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heyhowdyhellohi · 6 years

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How Quickly We Mend Pt. 6

Masterlist here

Peter Maximoff x OC (NOT PIETRO FROM THE AVENGERS! PETER AS IN EVAN PETERS AS IN X-MEN)

Warning: TRIGGER WARNING: ABUSE, Language Probably

Words: (estimated) 1.8k

Summary: X-Men Days of Future Past timeline, plus an oc healing mutant, Amelia. I’m not doing that thing where I quote huge chunks of the movie. This is going to be related, and then it’s going to veer off into its own thing, namely a love story between Peter and the reader.

HEAVILY EDITED

Peter practically inhales two whole boxes of pizza when he returns and Amelia shoves her worries to the side like she always does and eats half of the third pizza. Peter is flopped onto one of the plush brown leather couches of what appears to be a half library-half sitting room. Amy curls up in an arm chair. Both of them sit and digest for a bit as Peter prattles on an endearing story about his sisters and how he bothers them.

“And to this day we haven’t found that rubber ball.” Peter concludes his epic tale.

“It’s still inside him?!” Amy exclaims, dumbfounded.

“Well I don’t know where else it could be!” Peter shrugs, just as confused as she is.

“Does Wanda know?” Amy presses, leaning in conspiratorially, as though his sister could overhear them if she spoke too loudly.

“I’ve been too scared to ask. We haven’t talked about it since that day,” Peter admits solemnly. They laughed at life’s serendipity before settling into a warm silence.

“I never had any siblings. And I never really got to see my cousins that much.” Amy vocalizes.

“Family’s overrated.” Peter stretches and shifts to face her. “Hey, why do you trust these guys so much?” Peter seems to already be regaining his zooming energy as he is suddenly by the book shelf flipping through the pages of an old green edition as though it’s a flip-book.

“Who?” Amy rests her head on the back of the seat. She knows who.

“Hank, Charles and Logan. I mean, for me it’s fine. I don’t need to trust them, I can just make a run for it if things go south. But your power can’t protect you,” Peter explains a bit, looking half interested in the conversation as he puts the green book back and opens another one, red. The spine cracks when he opens it. But Amy knows his nonchalance is an act. He’s flipping through the pages slowly, one by one.

“I’ve been alone since I found out I was a freak,” Amy turns her head to look down at her feet, suddenly realizing that dirty shoes have no place stepping on a very nice leather arm chair. She lowers her feet to the ground, resting them instead on the elegant Persian rug. It doesn’t make her feel better. “I finally have the chance to be a part of something.”

“Hey, freaks are way cooler that normies. I prefer them actually,” Peter says, very matter-of-fact.

Peter sleeps on the couch. Amelia spends the night resting on top of the bed covers, fully clothed, in a room with a window to the garden. She had pulled the curtains apart to watch the stars. The air is stiff and stale, thick with the smell of disuse, as she stares up at the ceiling in the moonlight. She finds herself wondering if Peter would sit with her if she asked him to. But she knows she wouldn’t feel comfortable with him in the room as she tried to sleep. She thinks he’s both exciting and terrifying, but she’s not sure why. She fights with herself, because he’s just a boy, a nice boy who worries about her, that’s all. But it’s nice to think about being close to someone. Feeling ridiculous because there are a thousand better things to worry about in this particular moment, she turns to the window and counts the stars until the sun rises. Sleep seems about as far out of reach to her as the lights in the sky.

In the early morning, as the light casts shadows onto the hardwood and Amy watches the sun awaken the world through her window, there’s a commotion. Downstairs, the door has opened and something is happening, something that has caused raised voices and worry. Amy bolts up in bed and runs to the entrance despite the stiffness in her limbs and neck. The halls are confusing and maze-like, especially as they catch the early morning light in such an unfamiliar way, but she’s certain she’s moving towards the sound of voices.

“Don’t worry, Professor. I’ll get your medicine!” Hank runs up the stairs in the entrance, shooting her a small ‘hello’ before moving past her, long legs taking the steps two-at-a-time.

“What’s wrong with him?” Amelia asks from the top of the steps. She feels an empty, faintly vacuum-like feeling in her chest, and without looking she knows her hands are shaking. Logan is holding Charles up as the scrawny man rests all of his weight against the wall behind him.

“I don’t know. Stay over there,” Logan points at her, glancing her way for only a moment. “Professor, why can’t you walk?”

