#like lance’s hand on the back of his neck being all bashful and unsure if he should poke him

[sweetpeapoppy]

*poke*

#this is unreal #like lance’s hand on the back of his neck being all bashful and unsure if he should poke him #and Fernando being a little shocked/amused that he likes it #like I’m a big ol’ war criminal anti hero villain but I am being endeared by this goofy Canadian #fernando alonso #lance stroll #strollonso

[internalsealpanic]

The Dog and Duck

summary: Dick Grayson is a terrible flirt (in more ways than one).

a/n: Special thanks to @jd-loves-everyone, @littleredwing89, @glorified-red, and @multifandomgirl-us for proofreading! This fic is based on a headcanon by @pricetagofficial (I think) that Dick Grayson is actually terrible at flirting which is just the cutest thing.

warnings: Potential cringe and terrible flirting advice

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

The sound of voices and clinking of glasses mingle around you like a bustling symphony: discordant, rhythmic, clashing but endlessly vibrant. The scent of alcohol hung thick in the air, enough to taste and intoxicate. The amount of people in such a small space made something under your skin hum, whether it was simply an irritable Yasiri or the buzzing energy stored in your bones or maybe even a genuine discomfort, you weren’t entirely sure.

You sip lightly at the scotch in your glass, letting it burn through your throat, but it wasn’t enough to make the itch in it go away completely. 

 You watch Dick’s eyes intently as they slide past you, just over your shoulder. His sentences coalesce clumsily, syllables squishing and clipping at odd ends as his plush bottom lip catches between his teeth. His eyes are glossy with interest even in the dim lights of the pub. His pupils are blown and dark. You fight everything in you to stamp down the urge to huff or roll your eyes. Not that he would have noticed. You’re pretty sure you could stab someone in the eye and Dick wouldn’t even blink, not when he is so enraptured by whatever the hell is behind you. You feel a gross sticky sort of jealousy pool in the pit of your stomach.  You swallow it down not really knowing of any other way to deal with it. 

 You arch a brow, the tips of your nails tapping loudly against the lacquered wood of the table as Dick once again stumbles absentmindedly over his story about Wally West being living proof of the need for warning labels (for people). You click your teeth irritably while Yasiri’s tail rattles against your collarbone before you take another sip, eyes following his only for them to land on a vivacious redhead at the bar. The irritation bubbling in your veins dwindles into mild amusement. Your best friend is a hilariously predictable moron. 

 “She is either a suspect or you’re being a creep.” You tease, the cruel curve of your lips barely obscured by the glass pressed against them. The mockery in your eyes shining amber like the drink in your glass. Dick’s cheeks flush as the playful lilt in your voice lances through the fog in his mind. He looks at you, dopey and red-cheeked as if he didn’t know what you were talking about. You roll your eyes, nostrils flaring letting out a breath caught between a huff and a laugh. “Stalker.” You hiss, trying to smother the warmth in your voice with sheer, unadulterated pettiness. 

 Dick levels you a look, cutting and vicious if he wasn’t flushed. “Am not.” He whines halfheartedly, eyes flicking once again to the woman at the bar. Some part of you is sure you really ought to be mad at him. After all, you haven’t seen each other for almost half a year. This is thanks in part to work and in part to work getting royally fucked up. Thankfully, not because of Gotham’s resident furry and his new little bird boy. Really, you should be furious at being sidelined considering this outing was his idea but here you were smirking into your malt whiskey, tickled. 

 “Then stop staring.” You challenge, unfolding and relaxing into the moldy cushioning of the bar. Dick glares at you, the pout on his lips obscured by his hand as he rests his chin on his palm but you know it’s there. You’ve memorized the plains of his face and how they shaped themselves, a product of spending far too much time staring at the details.  Hey, if he was gonna third wheel you the least you could do was tease him about it. “Or do you want me to wingman for you~”

 “HELL NO”

 You can’t stop the cackle that spills from your lips. “Why not?!”

 “I’m not letting you cockblock me. AGAIN.”

 “That was one tiiime, Joystick.”

 “Once was enough!" 

 "’Fiiiine but to be fair,  you still ended up dating her, didn’t you?” You defended weakly, running your fingers through your hair, jostling the already wind whipped strands. Dick was red-faced. The liquor was definitely working through his system. The color in his cheeks was lively and cute, making him look boyish despite how much he’d grown. You had, in fact, cockblocked him due to an extreme bout of jealousy, childishness, and hormones. Back then you hadn’t yet learned the art of burying your feelings 6 feet under.

 “Fine, fine, fine. Just shoot your shot, Dickie bird.” This does not appease him. He, in fact, crosses his arms over his chest. You set your glass down and raise your brow. “If you fail, I’ll buy you a round.” You add placatingly. Dick’s eyes slide over your shoulder, the lump in his throat bobbing.“Make that two.” 

