy bear as you roll your eyes. “Thank you, Lance.” You smile, nuzzling into his neck, making him grin lazily. “No worries doll, it’s the least I can do.” Lance pauses, before his smile turns sly. You glare at him playfully. “I know what that look means, Lance Tucker, I swear to god…” He rolls over, pinning you to the mattress as you let out a laugh. “Well, maybe there’s another way I can help…” Lance smirks, before he presses his mouth to yours urgently.

permanent tags (OPEN): @thecrownedrose / @vibranium-arm / @gallifreyansass / @omalleysgirl22 / @girlwith100names / @buckysinthesinbin / @cameronahugenerd / @imsecretlyromanburki / @megan-atthedisco-blog / @buckys-fossil / @iamwarrenspeace / @sofiathearab / @yikesbuckster / @buckyappreciationsociety / @debbielovesbucky / @metal-armed-dino / @helloitscrowley / @sebastian-stans-thighs / @fantastic-fantasy-fanfics / @natalia–alianovna–romanova / @feelmyroarrrr / @mjuikoli / @meganliiz / @psychicwitchphilosopher / @srgntjbarnes / @carriefish-er / @jurassicbarnes / @ssweet-empowerment / @shieldagentofthemonth

(strike through means that your tag doesn’t work, sorry!)

[hellomissmabel]

The whole package

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Lane Tucker x plus size!reader

Warnings: There’s partial nudity but it’s not gonna hurt you. For a Lance Tucker fic, this is surprisingly safe.

Word count: 1.789

Summary: One more tournament and Lance is ready to settle down and quit professional gymnastics. He loves Y/N and has been thinking about their future for a while now. But Lance isn’t very good at planning and one lazy Saturday morning, when he’s chilling in bed with his girl, he makes an impromptu decision.

A/N: I’ve posted a masterlist with all upcoming plus size!reader fics. I keep getting new ideas, so this masterlist will be updated as the ideas come and go. There will always be an announcement post. If you want on the tag list, please comment on the announcement post of send me an ask!

This is the sequel to Good at worshipping (Lance Tucker x plus size!reader)

Inspired by this post by @thatawkwardtinyperson and by a conversation I had earlier with @winterboobaer. This one’s for you, @hollycornish!

All plus size fics can be found here

It’s been a couple weeks since Lance left professional gymnastics behind him. It was a tough decision given he’s the self-proclaimed “God of gymnastics” and Lance was adamant you’d accompany him on his final tournament. Unfortunately the germs got to you first so you couldn’t attend, but Lance made sure you wouldn’t miss a minute of it. It started as he was getting ready in his dressing room and a cheeky thought popped into his mind. He instantly grabbed his phone, walking over to the bathroom mirror. With great concentration, he took a selfie of his divinely sculpted body, adding a little message for you before pressing send.

You looked down at your beeping phone with great excitement. Only as soon as you opened his new text message, your face fell in frustration. Lance, every the asshole, had written a complimentary “Are you horny yet?” to go with the picture of his muscled torso.

With his phone in hand, he live streamed himself and the entire games up until the point it was his moment to shine and he passed on the phone to one of his crew members. He won his last gold that day and announced to the world that he was retiring. When the reporters asked for a reason why, he made quick work of his reply.

“Because I’m in love,” Lance commented and you’re pretty sure that same day the whole world forgave Lance for his past mistakes.

It’s safe to say life’s been good to the both of you. Lance is now coaching promising young Americans to their own gold medal and you’re still drawing tattoo designs at Body Cult, only thanks to Lance’s winnings you were able to buy the place from Frankie. Your former boss got an interesting business proposal in Los Angeles and didn’t know what to do with the shop. He could’ve passed it on to his brother Archie, but Archie isn’t as artistic as you. So you came to an agreement and now you’re your own boss.

And being your own boss has its perks. It means you can take Saturday mornings off and sleep in with your boyfriend, Lance, who cancelled his morning practice for you. You’re on your stomach, leaning on your elbows, your mind warped into an imaginary world as you’re rereading your favourite book. You’re just wearing panties and no top, this September’s Indian summer in combination with Lance’s hot-blooded company providing you with enough warmth during the night.

His chest is lain across your legs, one arm lazily slung over your bum as he keeps himself busy on his phone with the other. He’s wearing his sunglasses indoors even though the curtains pretty much break all the light falling from the windows. But Lance is extra as fuck and doesn’t care how it makes him look.

“Baby?,” Lance asks you as he gently runs his palm over your ass cheeks.

“Yes, Lance?,” you hum softly, putting your book down and craning your body so your eyes lock with your boyfriend’s.

He gives your skin a slight pinch, showing the picture on his phone to you. “What do you think of this one?”