Amy ignores Logan and descends the stairs as Charles groans at whatever wounds he feels. She can’t see anything, blood, bruises, or otherwise. She stands by the two men, just out of arms reach of either of them. She wants to take his pain away and run away until her feet bleed all at once. It takes all of her will power to just keep her feet still.

“It’s the medicine. It’s fading. I missed doses.” Charles explains, gasping through the pain.

“You just hold on, Charles.” Logan helps him slide to the ground, legs splayed out in front of him.

“Amy,” he chokes out through whimpers, whipping his hands up to his head, over his ears. “You’re so afraid.”

“What is he doing? Why’s he saying that?” Amy backs up further. But she can’t escape the reach of his mind. It’s like plunging through tepid water and suddenly being two places at once. A part of her can hear Logan yelling for her, worried, confused. The other part of her is remembering, and she can feel Charles invading like a shadow weighing down on her mind, keeping her submerged.

Amy saw the first time her father hit her. His red face yelling right at her. The defiant flame in her chest as she talked back. Then the pain on her cheek.

“Amy!”

Then she saw as her father apologized for hitting her. Amy was wrapped in his arms, and despite everything she felt warm and safe and she forgave him the moment she saw the tears in his eyes.

“Professor! What the fuck are you doing to her!”

Amy was in her bedroom, curled up under her faded, hand-me-down comforter that did nothing to keep out the cold. She couldn’t sleep, haunted by the sounds of her mother’s pain and memories of her own helplessness. She felt the confusion, deep in her stomach with a vividness that had faded as the years crept by. If he loves me, why does he keep hitting me? How can I forgive him for hitting mom? How can I not forgive him? He’s my father. Is it really my fault like he says it is? Amy was that helpless child again, always willing to forgive and hope.

“She’s crying! Can’t you see you’re hurting her?”

Amy relives her mother rushing her into the closet in her bedroom when her father came home. She can feel the scratchy flannel she pressed into her mouth to keep from sobbing too loudly. Amy remembers listening as he beat her mother and being incapable of doing anything to protect the person she loves most in the world.

“Snap out of it! Please!”

Amy’s powers manifesting. The first time she was numb as her father beat her. The first time she looked into the bathroom mirror and watched the bruise and the bloody cut on her face disappear all on their own. The panic. The countless times Amy would lay with her mother and heal her after her father hurt her, and cry soundlessly at the pain that blazed through her every cell like a wild fire.

“Peter! Take her the fuck away from here!”

“It won’t help, Logan, he’s too powerful.” Hank is in her memory? No, Hank is outside. Hank is real. Hank’s yelling.

She saw her father burn a cigarette into her skin, and watch it heal. She felt the needles in her scalp as he grabbed her by the hair and threw her outside. Freak, he had called her. She felt the boiling tears and violent sobs as her own mother wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t fight for her. As much as she begged and called at the door, they didn’t open it all night. It wasn’t until morning that her father came out with a gun and threatened to shoot her unless she left. Amy watched for the second time as the cowering shape of her mother whispered ‘Go away” from behind her husband.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so so so very sorry. I can’t... please, I can’t stop.” Charles. His words are in her head and in the air. Charles is everywhere.

She was walking down the sidewalk in winter. A car skid in the snow, crashed, wrapped itself around a streetlight. A father was in the front seat, a mother in the passenger’s, and a child in the back. The child got the brunt of the damage, she dying. The woman was alive, muttering something. A prayer. Amelia was hugging the child into her lap. She felt like someone was repeatedly beating her with a hot frying pan, cooking her flesh as it came into contact and shattering her bones, and through the torture she smiled, because if it hurt it meant the child was alive.

She is being shaken. Someone is screaming in pain. She is screaming in pain. The high-pitched howl chokes up as she realizes it is her own throat that is screeching. She’s kneeling on the floor. Logan holds her shoulders. He’s saying something.

“It’s okay. It’s over. It’s okay.” She leans into him and wraps her arms around him, trying to forget how the smell of his leather jacket reminds her of the dark closet at home.

“I’m sorry...” Charles is sitting on the floor, crying. She is crying.

“What was that?” Peter asks, eyes fixed on her.

“I”m so sorry, Amelia. I-” Charles’s voice breaks. He looks to Hank and ushers him to bring something over.

“The professor got into Amy’s head.” Logan growls out, still holding Amy. She is latched onto him like wet kitten, scared and desperate, expecting an attack from all sides.

Hank hands Charles a syringe filled with yellow liquid. “His powers are unreliable recently. They can be quite dangerous,” Hank defends his mentor and friend.

Charles tugs up his sleeve and places the needle at his vein.