 Your eyes shine, cat-like the dim lighting of the lamp overhead. You smile at him all cocksure, placing your chin on your intertwined fingers.“Deal.”

 Dick gives you a withering look as he pushes off the table. You take a sip of your daiquiri as he moves through the crowd, gracefully slicing through the sea of bodies. No, maybe they were parting just for him. Dick does have that air about him. A pull that made it so painfully obvious that he was so much more. Dick also had this way of talking that made you unsure of whether you’re being flirted with or if it’s just the way he talks to people. Either way, he had this way of making you feel special and you had no doubt he would sweep this one off her feet.  

 The redhead at the bar tipped her head finally sensing his gaze on her and as per your expectation, she seemed to reciprocate the interest. Not that you can blame her. Dick was a 10 on his worst day. Now that you thought about it, you’ve never actually seen Dick flirt. You’ve seen him banter but flirt? You can’t seem to think of an instance of it. This’ll be fun. 

 You watch him closely and your brows climb higher than you thought they could. Something was off, something very un-Dick-like. There’s an unsteadiness in his step that makes your stomach sink. Dick wouldn’t. Even Dick wasn’t stupid enough to blow his shot just to get a few shots, would he?

 And then it happened.

 “Did it hurt when you hit your face?” Dick asks, winking stiffly. A ripple of pain lances through you followed by an unbearable wave of second-hand embarrassment. “Excuse me?!” Her face morphs into something terrifying before Dick’s brain can catch up. You watch in mute horror as Dick’s face slowly matches the sinking feeling in your gut as embarrassment suffused his entire body. 

 “Wait, shit. I- I meant- Shit. I didn’t mean to say you look like you banged your face. I mean, of course, you don’t-” You watch in fascination as Dick stumbles through apology after apology after apology. Until finally, he gives up. “Actually, I’ll just leave.” Dick shambles gracelessly back to your table while your brain tries to process what just happened. 

 You wheeze against the table, pounding your fist against the table. “Dickie, yanno you did have a shot before you opened your mouth, right?” Your hand is clamped over your mouth trying to stop the shrill cackle bubbling in your throat. 

 “Y/n...” 

 “Jeez, Dicktopus, was gin really worth getting blue balled?”

 “You better have your money,” he sneers, cutting you a scathing look as he slides into the booth. 

 “I-” The smug look on your face vanishes when you reach into your wallet. “If I apologize for you, will you cut me some slack?” you try, brandishing your nearly empty wallet. 

 “I’ll buy you a shot if she doesn’t tell you to fuck off.”

 “Hmm, if I get her number for you, will you get me two?”

 “Sure, why not?” Dick whines petulantly. His head sinks into his arms desperately trying very hard  to implode. You cough into your sleeve trying not to laugh and hope he doesn’t notice. A blush creeps up the tanned skin of his neck. He tries to hide it by placing his hand on his neck but the color’s already made its way to his ears. Feeling a little bad for him, you squeeze Dick’s shoulder once, then twice, then twice once more. You swing your legs dramatically out of the booth. You hear Dick groan and you chuckle. 

 You flick your eyes to him one last time before moving forward. You roll your shoulders, realigning your form into something more suave and less goofy. The rhythm of your feet goes from a clumsy shuffle to a confident saunter. The woman looks at you skeptically, her lashes fluttering mockingly. You move, easy and casual. With a playful grin, you apologize and make up some bullshit excuse about Dick being extremely shy. She eases. You continue on your little sales pitch as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  You draw a laugh out of her. You can hear her heart pick up. She smiles at you telling you that you and your shy friend are fine. You chuckle and promise to tell your long-suffering friend that, tilting your chin towards Dick who is still trying to melt into the table. She scribbles her number onto a napkin and hands it to you with a flirtatious wink. You smile lopsided, cute and sheepish, as you wave her goodbye.

 Dick stares at you with slack-jawed awe. This time you feel genuinely bashful but you shrug it away with a sharklike grin spreading across your face.

“Pay up, pretty bird,” you say slamming the number on the table, teeth gleaming in the low light of the room. The petty satisfaction oozing off of you is almost palpable. Dick looks up at you, his pretty mouth twisting.  “What are you? Seven?”

 “If by seven you mean lucky, then yeah,” you sneer, nudging your empty shot glass against Dick’s shoulder. “Pay up, Dickenson~” you sing. Dick’s face twists even more and he waves you off, pushing off the table.

 “Let’s just go,” Dick bites out, cheeks burning. You bite your lips trying to resist the urge to tease him more but it’s hard. Not when he’s all pouty and cute.  

 “I mean you did just wine and dine me,” you laugh musically. You promised yourself you would stop teasing him but you never said you would stop making jokes. There’s a complicated expression on Dick’s face before it shifts back to exasperation. 