Rolling your eyes at Lance, you chuckle at the photograph of yet another tattoo. “Haven’t you got enough tattoos already?” You eye the full sleeve inked on his left arm and point towards the matching tattoos on his ribcage.

Lance sighs exasperatingly, scrolling on his phone with his eyebrows raised in concentration, slightly annoyed with you. You’re the tattoo artist, you’re supposed to endorse his tattoo endeavours. “Or this one?”

It’s not necessarily the design you don’t like, but more the fact that he’s looking up the work of other tattoo artists first without consulting you about it. You’re an artist and in the art business, whether it’s tattoos or paintings or lyrics, it’s not-done to copy another artist’s designs. So if your asshole wants a new tattoo, he should just come to you with his ideas. But you’re too shy to actually call him out on it.

So instead, you go with this. “It’s alright,” you reply dryly with a mild shrug.

“It’s alright?,” Lance heaves out with a light groan, taking off his sunglasses. “You call this alright?”

“Yep,” you reply casually, popping the ‘p’ just to push his buttons a little more.

“Baby,” Lance coos in a sultry tone, sensing you’re holding something back from him. “What’s going on with you?”

Playing with the delicate white lace of your underwear, he hooks his fingers underneath the fabric and pulls a little at it, grinning cockily at you. “I really want another tattoo, Y/N, and I want you to do the handiwork again,” he flirts with you. “I promise I’ll reward you plenty.”

Suddenly he releases the fabric of your underwear and it snaps against your skin, causing you to yelp softly and bat his hands away. To soothe the slight sting, he continues to caress your cheeks, massaging the plump flesh with the palms of his soft hands.

“I have no doubt about that,” you whisper seductively before your tone loses its sweet tenor and turns hard. “I’ll gladly give you another tattoo, but not that one or the other one before that.”

Lance gives you a puzzled look, pressing his lips to your bum. “Okay, then I’ll keep looking until I find one you like,” he concludes with a final nib to your skin, sucking a light mark on your ass before slapping it lightly to emphasise his words.

“No, Lance,” you finally snap at him even though you don’t want to get angry with him. “Don’t you get it?” You turn around and sit up, pushing him away when he tries to crawl up to you. “I don’t want to give you a tattoo that’s drawn by another artist.”

You pry his phone out of his hands and toss it on the pillows behind you, out of his reach. “Who did that sleeve for you?,” you ask with raised eyebrows as you gesture to his arm. “I drew every single twist and twirl. By. Hand.”

Lance instantly understands where you’re going with this and sits cross-legged in front of you, his knees touching yours and his hands reaching out to take yours in his. “I love every twist and every twirl you designed for me, baby.” He searches your eyes for forgiveness, squeezing your hands affectionately. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m an asshole, you know that. But I’m – “

“Yeah, yeah, you’re an asshole but you’re my asshole,” you interrupt him softly, casting your eyes downwards. “I’m sorry, too, Lance. I’m just –“

This time it’s Lance’s turn to interrupt you, releasing one of your hands to gently lift up your chin, guiding your eyes back to his. “You’re just very shy and very insecure. About your art, your body,… even sometimes about us.” You look into his eyes and push back some of his messy bedhead hair out of his eyes. “Well, you know what, baby? I’m insecure too.”

Snorting at his surprising confession, you bite your lower lip. “I’m serious, Y/N!,” he retorts with a playful chuckle.

“You know I don’t care about sizes and all that bullshit. You can have size X at Calvin Klein and size Y at Armani. And the word plus size is just a marketing technique, Y/N. I love your curves, I adore your love handles and your cellulite and you are just such a stunning woman. You get me rock hard with just one sway of those damn hips…”

His comment makes you laugh a little and you smile tenderly at your boyfriend. “You are an insanely talented artist and people come from very far to get their tattoos drawn by you. I’m the living proof of that!”

Dramatically, he gestures towards where the tattoo of his gold medal peaks out of his boxer briefs, then towards the matching tattoos he got with you on his ribcage and lastly he runs his hand down his left arm, his full tattoo sleeve.

“And yes, I’m insecure too. But do you know what I’m insecure about?”

You shake your head no and he leans in to press a chaste kiss to your lips, or so you think. Instead his lips hover over yours and he leaves your hanging as he slants his lips across yours teasingly slow, whispering against them at a tantalising rhythm.

“I’m insecure about my body now I’m not competing professionally anymore. I’m worried that I might not stay in shape. But luckily I’ve got you to keep me fit.”

You chuckle warmly at his tongue-in-cheek remark and he squeezes your thigh, pecking your lips in a tender kiss. “I’m also very insecure about us, baby. Because, as you know, you’re too good person and I don’t deserve you.”