“Charles, wait!” Logan commands. “We need to find Raven. You’re the only one who can do that. But only if you have your powers.”

Charles laughs dryly. “Did you not see what I just did to Amy? You think I can use Cerebro in this state?” he shouts, but he brings the needle away from his arm.

“We need to try,” Logan says, standing up and bringing Amy with him. She is shaking, and she still hasn’t stopped crying.

Charles glances between Logan, Peter, Hank, and Amy. His gaze lingers on her, on her red eyes and runny nose, the way she her body shudders as she takes deep breaths. “There’s no way. I can’t do it. We failed. That’s it. It’s over!”

“Peter, take her to the kitchen, please.” Logan turned to the silver kid. Peter holds her up and guides her away, walking slowly for once.

“Wait,” Amy mutters as she grabs a fistful of Peter’s silver jacket and turns to look at Charles. She feels like she’s just woken up from a nightmare and she can’t quite trust her senses yet because the dream hasn’t fully left her.

Charles looks down at his feet, useless before him. Though, not more useless than the rest of him, he thinks.

“If you’re going to do it, don’t do it for my sake.” she whispers to her own feet which barely hold her up as she leans on Peter. She wipes away her tears and sniffles in an attempt to compose herself. Her next words come out bitter. “Don’t use me as your excuse.”

“Amy, I never-” Charles tries halfheartedly to explain himself.

“If you’re going to claim you lost control, save it. You know I’ve heard that before. It’s time you gained control, don’t you think? Professor?” The way she says Professor is accusing, almost mocking. She keeps her head down as she turns again, letting Peter lead her away. Then, just at the doorway, unsure if he can still hear her, she says “I’ve met enough addicts in my life to recognize one when I see one.”

Part 5 - Part 7 (WIP)

#abuse #abusive parents #Logan #Charles Xavier #Hank Mccoy #Logan Howlett #Wolverine #Professor X #the beast #peter maximoff x oc #Peter maximoff series #Quick Silver #Quicksilver x oc #quicksilver series

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hystericalcherries · 6 years

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Strawberry Fields

A/N: A scene I wrote for a fic a lifetime ago, but never posted. I give you ‘we were raiding my neighbors garden and got caught and, oh shit, is that a pitchfork?! run!!!!’

Lance’s head snaps up, alert. “What?”

“I said that there's some guy over there,” Pidge tells him, pointing. She’s dressed band tshirt and his sister’s overalls, and he can see a thin sheen of sweet on her top lip from where she squats in his neighbors strawberry patch. “I think he's trying to say something- he looks pretty angry and wow, is that a pitchfork? I didn't think people still used those. How twentieth century.”

Rachel meets his gaze from across the patch and, even after light years of distance and an intergalactic war, Lance is happy to know they are on the same page. He feels his cheeks rise in an all encompassing smile, one that is mirrored in the feminine face across from him, and together they shoot to their feet.

“Last one to the car—”

“—is a rotten egg.”

Then, without a second’s hesitation, he reaches down and hauls Keith up, legs already moving forward. Caught off guard, his friend stumbles a few steps and drops most of his haul in the precious time it takes to establish his balance once more. Instinct and experience of battles fought together have the paler boy automatically extending his strides to match Lance’s, following his lead with no other prompting than the loose grip around his wrist.

Lance spies his sister all but pluck Pidge from the ground and sprint off in the opposite direction.

And now, it’s a race.

He guides the two of them around the line of strawberries and down a clear pathway framed by saplings. He dodges between the skinny trunks, only half careful of the branches that scrape against exposed skin, and gives a small tug on the hand he holds captive when he catches sight of the red barn to their left. They veer toward it, taking shelter in the shadow of some hay bales.

“What's the plan?”

The words are hot on his jaw and Lance has to stamp down the instinct to lean away. In retrospect, Keith isn't all the close, but the sun is really glaring down today and Lance can feel the sweat collecting at the nape of his neck. He shoves the other boy's face away.

“Okay. First of all, breath mint— ever heard of it, Keith?”

Keith smacks his hand away and scrunches his eyebrows, looking offended. “My breath doesn't stink.”

“Oh, yes it does. Smells just like that one time Coran ripped one in the dining hall.” Lance taps a finger to his nose. “I swear, I lost all sense of smell for a solid week.”

Keith looks like he doesn't know whether to be angry or amused, the twitch of his mouth a possible sign of either. Eventually he settles on the later, a soft puff of laughter leaving him, and nudges Lance's shoulder with his own. “I've been using your toothpaste, so if my breath smells like alien farts, then so does yours too.”