 “You. Are. Awful.”

 You shake your head not even denying it as you follow him out of the old Dog and Duck into the fresh Bludhaven air. 

“How are you good at this?” Dick whines into one of your throw pillows. The poorly counterfeit superman one he had gotten you a few years ago from a trip to the Philippines. He's pouting at you like a kid. To be fair, you did laugh at him in the club (and the whole way back to your safehouse which was not a short walk).

 You chuckle, tapping a cool can of beer against his forehead.“Sadly some of us need to work at being charming, Dimples McGee.” He accepts the can, scowling at you. Your grin doesn’t waver which only serves to deepen his scowl. It was an irritating feedback loop. Well, irritating for Dick. You’re having the time of your life. You settle on the other side of the couch rolling your beer can in your hand. “ Plus, you’ve seen pops talk right? The man sweet talks like his life depends on it.” 

 “Right, I’ll remember to ask him for flirting advice next time he tries to kill me,” Dick says, rolling his eyes at you. You perk up at the awful idea before you snicker and press a hand to your lips in a barely held back smile. It’s Dick’s turn to perk up. His blue eyes shine with interest at your expression like he’s trying to capture it. You turn to him with a serious expression. “Please, please ask him that. I will pay you to record his reaction. Please. Please. Dickle, please,” you beg, moving on your knees to his side, your hands clasped in prayer.  Dick shifts sticking his tongue out at you childishly. 

 “Noooooo!”

 “Pleeeeeeaaaaaseee”

 “No!”

 With an ‘oof’, you plop yourself between Dick’s legs, your chest against his. You stare up at him with eyes mimicking the wide-eyed innocent look he uses on you when he asks for a favor. Dick gives you a sorry look asking you to please drop it. You don’t. You double down trying to look as cute as possible. 

 Dick looks down at you, glaring then grimacing then smiling. “Ok, fine,” he huffs stiffly, wrapping his arms around you. You snuggle up against him, smug in your victory.  Your nose brushes against Dick’s pulse which makes his breath hitch. He squirms under you but you just find yourself laughing. “You. Are. Evil. ”

 “I promise to make your Granny’s goulash,” you say in a halfhearted attempt to appease him. Dick’s face softens  “Now, that’s just bribery.”

 “You’re gonna be a cop here in Bludhaven. You gotta learn how to take bribes.”

 His brows crease as you shake your head. Dick huffs, planting his chin against the crown of your head before pressing his lips to your hair. You feel one of his arms pulling you closer, his hand threading through the tangle of your hair. You smile against his skin, breath tickling him which just makes him squirm. He’s breathless under your touch and you don’t even know it. You two sit basking in the close proximity and the soft intimacy you two shared. Your limbs tangle and twine around each other carelessly. 

 Out of context, you two could have been lovers. 

 You sigh, feeling a bit drowsy from the ‘tussle’. You blink, mind reaching for something. “Wait…. Brucie flirts like his life depends on it too! What’s your excuse?” you grin, jabbing a finger into his chest. Dick scowls at you, clearly flustered again. He stammers, babbling out answers. “Hey, I- I could probably do it...” Dick mutters, finally finding a semblance of coherence. 

  “After that performance?” You challenge, sitting up, eyebrow raised and arms crossed. A sharp laugh spills from your lips. It’s louder than you intended, your entire chest moving along with every exhalation of air. 

 Dick looks at you like a kicked puppy which has you roaring with laughter. “You don’t have to laugh that hard”

 “Admit it, Grayson, you are an actual bonafide dork”

 “I’ll bonafide you,” he growls and you’re bent into the couch cushions, clutching your stomach. Dick looks like your house plant like he’s about to disintegrate. You sit up again and cross your legs. Your lungs expand as you draw in another calming breath before you give him a softer, lopsided smile, placing a hand on his knee and shaking him gently. “Come on, practice on me I’m probably one of the few people you don’t have a stick up your ass around.” Dick, not getting up, puts his hands in his face looking positively mortified by the idea. You make a little affronted noise in the back of your throat and thanks to whatever god is up there that you don’t seem to know how much he doesn’t wanna fuck up flirting with you.   

 “I don’t know how to!” The cry is muffled but the mortification still bleeds through. The admission startles something out of you. “Holy shit, Nightwing can’t flirt his way out of a paper bag. Oh my god, this is great!” you cackle, falling into the cushions. 

 “I’m trying damn it!”

 “Ok. Ok. Ok.” You breathe. You’re still clutching your still aching stomach. You wish you recorded that confession.  “Ok. Phew. Ok, I need a minute,” you say folding over into the cushions again, another bubble of laughter rising in your throat. This is the best ab workout you’ve had in months. 

 “Take your time,” Dick deadpans, rolling his eyes, color rising in his tanned cheeks. 