Another loving kiss in between words and he’s got your mind reeling. “But you’ve stuck with me for so long, I’m thinking you might actually really love me.”

“Of course I love you, Lance!,” you tell him straightaway, blurring all his insecurities by pressing your lips to his hard in a searing kiss. “I love you so much, so very much.”

“Then let’s make it official,” he mumbles to yours lips before engaging them in a second, passionate kiss. “I want a set of wedding rings tattooed on my body. I don’t care where, just as long as you do them.”

“Wedding rings?,” you squeak in sincere astonishment. “Wh- What – Are you – Are you proposing?”

“Do you want me to propose?,” he counteracts your jumbled statement with a classic, lopsided grin.

“Hell yes I want you to, Tucker,” you heave out in a sharp exhale, “It’s about time!”

He grins wickedly at you, softly laying you down onto the bed as he moves on top. “Then this is me proposing. I don’t have any rings yet, but I’ll make quick work of it. First thing Monday morning,” he promises as he ghosts his lips over your pulse point. “But that wedding ring tattoo…”

He stops his ministrations just as he reaches your sweet spot, that particular sensitive part of your neck that turns you into putty in his hands. “You’re taking me to the shop after breakfast and you’re drawing them.”

You lean your forehead to Lance’s, cupping his face in your hands. “O-Okay,” you croak out through the happy tears tingling your eyes. “You want me to do the tattoo as well?”

Lance wets his lips, holding his bottom lip captive between his teeth as he nods darkly. “Absolutely. The whole package.”

His fingertips dance over the swells of your breasts and down the valley of your belly button, breathing heavily against your lips. “So you’ll marry me?”

Tagging: @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @marvelingatthewonder @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @knittingknerdy @winterboobaer @italwaysendsinafightt @viollettes @hymnofthevalkyrie @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @austinamelio @volklana @4theluvofall @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @caplanbuckybarnes @nenyakj @amrita31199 @emilyevanston @minervaem @howlingbarnes @buchananbarnestrash @youandb @you-and-bucky @fvckingsteverogers @thatawkwardtinyperson @that-sokovian-bastard @abovethesmokestacks @marvelrevival @marvel-fanfiction @justanotherbuckydevotee @barnes-heaven @heartmade-writingbucky @buckyywiththegoodhair @captnbarnesrogers @mellifluous-melodramas @its-not-a-phase-hux @melconnor2007 @ivvitm1109 @toofuckinfabulous @ailynalonso15 @hollycornish @delicatecapnerd @camigt1999 @learisa @curlyexpat @palaiasaurus64 @fanndas-snow-goddess @crisssivonne @yourenotrogers @tomhollandzs @supernaturaldean67 @beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep @aletheladyinred @beyondbarnes @xbergiex @reniescarlett @promarvelfangirl @capbuckybuchanan @lovemarvelousfics @yknott81 @rrwilson66 @pegasusdragontiger @salty-holographic-stickers @sammyissassy @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @kudosia @bellejeunefillesansmerci @lumelgy @mizzzpink @southernbellestatues @daringtodreamawake @neurotic-narwhal @cokamarie24 @blue1928 @movingonto-betterthings @breezy1415 @isnt-the-blog-youre-looking-for @jesspfly @weenie-butt @debzybrazy @fuckingchaotic  @always-an-evans-addict @petersunderroos

Tag list for all plus size stories: @suz-123 @kiwi71281 @whatisaheroanyway @ilovebeingjoyful @veronicalei @meganlane84 @thescarsweleave @isaxhorror @pleasantdreamqueen @georgiadean37 @revlismoriarty @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @evyiione @salamander-falls @taylorjacksonandtheolympians @jughead-wuz-here @jasmineladjevardi @sonofadeanwinchester @3dsaunt @marvel-at-bucky @nothin-after-79 @sexy-sea-basss @shesmade0fcandy @breezy1415 @wtfisalltherandoms @mrs-dr-strange @disneymarina @secondsandstars @brandybucky @amethyst09

The whole package tag list: @nosleeptillbucky @missinstantgratification @yknott81 @katemcgraw @marveldcmistress @void-imaginations @the-red-world-of-jess-chibi @spiderman-2013 @3dsaunt @averystrainingwheels @geekyweed @lycanmomma @acunningstargazer

[flaming-potato-arson]

Angel Rider Part 0ne

Altea Creek. Of course. Why had Lance expected anything else?

The tradition goes as stated below: every year on Christmas, after excessive gift giving and wrangling all of his relatives into a few cars, someone gets to pick where they go and what they do. Some years, the choosen location is closed and they go somewhere else, wether it be the Speedway down the road or the state park two hours from his house. Every year ended up wild and crazy - everything tended to end up wild and crazy with his family, Lance supposed - and a ton of fun. Even when it didn't seem like it.