Lance ponders the corner he has unwittingly backed himself into, pursing his lips while he side eyes the other boy. “Touché, Mullethead. Touché.”

Keith looks pleased at the small victory, so, of course, Lance does what he does best and blows right past it.

“Alright, Coran’s flatulence and my great taste in toothpaste aside, we still gotta head to the stables. There's a break in the fence there where my cousin Rufus and his best friend accidentally crashed into it with his hover bike— or, er, at least, it was there when I was home last.”

“Lance,” Keith deadpans, “that was years ago.”

“Yeah, I know, okay? But I don't see you coming up with any better ideas, Mr. Doubtful.”

“I would, but, in case you haven't noticed, I have absolutely no clue where we are. Or why even stopped, for that matter.” He pauses. “Why did we stop?”

“Oh, that's easy. It's because Old Man Jack has some hired help who're probably moseying about somewhere close by and they're, like, the biggest snitches in history,” Lance explains, peeking over the nearest bundle of straw. “I mean, I don't blame them. For what he's paying, I'd sell my own sister out.”

Keith shakes his head. “You would not.”

“Yeah, you're right, I wouldn't,” he admits, only partially surprised at the certainty in the other’s tone. “But it's nice to think about how rich I would be if I did.”

Keith makes to say something, only to stop when footsteps sound out behind them. They both spin around to face the farmhand that had somehow sneaked under their radar.

There's a moment where neither parties say or do anything, too surprised with the sight of the other. It's almost comedic, Lance thinks, liking the stare off to countless scenes he's seen in countless movies over the years; he wonders if now would be an appropriate time to utter a mind blowing one liner.

“Hey, you're not supposed to be here!”

Too late.

Lance, always one with a plan, straightens out of his suspicious looking crouch, scratching at the back of his burning neck and laughing awkwardly. “Well, you see, we were just—”

Without a second thought, he grabs Keith’s hand and sprints down the way they came.

He can hear Keith’s laughter behind him, abrupt and loud and staccato, and can feel the muscles in his arm go taunt when the boy twists to look over their shoulders to watch the farmhand disappear from view. Lance has to tug him a few times, guiding them around the barn and more south, to where he remembers the crack in the fence to be- and lo and behold, when he finally catches sight of the end of the property, there’s a despondent looking break in the wooden pikes.

He lets go of Keith’s hand then, trusting him to keep up, and uses the momentum of his swinging hands to push him harder, faster. Keith doesn't disappoint, sticking to his side like glue, no matter how narrow the path is or how abrupt a turn he makes. And it sets his heart hammering, quick and hard against the cage of his chest; he loves it, this concept of no matter how hard he pulls, there will be an equal push returned. Like twin shooting stars, they fly over the land in an escapade of shining freedom.

When they finally come to the edge of the property and are able to see the fence (a chunk of its top layer broken and missing), Lance lets out a loud laugh, crazy with exhilaration. Pumping his legs faster, he lengthens his strides as far as he can. Wind rushes past him, tugging at his hair and boxing his ears. Slowly, he pulls ahead of Keith, casting a winning smile over his shoulder and feeling utterly invincible.

With fluidity that comes from years of experience, Lance confidently jumps and bypasses the fence. He lands in a crouch, hearing the thump of another pair of feet making contact with the ground a second behind, and sets off again.

They sprint down the road, circling around the fenced property that had just cut across, and, just as his uncle’s car comes into view, Lance spots two forms squeezing through the fence a distance away. His burning lungs protest as he pushes forward the last remaining feet, watching his sister do the same.

They collide into the hood of the car, scorching metal biting through his shirt and along his palms, pressing in harder when Keith staggers against him, hand spread wide against his lower back. Still, the pain is worth it when compared to the bright feeling bursting from his chest.

“Ha! We win!” he crows, peeling himself from the vehicle and enthusiastically pumping a fist in the air. He twirls and does a little jig.

“What?” Pidge huffs as she finally joins them, hands resting on her knees as she catches her breath. “No way! It was a tie!”

“Nope!” Lance straightens, feeling the victory settle pleasantly in his chest. “Was totally here first.”

Rachel has a very different opinion on the matter and says it, loudly. Lance is nothing if not stubborn and refuses to budge on his call, even taking time to rub it into the girls’ faces. Pidge pushes him and uses his moment of imbalance to slip into shotgun; usually Lance would complain and throw the biggest fit about the concept of ‘dibs,’ but the young paladin is laughing and he doesn't want to ruin it.