 “Ooook, I think I’m good. First, we need to work on your wink.”

 “The hell is wrong with my wink?” A wry smile tugs at the corner of your lips. You make vague hand gestures, hoping somehow you could physically pluck the correct words from the air.  “Just try winking, Ric.” Dick raises his brow but gives in. He winks at you in his usual devilishly charming way. You shake your head. “Wink at me like you’re trying to get my number.”

He stiffens and gives you the most artificial wink you’ve seen outside of a bad 50s flick. You drag your hand over your face. “How come you can wink so naturally while fighting and look like you work at in car sales when you flirt”

 Dick tries again. He ends up closing both his eyes and scrunching his nose- looking like a disgruntled puppy. You squeal and Dick’s eyes fly open. Your mouth works to flatten itself but your mind is still picturing the expression. “What?” he growls. You wave him off. “Sorry. Sorry. Just- just try again. Please.” 

 Dick gives you another stiff wink and you’re surprised to find yourself cringing at your best friend for the first time in your life. You drag your hand over your face. “You look like you’re trying to ask me to prom.”

 “You’ve never even been to a prom!”

 “Who do you think scares off Joey’s dates? Pops?” you snort picking up your beer can and taking a sip.  “Did you miss the absentee father part?”

 You both silently agree to move on. 

 “How the flying fuck did you date both Babs and Kory with your atrocious flirting skills?”

 “I have good pick up lines.”

 “Uh, sure, buddy.”

 “It worked on both of them!”

 “Well, hit me.”

 “Call me Fred Flintstone,”  you wait patiently, “cause I’ll make your bedrock.” Another artificial wink. 

 You blink at him, mind still trying to catch up. “Dick you are the epitome of ‘you’re lucky you’re cute’,” you groan, palm flat against your forehead. 

 “I’m not cute! I’m handsome!” Dick protests, mouth twisting into a pout. A shrill squeal is dying in the back of your throat as you draw a breath. You pinch his cheeks, “you pouting just furthers my point.”

 “Are you just trying to destroy my confidence?” Dick whines, lightly shoving you away. 

 “Oh no, the girl back at the club did that. I am just dancing on your grave.”

 “Give me another wink.”

 Dick fails at winking, again. You cringe openly at him and he scowls at you halfheartedly, more defeated than angry. Dick’s used to being good at things, you supposed. You tap your finger against your chin, trying to unspool a thought and rethread it into words. “Ok, figured out one of your problems.”

“Aside from my terminal dorkiness?”

 “You’re too nervous-”

 “You would be too,” Dick cuts in. 

You snicker, teeth bared in a mocking grin. ”Did you miss the part where I got her number?” Dick refuses to answer. You sigh but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “Let’s start with body language because for a guy with so much muscle control you are shit at this.”

 “You’re just gonna keep being mean,” he moans. 

 “I’ll stop being mean when you sweep me off my feet,” you jab. 

 “Ok, fine, maestro. What do you need me to do?”

  “You’ve got to lean into me and smile coyly,” you say vaguely.  Dick leans in close, your noses touching, his lips ghosting over yours. You can feel his breath hot against your lips. It sends bolts of electricity careening through your nerves. Your brain takes its sweet time catching up, giving your body ample time to soak up the proximity of the almost kiss. You gasp then reign yourself in. “Dickle, that’s- that’s a teensy bit too close,” you laugh awkwardly, hands playfully shoving at his chest. 

 Dick shakes out of his haze. “You said to lean in!” he says leaning into your space again. “Yeah, I did but I never said lean in close enough to eat my face. I can smell the gin in your breath,” you snort airly, pushing at his chest again. 

 Dick sits back, embarrassment creeping into his features. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth as if he’s thinking carefully about his next few words. “I’m just-” Dick puts his head in his hands. “Like you said, I’m too nervous.” 

 You raise a brow. The sound that comes out of you is too sharp and disbelieving to be a laugh. “Pfffft, it’s just me, you dork.”

 That’s the problem, Dick thinks. It’s you. The exasperation bleeds into his features. Dick fidgets, shifting and shaking in his seat like a wet chihuahua. Don’t you know how much he wants to get this right for you?. 

 “Stop twitching! You look like you’re having a seizure.”

 “I’m nervous!!” he says. “Don’t you ever get nervous about a person you like?”

 You side eye him. “I do,” you admit, rubbing your thumb over your tattoo out of habit. Dick’s eyes widen, then narrow. You see the word ‘who’ forming on his lips but his train of thought is cut off by the sound of Yasiri’s tail rattling against your skin as she emerges. Your poor danger noodle is likely frustrated with the lack of progress. You quietly thank her by scratching her chin.  “Whatever made this world just decided that you had to have at least one very obvious flaw,” you say, insincerely patting him on the back.