Altea Creek did not seem like fun to Lance. To his horse crazed, nine year old sister who had been sprouting horses facts for the past five months, it was like Santa and God did a duel blessing/present from Heaven.

"Horses, horses, horses...." Rod chanted softly, swirling the end of a plastic horse's tail on her finger, swinging her feet. Lance held in a groan, opting to look out the frosted window of his mom's mini van, Shaikra blasting in his ears from his ear phones.  The snow was coming down more thickly the farther out they got, a decent foot on the ground as far as the eye could see. The warm, cinnamony smell of his aunt's annual gifted air freshener and artifical hot air filled the car, which Lance thought was much better than the chill outside.  Voices threatened to block out his music, with his three older siblings in the very back row, and three of his four younger siblings inbetween them, all talking and screaming and reading and just generally being themselves.

Lance sighed, shifting against the window.

"Lance, lindo, is something wrong?" Curse-not-curse his mother's innate ability to sense apathy and sadness.

"Nothing, mama. Just a little worn out." He gave a tired smile back at her. She had twisted around almost completely in the passenger's seat to look him dead in the eye, the family junk that always got left in the car piled around her. "Are you sure? You've been holed up in your room a lot lately. Singing....playing loud music...." She trailed off before finishing quickly. "It's alright if you're tired - you can nap in the car while we go on a sleigh ride, if you need to. " Her bright blue eyes (the ones he had inherited) shined back at him. Lance focused on the swaying, classic green alien head hanging from the rearview mirror.

"Nah, I'll come."

"Okay, mi hijo." She sat up as his dad took a wide turn off the freeway on to a long, winding dirt road. Lance watched the alien head against the falling snow through the windshield before exhaling and closing his eyes.

Maybe some Shakira will help.

Oh my god this was the worst idea ever -

Slamming the car door shut, Lance took in the multitude of families wandering around and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. His aunt's car pulled up behind them, and a door swung open before the car even stopped, his nephew throwing himself out of it. Yelling poured into the air as the rest of the doors opened, countless cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents, and sibling unfolding like clowns from a clown car.

Someone was yelling at his nephew, - thank god, someone had to break him of that habit- cars locked with affirmative beeps,  and dozens of tiny little hands were pulling on his jacket, leading him in the familiar wave of being lost in the crowd that was his family, voices he knew well becoming background noise.

Lance took the time to actually look at his surroundings, checking out the spots where someone might think to hide if they found it funny. Tall, thick evergreen trees made for a shadowy forest on the edges of the premises, with plenty of nooks and crannies to slip inside. A few smaller, barn-like buildings dotted the mostly open, snow covered fields, but a big, firetruck red one dominated the area with a lingering warm and welcoming aurora. A long, thin building replicated itself, leaving an open path in between what he assumed where the stables.  

Stable workers walked around in elf and Santa like clothes, directing couples and kids to sleighs and others hitching horses to lead said sleighs. Laughter and excited squealing came from just about everyone, but someone's laugh tinkled like bells to Lance.  She was bent over, talking to a kid, crystal white hair spilling in waves out of a hat topped with a bell. The classic elf get up fit her nicely, her dark skin a refreshing change from the regular green. The Santa with a prosthetic arm and tuff of bleached hair next to her smiled down at the kids, one hand resting on her back. Their smiles were bright and wide, and the pair of them looked like something of a re-imagined Hallmark card.

It was sickeningly cute and Lance turned away, following his family.

"Hello, if you'd just follow me-" A short gremlin with short, messy hair lead the majority of his family towards a sleigh, a giant, butterscotch colored gypsy horse harnessed to it. The complete feathered look gave it away and Rod had been drilling him with horse facts constantly. Silently, Lance looked at the creases in the attendant's forehead and the look in his mother's eyes and lead a few of the smaller kids away. Ella, his older cousin, joined him with a quick wave.  His mama shot him a smile, and he returned it, herding six kids into a mostly open area.

"Okay, everyone stay in sight of this area. Waiting your turn can get boring, but if we all wander off we're going to get lost, okay?" A chorus of "okay's" came back to him. His nephew - Geroniom, not the crazy, throws-himself-out-of-moving-cars one and his baby sister sat down in the snow, content to throw it at each other, Ella quickly plopping down with the two toddlers. Rod was vibrating with excitement, virtually teleporting around the edge of the clearing to look at every passing horse. The other three were attempting to make a snow fort, that was actually coming along pretty well.