So he slides into the back, Keith winning the mini scuffle to claim the window seat; Lance lets this loss go too, secretly happy to be next to the groceries and planning to sneak a few snacks in before they get home, and focuses on what's important— being better than Rachel. “We definitely won.”

“You're out of your mind,” his sister argues, reaching back to smack him. After a moment and a conspiratorial smile, Pidge turns in her seat and joins in.

“Hey! Stop that! Mercy, mercy, mercy!” He shies away from the abuse, pressing close to the grocery bags and then to Keith in an effort to get away. It's all in vain because no matter where he goes their hands follow, relentless in their goal to bruise every part of him. “Keith! Keith, buddy, help me out!”

But the other boy merely raises his hands in a shrug of helplessness, trying to suppress a tiny smile that pulls at his mouth.

Lance gasps. “You're siding with them?”

“I'm not siding with anyone.”

But Lance goes on as if he doesn't hear him. “Siding with the enemy— that's cruel, man. And I thought we had a good thing going? All that bonding and whatnot.” He shakes his head and lets out a fake sigh, reaching over and nonchalantly shoving Pidge back in her seat as his sister starts the engine and plows down the dirt road. “You think you know a guy.”

As punishment, Lance refuses to move back to his seat and makes sure his so-called ‘friend’ has as little room as possible (not that there was much to begin with), squished against the car door even after the attacks stop. When they make a tight turn, he throws himself with it; there are some vague threats and muttered cursing, but Lance just laughs and resolutely stays plastered to Keith's side.

They take the long route back home.

The wind whooshes as they speed down the road, trees and street signs becoming colorful blurs stretching along the horizon. The bags next to him start flapping and a few loose leaf napkins jump from their place in the ashtray and fly out the window. The sun shines through the window, rays chanting a song of goosebump inducing warmth. The radio plays a song Lance doesn't recognize, but it is nice in its beat and he grins in the feeling of it all.

#voltron #dreamworks #klance #Voltron legendary defender #keith kogane #voltron keith #vld keith #lance mcclain #voltron lance #lance x keith #laith #fanfiction #chomp chomp goes the raptor

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nauseateddrive · 3 years

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THE LITTLE HAT by Tim Frank

I went bald at nineteen. Completely hairless - an egg, a cue ball. Well, that’s what my fellow uni students called me on campus. In fact, I recall freshmen trying to skip pebbles off my head because they said it glistened like a body of water. My head, a lake? A beautiful image, I guess, yet far from funny. It was cruel and had no basis in fact, I can assure you.

The girl I was seeing, India-Nora Alicia Nicole Elleese, known by everyone on campus as INANE (pronounced with an accent over the E), changed everything for me. She was a knockout, (so out of my league, with her ornate acrylic nails and poofy wall of hair) and she boosted my status among my peers quite considerably. We’d been dating a few months and things were going okay. True, we didn’t really share much in common - she liked everything to do with phones, I liked chasing obscure D-list celebrities for their autographs. But despite our differences we loved each other and that was enough. However, there was one significant problem, a major complication in our burgeoning relationship: sex.

One chilly November evening I set up a date with her in an all-night shopping centre to talk through our issues. I waited in a local free trade coffee shop that was nestled between a Jehovah’s Witness cupcake stand and a highly politicised denim outlet. I got there early to give myself time to think things through.

My first problem came when I tried to kiss INANÈ. We were at the funfair, our lips sticky from candy floss, and when I made my move she must have been nervous because she ducked and my bulbous head tripped over itself and my forehead careened into her left eye. There was nowhere to hide and so many people around - I wanted to climb the roller coaster and leap to my demise, landing with a splat on the haunted house below.

I regrouped after a few days, but then following close behind was the next mishap which was even more embarrassing - but thankfully it played out in a deserted park, far from prying eyes. It was a balmy summer’s eve and we were having a romantic wrestle on a wrought iron bench. I was becoming somewhat fired up and overheated, sweating profusely into her cleavage and down her thighs. In a sudden fit of rage, she unravelled what must have been half a roll of toilet paper from her bra, and threw it at me so I could mop the sweat from my brow. Bits of damp, torn tissue ended up stuck to my head like I’d nicked myself shaving. After the blunder, she gave me the cold shoulder and focused exclusively on her phone for the rest of the night. No matter how much I apologised she continued to freeze me out.