 “You're enjoying this.”

 “Way more than you think,” you say grinning at him. Dick simply grimaces at you. “You’re not helping me.”

 “Were you really expecting me to help?” You shrug. “Why would I do that?”

 “I’d help you!”

 You level him with a flat look. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d laugh just as hard as I did.” Dick opens his mouth then closes it. He opens it again. You raise your brow at him. “ I- ok yeah. No, I would laugh harder,” he says, giving you a cheeky, lopsided smile. Vindication and something warmer tug your features into a smile.

 “Just… relax and be yourself,” you mock sagely. Dick rests his head on yours. “ I hate you,” he groans, pressing his shoulder into yours. 

  “You’re just thinking about it too much,” you say, pressing back, “just do what’s natural. The more you over try the funnier it is.”

 “Goes back to my problem of being nervous,” he huffs into your hair. You boop his nose. “Goes back to my point about you overthinking things.”

 “I’m not!”

 “Fine.”

 “Fine?”

 “Fine,” you say, reaching back and presenting your danger noodle in your palm, "practice on Yazzy.”

 “You’re not serious?”

 You hold up the clearly unamused snake eye level with Dick. “Go on." Dick gives you a withering look. He exasperates, then looks deep into Yasiri’s black eyes. He opens his mouth and Yasiri flicks her tongue at him. The next few things happen in quick succession. Dick’s body relaxes. His face breaks into a smile that makes your heart flutter. He lets out a bubble of laughter that has you jumping and reaching for your own breath. "I can't!" he gasps. You both dissolve into laughter. 

 “Suit yourself - but prepare to have blue balls," you grin, punching his shoulder, "at least, they'll match your new suit!" you cackle. Dick flushes red.“I - I - you are legally the worst and most unhelpful human being in modern history!”

 Your cackle rises higher even as Dick shoves a pillow in your face. You push it away and wipe the tears away from your eyes. “Just practice on me, go on,” you say, reaching out, “once more." He frowns at you. "Please?”

 Dick closes his eyes. His movements become leisurely the way you've seen him when he's about to do a routine on the trapeze. “Do you have a map?” he says, pushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. The oxygen in your lungs evaporates. Heat spreads from the line of skin Dick’s finger grazed to the rest of your body. You swallow trying not to collapse under the weight of his gaze. You realize he's expecting an answer. "No, why?” you stammer out stupidly. 

  “Because I keep getting lost in your eyes,” he says, eyes glittering in the dim lights of your apartment. Some part of your brain short circuits, fizzing out in sparks and fire, then the rest of your brain follows. The entire structure goes out in a puff of smoke. You're completely frozen. Dick watches you with a furrowed brow, bottom lip caught between your teeth. Apprehension rolls off of him in waves and you can feel your lungs work again. "Exactly! Exactly that!" You squeal in delight. Dick smiles relieved. "I knew you could do it, you magnificent dork. I could kiss you right now!" you say squishing his cheeks and pressing your forehead against his. Dick’s breath catches. There's a hopeful look in his eyes. "Would you?" 

 Something clogs your throat as you pull away. You're pretty sure it's your heart. You force the nervous laughter in your throat into something else. "Need practice with that too, Dickens?" 

 "Dunno," he hedges, eyes holding yours, "you tell me." His hand cups the side of your face. You ease into his touch like a marshmallow dissolving into hot cocoa. "Can I?" he whispers, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. He's being careful with you you realize. Your eyes flutter closed. You can feel your nerves disentangling. They cross and recross so that you're fully aware of your lips. The gap between the two of you is small but it feels so impossibly big. Anticipation, anxiety, and excitement all thicken the spaces between you. You want him. You want this. Is it so wrong? 

 "Yes."

Tag list:  @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes,  @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-inkage, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell   @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson #merc!reader #my writing

[dearlazerbunny]

Let it Go (Ch. 1 of ?)

Pairings: platonic avengers team x reader, potential background loki x reader

Words: 1800

Genre/Ratings: -WARNINGS- there will be an (unsuccessful) suicide attempt by reader- chapter will be explicitly marked in advance. Drug (pills) and alcohol abuse, lots of negativity and self loathing. There will be an arc, but said arc is going to start in the eleventh circle of hell and inch up from there.

Summary: *not far enough into this one to give an accurate summary, so this’ll have to be updated eventually. enjoy for now!*

If I see another ad for Frozen, I might go homicidal.

I pass at least five of them as I work through rush-hour Manhattan at a snail’s pace. Smash Hit! Instant Classic! #1 Movie in the World! Awesome. Fantastic. Happy for you, Disney. Now please, dear god, get it the fuck out of my face.