Deciding that his siblings and cousins could handle themselves, Lance turned on his music and shoved his phone in his pocket. His recent Twitter feed wasn't really appealing and the cold wasn't bad enough to need a distraction from. Dropping himself on to a bench, Lance closed his eyes, letting the sounds of a Hallmark movie come to life fill his ears and time cease to exist.

What Hallmark movie involved blood curdling screaming?

Snapping up, joints popping, Lance jumped off the bench and whipped his head around. Pounding and surprised screaming came from the stables, people running away from a literal fucking blur. Lance could only see glimpses of what he thought was a horse while employees tried to capture it before it got out to the clearing. Urgent bells were ringing, adding to the chaos. It was getting closer, and definitely was a horse. An attendant with a jet black mullet made a last grab for the reins, but the horse charged out the stable doors. Snow exploded where inky blue hooves pounded down. It was like someone had ripped an ink blot through a blank canvas. The whole horse was a deep blue that almost looked black, powerful legs launching it across the ground. Frantic energy filled it's motions, fear and anxiety dictating where and how it bolted.

Bolted right towards his little sister in the middle of the clearing.

Rod was frozen with fear, facing the oncoming bullet with her hands up.

The horse didn't seem like it was going to stop.

The horse wasn't going to fucking stop.

Fucking hell.

Lance didn't really care when he started running, just that he was running towards his sister. He wasn't on the track team for damn nothing. The snow tried to cling to his feet, but each adrenaline filled stride shook it off. That horse was fucking big - Some white soccer moms were screaming - and it wasn't going to fucking stop - the chilly air burned horribly with how fast he was taking it in - Goldenrod is nine that beast could fucking kill her- everything was blurry but his little sister - fucking horses - panicked energy circulated heat through his entire body, he swore he felt like a lit fire work - aren't you supposed to approach that fucking thing sideways, fuck it - he slipped - fucking NO - he gained the ground back -oh my fucking god - and tossed himself in between Rod and the horse.

Sharp hooves slammed down inches from his face,  a startled neigh accompanying it. Sweat dripped down the horse's dark blue coat. It - no, she - reared back, rocking on her hind legs. The leathery brown reins shook in front of his face, whipping around with each movement the horse made.

Lance yanked them down.

Wide, fear blown out eyes met his, hot horse breathe almost mixing with his. Stress literally vibrated off this horse, giant frightened huffs and puffs expanding her whole chest. Sky blue eyes stared him down, terror swirling in pitch black pupils. Lance let his eyebrows raise in a stressed out manner and knew he made a mistake.  A rough jerk nearly ripped his hand off his wrist when she tried to buck back, to get away from him, but he gritted his teeth and  held on, trying to anchor her down.

Rule one of horses : Don't show fear or stress. Rule two : They like music.

His phone was off and he couldn't risk letting go. Too many people were around, dead silence dripping stress and caution from the shifty crowd.  If anyone got too close, she's freak and Lance didn't know how much longer he could fight the weight of a wild horse.

Well, he could sing.

"A steady beat goes one, two, three, four " Lance let his eyelids slide down, refusing to make eye contact with the horse. Carefully, he put a hand on her nose, and was a little relieved she didn't try to bite it off.  He let the cold seep into him, letting it encourage him to remain calm."A steady heart goes I love you more"  Her breathing stopped feeling like a punch to the gut and more like a slap to the face against his fingers. "I know, sometimes  it's confusing"

With slow, conscious steps, he started to lead her to the stables, avoiding anyone. When she flinched away, ebony tail dancing, he made eye contact.  "Pick out a moment when you couldn't make up your mind, and you think your entire life is timed" he could hear the quiet crunch of hay under his feet, but he wasn't in the stables. Where were the stables? "You said it's your choice but who's choosing?" A blurry something edged in the corner of his eye, and Lance pushed a hand out, not daring to lose eye contact and unwilling to let this stranger get closer.  (He hopes they were dragging Rod away from the horse.)

"You told me we were the perfect song, so I continued to sing along" At least he didn't sound horrible. Lance never thought three years of chorus would come in handy. Then again, he never expected to be leading a crazed horse through snow. "But now that I know what this is all about, I'll stop talking, and shout..." Warm, giant hands eased onto his shoulders suddenly and Lance had to fight to keep his voice steady. "Hey, I thought we were the greatest symphony, melody, harmony," "Hi, I'm Hunk." A warm breath whispered in his ear, faintly smelling of heat and peppermint. Lance kept singing, monitoring the horse's jostling before she settled. This horse really didn't like anybody. He put his hand back on her muzzle, relishing in the warm air she gave off.

"I'm gonna lead you to the stables okay? I need you to keep singing until we get her squared away. We haven't named her yet and she's really flighty - came from a bad place, and you're the first person to actually calm her down. We're pretty close, just follow my lead, yeah?"