The most recent incident was only last week, when we were getting passionate in my car in the parking lot of the local drive-thru. Somehow, I had managed to manoeuvre my head below the equator (if you know what I mean.) She was wearing a dress that billowed in the wind blowing through the passenger window, and the angle I found myself in must have looked quite shocking because I heard a child passing by exclaim, “Mummy, that girl’s having a baby!”

Moments later I got the tap on my shoulder ordering me to finish up, drink my milkshake and take her back to the student halls. INANÈ ignored me all the way home and just scrolled through her phone, looking strangely amused.

She arrived at the coffee shop just as I had finished my second cappuccino and I was somewhat frazzled from the caffeine. She looked ripe and ready to be plucked from the tree. She wore maroon lipstick smeared sexily over the edges of her mouth and a crop top exposing her bellybutton ring.

“You look like a rare flower,” I gushed.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she said. “How many times do I have to tell you it’s over?”

“I don’t understand, what have I done? I can make things better, I promise.”

“You don’t use social media at all, do you? I mean, you really are utterly clueless.”

“Tell me what I can do. Is it because I’m bald?”

“Yes, but... Wait, where are you going?”

“The loo, I’ll be right back.”

After a few minutes I returned and I was transformed. My rebirth clearly made an instant impression on the love of my life.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered conspiratorially.

“What?”

“Your little hat there.”

I fingered the toupee covering my bald pate, and gazing into the reflection of a silver napkin dispenser I straightened the rug.

“I know dating a bald man can be difficult,” I said, “It’s hard for me to accept myself, so I’m aware it must be debilitating for a girl who ranks so high on the babe-o meter. But now the problem is solved.”

“Please, just look at this, you can’t be left in the dark any longer,” she said, sliding her phone across the table. I picked it up and cradled it in both hands.

Endless reels played on her Instagram account and they were tagged, “The Bald and the Beautiful.” They documented countless sexual calamities that befell us - from our first kiss to me going down on her in the drive-thru. There were other images too, of kids chasing me down the road chanting “Slaphead!” and “Grandpa!” as I veered into oncoming traffic. One clip showed me in my room, picking flakes of skin from my scalp with tweezers while singing Whitney Houston in my bathrobe.

“I don’t believe this,” I said, “and to think I believed you actually loved me. All those things we did, you’re just...just a slut.”

“Hey!” she said, slapping me across the cheek, “I do what I please with my body, okay? If I want to fool around to create content, that’s my business. Look, I never meant for things to go so far, but you kept creating hilarious material and things just snowballed. I know I’ve hurt your feelings but breaking up with me is the best thing for you, I promise. At least it’ll help dampen the hype, because I have to be honest, we’re being filmed right now and that piece of fluff on your head really isn’t helping matters.”

I looked around the shopping centre. I noticed youths arched over balconies, crouching behind potted plants and poking out of stairwells, all angling their phones in my direction.

Then the truth hit home - INANÈ was never mine, my life was a joke and there was nowhere to hide.

I dashed her phone to the floor. She shrieked and dropped to her knees to retrieve the broken fragments. I left her to it. I walked towards the frozen yoghurt stall at the heart of the shopping plaza, keenly aware I was being followed. Feeling the pressure to perform I tripped on my shoelace and just about salvaged my dignity by turning the fall into a funky little dance.

Then it occurred to me; I was famous - trending in New York and Tokyo, getting thousands of hits across multiple platforms, having spawned dozens of fan-sites and subscription groups. I sensed countless opportunities on the horizon and a new fate mapped out for me.

As the cameras focused in, I imagined modelling agencies recruiting me to feature on billboards selling Lycra spandex running shoes. I envisioned myself acting in soap operas and singing on chart topping pop records - alongside the minor celebrities I had followed so closely throughout my life.

As phones captured me grooving and jiving, I gave a final cinematic flourish - hurling my toupee up into the air like a graduation hat. I broke into a broad smile as I proudly and gloriously exposed my bald head to the whole wide world.

Tim Frank has been published in over ninety journals but will never tell you which.

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killashilla · 7 years

Text

Hold Onto This Chapter 1: Better than Schedules

Link to AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11658675/chapters/26232894

Allura looked up at the dashing young man as he spoke, barely processing a word he was saying.

Everything had happened so quickly—she remembered clambering out of the royal airship with her cousin Lance onto the Garrison grounds before being ushered into the school and immediately bombarded by dozens of clamoring students.

Allura barely had time to take in the rusty red sands of the Arizona desert, or the prestigious, bright gleam of the Academy’s great foyer before being thrown into a blur of introductions, unfamiliar names, handshakes, and ecstatic young girls marveling over her hair.