I jerk away from narrowly shoulder-checking a businessman hustling down the sidewalk, speaking rapid-fire into the phone glued to his ear. It’s like a very, very fucked up dream; everyone in the world is in on the joke, and I just didn’t get the invite. Maybe they were spying on me. Sure, it could’ve been inspired by a fairytale, but who knows? I could sue. Demand fifty percent of the profits for copyright infringement. That’d be more than enough to set me up with a cabin in Alaska, somewhere all I’d have to worry about is making friends with the polar bears.

On the subway, I notice someone has Let it Go blaring from their earbuds. No less than three little girls are wearing something blue and covered in glitter. One has a cheap blonde plait clipped into her hair, accented by a snowflake charm dangling from the end. I suppress the urge to rip it off her head.

It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I want to say. It’s not Disney-dreamy like the mouse has made it out to be, living in a palace and making magical snowmen and singing power ballads about self-acceptance and overcoming your demons. In the real world, you quell those demons with a fistful of benzodiazepines, because if you don’t, something like a car alarm or a slammed door will make spikes of ice splinter through the floor around you. It’s constantly wearing three hoodies at a time, so that way if a stranger on the seat next to you brushes your arm, they don’t immediately get third-degree frostbite. It’s getting a papercut and watching the blood freeze on the tip of your finger, then melt back to liquid when you break it off and toss it away. It’s getting hospitalized when an inner-city charity doctor takes your temperature before you can object and your body temperature is barely higher than freezing, so they pump you full of warm saline and cover you in foil blankets and all that heat makes you sick, so you have to rip the IV out of your arm and walk yourself back to your apartment in your hospital gown while dodging orderlies and strange looks from passerby at 2 AM.

The kid and her parents get off at the next stop. The subway clicks along. I try to make myself smaller as the car fills up with more people.  

Maybe if they’d had Xanax in Arendelle, Elsa wouldn’t have had to deal with all that “conceal, don’t feel” bullshit. She wouldn’t be able to feel anything with all the pills and booze she’d be mainlining. Take it from me, babe, it’s a lot easier to drug those demons away. Much more effective than a song.

Something in me feels a weird flare of pride for handling this… whatever the hell it is better than a fictional cartoon princess. Then I want to laugh, because goddamn, my life is pathetic.

My meeting spot is in a back alley near Bryant Park. Some NYU kid is pawning his Klonopin for party cash, I guess. I think if you’re rich enough to be a frat boy at NYU you probably don’t need the extra fifty from your prescriptions, but whatever. I don’t have a ton of other avenues at this point.

I scan the neon bottle, then shake it open and count the pills inside. “These are only a half milligram? Fifteen.”

“Dude, we said forty.”

“Yeah, for a milligram pill. These will barely last me a week.”

“Twenty.”

“Fine.”

I don’t think the universe agrees with my choices.

The sky splits open with a shriek that balances the world on the edge of a knife. One heartbeat. Two. He and I both look up at the clear blue, unsure. Between the skyline, I see something- somethings- begin pouring from a split in the universe, ugly and black and hungry.

I wrench the bottle from the kid’s hands and run.

Run, run, run, don’t look up, don’t look back, oh jesus what the FUCK IS THIS- Midtown is a nightmare. Not from Friday traffic this time. People are scrambling, screaming and crying, trying to flee the scene. An entire side of a building gets shaved off and falls to the ground like an iceberg. A gas line broke somewhere because everything is hazy with fumes and starts shimmering rainbow colors. I round a corner, cursing and trying to keep my ratty converse on my feet as I dodge rubble and ash- don’t look up don’t look up don’t look up. I can see my breath starting to crystallize around me as my anxiety spikes, and I try to force it down. Don’t think about it. Now is so not the time for that.

In the middle of the street, six brightly clad superheroes stand with grim but determined looks on their faces. There’s Tony Stark in his mechanical suit, Captain America brandishing his shield. The star stands out like a beacon in the smoke. Cool, coolcoolcool, they’ve got this, right? They’ve totally got this. Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to befineohholyshitthat’sabigalien-

I try to use an overturned car as cover. Dart to one, breathe, press my back to steel and try to shake my body back from shock, wait for a moment of silence between the chaos- run to the next pile of rubble. My footprints are outlined in frost on the cracked pavement, clean white against the ash raining from the sky. As I slam myself up against another car, heaving, I have a prime few of Captain-freaking-America bashing three ugly aliens in the face with his shield, battering them to the ground. He stops for a moment to flex his fingers, wipe some of the grime from his face.

He doesn’t see the alien rushing him from behind, mouth open and yawning in some sort of hideous grin, poised to shove a glowing blue gun against the Captain’s muscly back.

I don’t think. My feet move without my telling them to. I can taste the ash as I dart to the middle of the street, as close as I dare. The air around me is impossibly frigid. I’m not controlling anything at this point, but I can deal with that later. Hopefully.