Lance nodded, staring deadfast into sky blue eyes, letting the motion of giant hands on his shoulders push him where he needed to go.  He ignored everything in favor of singing for the horse is front of him, adding a soothing note to the lyrics when she almost fought against going in the stable the guy was pushing him towards - moving a horse backwards was probably a really bad idea, but Lance wasn't going to try his luck anymore today.

Eventually, she was completely inside, shifting around as he and Hunk backed out, Lance letting the words die on his tongue. The door swung close with a solid click, and she neighed softly from the pile of hay she had curled up on. "Look man, I'm really sorry about all this-" Hunk started when Lance turned to face him, hands springing up in a defesive gesture, chestnut eyes wide. There was a light pink tinge burning through the dark color of his ears, a yellow strip of fabric dangling against one.

"It's fine. Nothing really happened -" Lance cut him off, slicing a hand through to air to silence him. Despite his size, Hunk looked like a nervous mouse but the adrenaline leeched out of Lance, leaving him suddenly dead tired, and ready to get the hell out of this crazy horse ranch. "Yeah, but -" Hunk tried to match his unwavering strides through hay and mud. "Look, I'm really tired, so I'm gonna assume you're worried about legal stuff, right? I'm not gonna sue or anything - here you can have my number if you're really that worried" Pulling a pen out of his pocket, Lance bit the cap off and snatched Hunk's bulky forearm. "Yeah, okay, goodbye." Finishing the little scibble with his name, he pulled back and stalked back out.

The rest of his family must have gotten off the sleigh and were crowding around Ella and the others, loudly chattering. He slipped inside, using the fact Ella was the one telling the story and thus, the attention was all on her, to sidle up to his mom and not be noticed. "I'm going to go nap in the car." He said in her ear, not sticking around even when she tossed a surprised  glance his way, treking through the snow to the minivan. Heaving open the back hatch, he wriggled inside, slammed it shut, and flopped on to the row of seats. Sighing, he shifted around, found a blanket folded in the pouch on the back of the seat, spread it over himself, let his tired blue eyes flutter shut in the muted darkness of the near empty car, and passed out.

[fanfiction-and-coffee]

"No way - I can’t have TWO soulmates." with Lance/Shiro/Keith? Only if you're still taking soulmate prompts! ^^

okay disclaimer, I don’t really know much about polyamory, so rather than potentially spreading incorrect information about how polyamorous relationships work, I left this open enough that you can interpret it as romantic or platonic or a combination of the two, it’s totally  up to you as the reader. (personally, I really love the idea of platonic soulmates tbh.) (and if any of my followers is poly and wants to educate me, that would be amazing!) I went with the good ol’ “soulmate’s name appears on your body as a tattoo” au because it’s a classic and I think it fits this prompt well. 

and for the record, in writing this I’m assuming keith and lance are the same age and that shiro is like two years older so please don’t harass me about age gaps I just write what people tell me to okay

prompt is from this list

Keith knows that the soulmate system is complicated. He knows that there are sometimes flukes, complications. He knows that some soulmates are lovers, while some instead share a deep, unbreakable friendship. He knows that some soulmates are born on opposite sides of the world, and that a lot of those couples never meet. He knows that some people get their marks early in their teens, while some don’t get them until their twenties. He knows that some people never get a mark at all.

But he’s never heard of someone having two marks before.

The first name appeared a few days after his fifteenth birthday, a single Japanese character inked into the skin on the inside of his left forearm. The lines are thick and smooth and almost look like brush strokes, and a few hours on a translater app revealed that the character is “shiro,” the Japanese word for the color white. Keith wonders if this is his soulmate’s real name, or if it’s a nickname. He wonders if the fact that his soulmate is Japanese means that they’ll never meet each other, spending their entire lives on opposite sides of an ocean.

He signed up for Japanese classes the semester after it appeared, just in case.

He’s sixteen now, and he’s almost definitely going to be late for his first class because he’s spent the last fifteen minutes staring into his bathroom mirror, studying the new mark that has appeared on his right shoulder while he was sleeping. This one, at least, requires no translation. The letters are phonetic, a sloppy cursive, like his soulmate had scribbled down their signature in a hurry. L-a-n-c-e.

“No way - I can’t have TWO soulmates.” He runs careful fingers over the letters, as if he expects them to rub off like paint, but they’re inked just as deeply and permanently as the character on his opposite wrist. He wonders if this is some kind of cosmic screw-up, or if it means that something has happened to his other soulmate. His chest tightens at the thought.