Then, just as swiftly as they had been herded in, she had been separated from Lance and sent off for a tour, each with their own student ambassador.

And now she was here, in a long and empty corridor, arm-in-arm with this particularly tall, handsome stranger. He had approached her with eyes that searched hers in earnest and a warm smile that made her weak in the knees.

“You must be Princess Allura,” He had said, offering her his elbow, “Call me Shiro.”

Shiro.

She was trying to concentrate but her thoughts kept floating back to his muscled arm under her hand and the shapes his lips formed as he spoke.

“Princess? Is everything okay?” Shiro stepped out of her reach to look her in the eye.

“Oh, stars, I’m so sorry,” Allura paled, “I got… distracted, what were you saying?”

He laughed (great, even his laugh is adorable) , “Nothing interesting, apparently. Don’t apologize, I’m not exactly thrilled by the scheduling system, either.” Suddenly, Shiro leaned down to whisper in her ear conspiratorially, “You know what, let me show you something else. Schedules can wait.”

He grabbed her hand and they were off, Allura’s mind still reeling from his voice low in her ear, his breath tickling her hair, his lips mere inches from her skin…

Get ahold of yourself!

“They gave me your file. You’re into astronomy, right?” He asked as they rounded a corner.

“Yes, I love learning about the stars.” That’s it, short answers. Be professional. But when she could feel him waiting for more, expectant and open and kind. To hell with professionalism. “It helps me feel at home in the universe, knowing the names and stories of the constellations. I suppose if I’m going to be an interstellar diplomat one day, I’d want to feel at home no matter how far I go.”

Shiro stopped short at this, and his thumb brushed lightly against the back of her hand, “I know exactly how you feel.”

Quiznak, this boy will be the death of me.

Allura had read his file, too. An aspiring deep space pilot with the brains and the talent to make it big, Takashi Shirogane was the golden boy of the Garrison: top of his class, captain of the varsity football team, and already a faculty favorite for admission to the illustrious Voltron University. She had been fully prepared to meet a cocky, brown-nosing jock but this “Shiro” was one pleasant surprise after another.

They continued down one last corridor until they reached a pair of old, rusted double-doors. Shiro glanced around to check that the coast was clear, then rammed the doors with a powerful shoulder so that they wedged open with a metallic screech.

“Fuck.” He hissed, “Let’s hope nobody heard that. We’re not supposed to be here without an instructor,”

Looks like Golden Boy has a rebellious streak.

Shiro took her by the hand again and led her through the entrance as he flicked a switch on the side panel. The room, which had at first looked to be a dark and cluttered auditorium, suddenly became illuminated by a hologram of stars shining from the massive glass-domed ceiling. A lush indoor garden surrounded them, and Allura stared in awe at the constellations hovering above her and the way their reflections danced on the leaves.

“This is the old observatory. We built a new one in the simulation wing a few years back, so this place was repurposed as the botany lab. Cooler than schedules, huh?” Shiro grinned.

“It’s…absolutely incredible…” She breathed.

Shiro laid down to get a full view of the hologram and motioned for her to join him on the floor.

This is way, way better than schedules…

- - -

Shiro had been hesitant at first about this so-called “Crown Princess Allura”. Princesses were haughty, stuck-up, privileged beyond normalcy. He had braced himself for a royal brat. Still, he had held out hope for the girl from the student files—the Altean King Alfor was known for his benevolence and fortitude, surely his daughter couldn’t be all bad. And she loves astronomy—which could signify anything from intellect to literal airheadedness— but Shiro clung to that speck of common interest. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, right?

But then, all of his doubts fell away the moment he laid eyes on her. Of course she was a princess, it was the only title that did her justice. Everything around her seemed to glow, from her hair, to the crescents on her cheekbones, to her piercing blue eyes—even her laugh made the room seem brighter. He froze in the middle of the packed Garrison foyer and watched as she greeted the students crowding around her.

A tall, lanky boy—her cousin Lance, he realized—stood at her side and teased her every so often, posing for selfies with Allura and the younger girls, pinching her cheek or bumping her hip whenever someone paid her a lavish compliment.

Shiro came to his senses when Keith shoved at his unmoving form “Get a move on, Shiro, what are you doing?”. He was fine, nothing out of the ordinary, he was just about to meet the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. And of course he was dressed like an idiot, in his formal Academy uniform with the stupid goddamn tie and the stupid goddamn jacket from freshman year that definitely didn’t fit him anymore. Keith was practically propelling him forward now, grumbling and muttering his last protests against the tour they had to give to the exchange kids.