“DUCK!” I scream as loud as I possibly can over the sound of metal and roaring monsters.

His eyes snap up to meet mine. He heard me, somehow, and then he actually heeds a random girl standing amidst the carnage and hits the deck so fast I can hear the whiplash. It’s hot enough to make my skin boil, but if I stretch my hand out and pull, I can feel something begin to crystallize in my waiting palm-

Fissures crack open in the concrete beneath me. In my hand, a thin lance of ice extends to a deadly point, too weighty for its slim frame, and while I should have all the grace and skill of an alcoholic drug addict, my aim is good enough that the alien now has an unforgiving pole of ice sticking through its breastbone. Frost creeps from the hole in its chest, discoloring its sickly black armor to a grey tint. For a moment, it's suspended in time, unmoving- then gravity takes hold and with one last nightmarish shriek it crumples to the ground in a heap.

Huh. Whaddya know. I flex my fingers, breathing hard. Take that, Elsa. Screw the power of love, I just single-handedly saved a national icon.

Said icon is picking himself up off the ground, a new layer of dust coating the front of his uniform. He looks behind him, at the ugly corpse and the ice that inexplicably hasn’t started to melt in the city’s heat. Then his eyes are on me, hard and curious.

Oh. Fuck.

Instinctively, I pull my hood up further over my head, hopefully obscuring more of my face than before. What did he see? Could he memorize my face? He knows I’m a freak show, that’s for sure. Fuck. My brain kicks in and I run, skidding over broken pavement and letting the sheer terror of a crumbling New York fuel my steps. Either we’ll all be dead by the end of this, or the strange girl with ice coming from her hands will be little more than a hazy memory after all this is said and done. I hope. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it- cold prickles on the back of my neck and pushes me back towards being just another face in the crowd.

  There are over a dozen police blockades to try and control the battlefield, and between them and the rubble raining from the heavens, it takes me what feels like hours to crawl back to my underside of the city. It’s punctuated by the grinding of metal and shattering of glass and sickening cracks of lightning from Midtown, making me flinch and wring my hands deep into my sweatshirts to keep them busy with something other than frosting the ground over. Don’t think about it.

I shove my shoulder into the door, forcing it open, then close it the same way from the opposite side. I flick the locks closed, secure the ball and chains. Each one is encased in frost by the time I’m done, and the doorjamb is clogged with ice. I’m suddenly irrationally thankful that there’s only one window in the apartment. It’s a stupid comfort- those things were leveling skyscrapers, a ratty building like this would be flattened in an instant-

I wrench open the nearest drawer, sending the contents rolling. Bottles clack against each other; pills rattling against the plastic. It’s the most comforting thing I’ve heard all day. I pull one out at random, pop the lid, down it dry. In the back of my mind, the large green monster roars. I shudder and swallow another, this time chasing it with swigs from the obscenely large bottle of booze on the desk. It burns all the way down in the best way, chasing the little orange tablets and promising the sweet release of nothing.  

That should last a day. Maybe more. I fall into the bed, already feeling the combo tug at my system, making me heavy and slow. Maybe Manhattan will still be standing when I wake up. Or better yet, Manhattan will still be standing, but I won’t. I’ve never been that lucky, but it never hurts to hope.

#marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #avengers fic #avengers fanfiction #avengers x y/n #avengers x oc #loki x reader #reader insert #Steve Rogers #natasha romanov #tony stark #bruce banner #Thor Odinson #clint barton #Loki Laufeyson #angst #avengers x reader

[curiosity-killed]

sweet tooth

@apaladinagain I am. so sorry that this took 87 years (& also that it is The Cheesiest shit)

Word Count: 2247

28. knocking on the wrong door au

The knock comes at 3:31 PM. It’s the time of day when, normally, the light slants in his window at just the right angle to turn his computer screen to a perfect mirror no matter how high the brightness is and to give him a wicked headache even if he relents and puts on his reading glasses. Normally, the hour passes him by unless he’s checking it to calculate how long he has until 11:59 rolls around and he has to submit the assignment he’s trying to finish. Now, he mutters the time under his breath until it nearly loses meaning. These goddamn cookies are going to be edible. Opening the door, he finds a stranger standing there with their hands shoved deep in their pockets. He's not from the apartment building, because Shiro would recognize him. That jawline isn't exactly forgettable. "You're not Pidge," the stranger greets.