He skips class that day, opting instead to wade through dozens of online forums dedicated to “unusual” soulmate situations. After several hours, he does find a few other cases of people with multiple marks, although apparently it’s incredibly rare, even more so than someone being born without any. One anonymous forum user claims that they have two marks, as does each of their soulmates, and that the three of them have been in a healthy romantic relationship for years. Another user tells the story of how one of their soulmates is their lover, the other their best friend.

He spends quite a while just staring at the names on his skin, wondering who they are and what connection they’ll have to him if or when he finds them.

Keith doesn’t find his first soulmate until it’s too late.

Stories of the Kerberos mission are everywhere, from television to the Internet to the conversations of strangers on the street.

Three people missing, presumed dead. Sam and Matt Holt, father and son, and their pilot.

The pilot’s name was Takashi Shirogane, but a few of the news networks mention that he was better known as “Shiro” to his family and friends.

Keith pauses the news story when he hears that, and spends what feels like hours staring at the face on the screen. They’ve used his Garrison graduation photo, and that’s what kills Keith the most, knowing that they were at the same damn school for two whole years and never noticed each other. He even remembers the seeing him in the halls, a tall, attractive boy with black hair and an easy smile. It had never occurred to him to check the names of the people in other classes, that his soulmate might have been in the same building as him, just a year or two older.

And now one of his soulmates is gone.

He skips school again, spends most of his day thinking about Shiro, about whether he was scared when he died. He briefly considers looking for Shiro’s family, reaching out to them, but he decides against it. He never knew their son – he has no claim to their grief, no right to feel the aching sense of loss that eats away at him and makes his chest feel hollow.

He runs his fingers over the mark on his shoulder, wondering if his other soulmate was Shiro’s as well. Wondering if maybe, somewhere in the big wide world, someone knows what he’s feeling, shares his peculiar kind of grief.

He drops out of the Garrison a few weeks later.

Lance is pretty sure that the universe is determined to make his life difficult, especially where soulmates are involved. He realized the whole thing was a cosmic joke the second he went through his yearbook and realized that the only Keith at the Garrison was the emo kid with the mullet.

Okay, so there’s no way of knowing for sure that this guy is his Keith. Hunk, ever the supportive best friend, encourages Lance to reach out to him, points out that the very worst thing that can happen is that Lance’s soulmate is a different Keith, in which case Lance doesn’t have to spend the rest of his life trying to convince him to cut his hair.

But Lance doesn’t reach out to him, doesn’t even talk to him. He tells Hunk that it’s because he doesn’t have time for soulmates right now, that he needs to focus on improving his flying skills if he’s going to make it into the fighter class. And that’s part of it, but not the whole truth. Lance keeps the truth to himself, because explaining the whole thing would mean telling Hunk about his second mark, which no one but his parents know about.

Lance wasn’t surprised when it was a guy’s name that showed up on his skin when he was fourteen. The handwriting was messy and cramped, the five letters positioned on the left side of his chest, just over his heart. K-e-i-t-h. He’d assumed that this was a future boyfriend, maybe a future husband. He knew platonic soulmates did happen, of course, but he’d always seen himself as more of a romantic type.

And then the second mark appeared on the other half of his chest and ruined everything. This one was more ambiguous. “Shiro” could be a guy or a girl, although at least he can be pretty sure that his second soulmate is Japanese. Although the fact that he has a second soulmate at all raises questions that he’s not sure he wants answers to.

And the thing that really scares him, the thing that keeps him from telling Hunk or his siblings or anyone about the second mark, is the idea that just because these people are his soulmates doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s theirs. He lays awake some nights, wondering if maybe Keith and Shiro only have each other’s names, if maybe he’s destined to be an outsider in their dynamic. And it’s that fear that keeps him from approaching the Keith at the Garrison.

He doesn’t give up completely, though. He still holds out some hope that maybe Keith will take notice of him and make the first move. He constantly works on his flying, half to improve his rank and half because he hopes that if he and Keith end up competing with each other, it will force whatever confrontation needs to happen.

The longer Keith goes without giving him any notice, the more he starts to believe that he isn’t the one. Or maybe that dark, quiet part of his mind is right, maybe his fears were justified, and maybe Keith only has one mark, one soulmate to look for. And maybe it isn’t him.

After a man named Shiro disappears on one of Pluto’s moons and Keith drops out of the Garrison, Lance decides that he’s definitely meant to spend his life alone.

Most days, Takashi Shirogane doesn’t know what is real and what is his broken, fevered brain trying desperately to give him a bit of relief.

He’s pretty sure that the gladiator fights are real. The adrenaline, the rush, the blood, the pain – it’s all too vivid, too dreadfully clear, to be anything but reality. After every fight, when he’s staring down at his own bloodstained hands, at the broken body of his opponent, he thinks that this is the only thing that has ever been real. Whoever he was before, whatever life he had, is gone. There is only the arena. There is only fighting and death.