And then her eyes met his and he couldn’t help but break out into the biggest, dumbest smile. Damn. I’m a goner.

He still felt that glow, deep in his chest as she laid beside him on the floor of the observatory some hours later. The goddamn too-tight jacket was serving as a makeshift pillow and the stars of Ursa Major and Minor twinkled above them (Mother Klanmüirl and Cub, Allura had called them) and sometime during their stargazing she had shifted so that her head now rested on his outstretched arm.

Conversation with her was so easy, so natural. She was quick to interject with a witty comment and teased him at every opportunity, and soon they were laughing with the genuine warmth of old friends. When the topic veered into more personal territory, he listened with rapt attention to her stories of Altea: its culture, its peoples, and of the responsibilities that weighed heavily on her heart.

“I’ve been training for years as a galactic diplomat—a real explorer—but one day I’ll have to forget that dream and devote my life to governing my people. I’m so scared that I won’t be able to do it, that I won’t be good enough.”

Her words hung heavily in the air. Shiro didn’t have the courage to tell her: No, you’re perfect. You’re beautiful and intelligent and strong and anyone would be lucky to call you their Queen.

Instead, he offered some stories of his own—stories he had never told of the family he had left behind in Tokyo, of his twin brother and the garden out back where they had first stargazed as children.

“Just like this?” Allura gestured to the greenery around them and the stars above.

Shiro nodded, “Just like this.” Even though Ryou was the farthest possible thing from a gorgeous alien princess.

After a comfortable silence, Allura poked him in the chest, “So. Why is the Garrison’s future valedictorian breaking into abandoned lab rooms? Is this a regular occurrence for you?”

He laughed sheepishly, “Yeah, sort of. Out there, they expect me to have all of the answers; I’m supposed to be the best in my classes, and lead my teammates, and help the younger pilots train. Not that I don’t love it, but—”

“I understand. You need to get away from it all sometimes.” She felt him nod. “I’m grateful that you’re letting me in on your secret hideout.”

“Of course, Princess. What kind of tour would this be if I didn’t show you the best parts of the Academy?”

“Please, Shiro, you can just call me Allura.” Am I being too forward? Something like this was unprecedented. Even Lance had to refer to her as “the Princess” at their old school. But this was Arizona, where there was no monarchy or planetary rivalries or—

“Okay. Allura.” Well. That was simple.

“Any fears?” She asked quickly, the sound of her name in his voice still echoing like ripples on still water.

“Oh, plenty,” Shiro chuckled, “Dying young, dying alone, dying without having done anything with my life—“

“That’s a lot of dying.”

“You didn’t let me tell you my worst fear: I’m deathly afraid of princesses.”

She scoffed and he had to bite his cheek to contain his grin.

“Yep, Altean ones in particular.” Shiro continued. “They’re the absolute worst. So scary. Especially when they’ve got you pinned to the ground in a dark room.” He was laughing now at her faux-pouting expression.

“You’re right, Shiro,” Her voice held a new note of mischief. He felt her hand slide across his torso and he froze, heart threatening to pound out of his chest. “You never know when a princess might…strike!”

And then Allura grabbed ahold of his tie, that stupid goddamn tie, jerking him onto his side, and her face was suddenly very, very close to his.

He could tell she hadn’t thought this through, her crystal blue eyes were wide with surprise at her own boldness and her breath hitched between them.

Neither of them were really thinking anymore.

Almost by instinct, the arm that had been resting behind her shoulders dropped down to snake around her waist and he was pressing his lips to hers.

It was a stolen kiss. A stupid, reckless, hormonal, teenaged impulse. Shiro half expected her to pull away and slap him for being so presumptuous but instead, she pressed closer to him and deepened the kiss as her eyes slid shut.

It was rushed, feverish, almost desperate, but it felt so goddamn right. Her teeth scraped against his and her fingertips ran blazing trails up Shiro’s shoulders, his neck, through his hair. Their tongues rolled together in a heady, panting mess. The warm glow in his chest pulsed and grew until he was ablaze in light. He was so utterly consumed by the taste of her that he almost missed the sound of steel-toed boots coming down the hall.

#they're just young and lovestruck #next chapter will be up soon and you'll see what happens next #also if any artists would want to illustrate this i would DIE #DIE IMMEDIATELY ON THE SPOT #also yes ryou will be in this #shallura #shallura fic #voltron #voltron fic #shallura fluff #voltron shiro #shiro #allura #voltron allura #vld shiro #takashi shirogane #princess allura #vld #mine

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