He can’t decide if the names on his skin are real or a hallucination. Sometimes he runs a fingertip over the “Keith” etched along his ribs on his left side, or the “Lance” on his right wrist, and thinks that they’re the only real thing he has left. Other times, he stares down at the letters and thinks that they must be just another empty dream.

When they take his arm, he decides it doesn’t matter whether his soulmates are real or not. He’s never going to find them anyway, because he knows now that he isn’t going to get off this prison ship alive.

Keith thinks his hands might be shaking a little as he goes through his clothes (he doesn’t really have a closet, just a couple of boxes that he digs through whenever he needs an outfit), trying to find something big enough for Shiro. He’s still reeling, still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that Shiro is here, next to him. Not dead, but… changed. His black hair is streaked with white, much of the skin that isn’t covered by his clothes marred by scars. He looks… older. Tired. And he keeps glancing around with wide eyes, like he expects Keith’s room to melt away, leaving him back in whatever hell he just escaped from.

And there’s a guy named Lance sitting in the next room, loudly arguing with that Pidge kid. Keith is trying to decide whether that’s too weird to be a coincidence.

Once he’s found a shirt that’s always been far too big on him, but that he thinks will work for Shiro, he turns around the hand it over. He clears his throat, not sure if he should offer his guest some privacy or if it’s a bad idea to leave the guy who just escaped from an alien super-prison alone.

Shiro makes the decision for him when he shrugs and removes the dirty, torn shirt he’s wearing, too tired or in too much shock to care about his audience.

Keith barely manages to keep himself from audibly gasping.

Shiro’s torso is completely covered with scars, some of them raised lines, some puckered skin, some pink and raw as if they’re more recent than the others. But that isn’t what catches Keith’s attention. His gaze goes straight to Shiro’s left side, where he finds his own name, the black ink a sharp contrast against the white scar tissue surrounding it.

Lance has a feeling that it’s going to be several nights before he gets used to sleeping in the castle. It’s too quiet, too empty, and too… well, too alien. He can somehow feel that he’s a very, very long way from home. And besides that, so much has happened in the last twenty-four hours that he’s not sure he’ll ever fully process it.

Aliens. Robot lions. Paladins. Voltron. It would all sound ridiculous if he hadn’t just lived through it.

So when he hears a soft knock on his bedroom door, it only takes a few seconds for him to jump out of bed and answer it.

When he sees Shiro and Keith standing in his doorway, a glimmer of hope washes over him, followed immediately by a jolt of unease. He glances between the two of them, as if the reason for their visit might be written on one of their faces. Shiro, who looks much better now that he’s clean and rested, is wearing an expression that’s difficult to read. If Lance didn’t know better, he’d say he looked shy. Keith, on the other hand, just looks incredibly uncomfortable. And pissed.

It’s Keith who speaks first. “Dude. We were in the same year at the Garrison for three years. Why didn’t you tell me?”

And Lance knows that he should be relieved, or grateful, or even happy, but instead all he can manage to feel is annoyance. “What about you? You ignored me for all three of those years!”

“You could have introduced yourself.” Keith huffs, crossing his arms. “You’re just as much at fault here as I am.”

“At least I was actually looking for you.” Lance hisses, “Instead of just waiting around for my soulmate to fall from the sky or–” He cuts himself off when he realizes that, technically, Shiro did fall from the sky just the night before, albeit inside an escape pod.

“I figured after…” Keith glances at Shiro, like he’s not sure how to breach his next subject without being insensitive. “… after the Kerberos mission made the news, I figured I wasn’t meant to find my other soulmate. It seemed like I was meant to be alone.”

Lance doesn’t want to admit that he felt the same way, that he still feels that way. So instead, he narrows in on the other piece of information Keith has just revealed. “Wait, so you… you have two names, right?” He turns to Shiro. “Both of you?”

Shiro nods, a small smile breaking across his face. “I do. Although I’ll admit, this isn’t quite how I imagined meeting you.”

“Yeah.” Lance leans against his doorframe, suddenly feeling very tired. “So… what does this mean? That there’s three of us, I mean. I’ve never known anyone with more than one soulmate before.”

“I guess we’ll figure it out?” Keith sounds as unsure as Lance feels.

Shiro nods. “We’ve got a lot to figure out. And not just between the three of us. But we’ll be okay.” He claps a hand on each of the other boys’ shoulders, the gesture so easy that it feels natural.

Lance steps back, holding his door open for them. “You guys better come in, then. We have a lot of catching up to do.”