"Uh," Shiro says, "no? Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Pidge," the stranger says. "She gave me this address." He's squared his shoulders, dark eyebrows pinching together in the middle. The insistence with which he speaks makes Shiro a little uneasy, but he tries to temper it. Just because he doesn't recognize the stranger doesn't mean he's a bad guy. Shiro doesn't know all Pidge's friends, of course. "Sorry, she must've written it down wrong. If you tell me your name, I can let her know you came by," he offers. He's not about to tell the stranger which of the neighboring apartments is Pidge's. If he's being over-cautious, then the worst case scenario is that one of her friends will have to take an extra bus ride out here some other time. The stranger's shoulders slump, all the irritation and tension suddenly gone slack. He reaches a hand up to push back through his bangs, clearing them from his eyes and giving Shiro a better view of his face. If Shiro weren't worried about his intentions, the guy would be pretty – the kind Shiro would approach at a bar if he was feeling brave. "Shit," the stranger says on an exhale. "Sorry. I'm Keith. We're supposed to work on a paper for our ethics class. I can just message her." "Wait – Keith?" He knows that name. Pidge has talked about a Keith before – Lance, too. Shiro relaxes, his protectiveness easing like a sigh. The stranger eyes him a little warily, and Shiro hurries to get ahead of any misinterpretations his sudden relaxation might engender. "Katie just had to take care of something with her family, but she should be back in an hour or so," he says. "I'm Shiro – her brother Matt's roommate. If you don't want to bother with bussing back and forth again, you can hang out in our apartment till she gets back." Keith still holds himself a little tautly, turned so that he's almost in a defensive posture, and eyes Shiro a minute longer. Shiro does his best to look non-threatening. In athletic clothes and a flour-encrusted apron, he can't believe he looks that intimidating. "You don't mind?" Keith asks. "Nah, I'm just watching Lord of the Rings and making cookies," Shiro says. After another uncertain beat, Keith nods and relents. "Okay," he says. "Thanks." "No problem," Shiro says, stepping back to hold the door open and let Keith through. He's not as short as he looked slouching in front of the door; smaller than Shiro, sure, but probably still enough taller than Pidge to annoy her. Keith stops just inside the door, as if unsure where to go next, and he follows readily when Shiro leads the way into the kitchen. His laptop sits on the peninsula, Gimli frozen in mid axe swing on the screen. As Shiro goes around, tapping the space bar as he passes, to check on the cookies, Keith settles onto a stool. "Sorry, it's right in the middle," Shiro says once he's sure the cookies aren't scorched yet. In his periphery, Keith shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve never seen these anyway,” he says. Shiro straightens up fast enough to nearly knock his head into the open cupboard door; his hair still clips it. “You’ve never seen The Lord of the Rings?” he asks. Keith hunches his shoulders, tucking into himself, and Shiro mentally chastises himself as he hurries to soothe it over. “I don’t mean – sorry, I was just surprised,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like a bad thing.” He regrets opening his mouth with every word. “I mean, there are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he continues, wishing his mouth would just stop. “And they’re so long it’s definitely a commitment.” Keith’s tilted his head, watching Shiro with something like a smile pressing at his lips. Shiro closes his mouth, gives a sheepish smile, and turns to cleaning up the kitchen’s worth of dishes laying around on the counter with screaming and kill counts as background noise.

“The music’s cool,” Keith says when Shiro’s wrist-deep in sudsy water and Helm’s Deep is lost. “Yeah?” Shiro says, trying to remind himself how to respond in moderation. “Yeah,” Keith says. “One of my friends is really big into music. He’d like it.” Rinsing off the last bowl, Shiro shakes the soap bubbles from his hands before turning off the tap. “Howard Shore, that’s the composer, wrote a bunch of the themes before they’d even filmed,” he says. “And they like, grow and change with the characters so it’s really part of the story, too.” The water slows in a puddle halfway down the drain, and Shiro scowls at it, debating whether it’s better to turn on the disposal and drown out the movie or to let the water slowly drizzle down on its own. He’s never been good at waiting, but it seems rude to interrupt the show. “So is this like your favorite movie?” He looks up in surprise. Keith is watching him instead of the movie, and Shiro almost wants to pause it so that he doesn’t miss out but manages to hold back. Grabbing the towel off the rack over the sink, he sets to rubbing his hands dry instead. “Uh, not exactly. I always watched them with my grandma over winter holidays,” he explains, “so they’re kinda near-and-dear.” It had started with The Hobbit, back when he was so young it was hard to tell the story from his own dreams and imagination. She’d read it to him at night, lulling him to sleep with the cadence of her voice and the rhythm of the words. She’d always done her best to sing the songs from the book, making up the melody as she went. Even after he’d seen the movies, it was her voice to which the songs belonged. “So what’s your favorite then?” Keith pressed. He really was missing some of the best scenes, and Shiro focused on folding the towel in thirds and hanging it from the rack so the edges were even. It’s not like he hasn’t seen this movie a dozen times already, and if Keith isn’t interested, he’s not going to force him to watch. Even if it feels like a kind of blasphemy to talk over them. “Uh, Star Trek?” he offers. Keith wrinkles his nose, surprise a startled exhale as he smiles. It seems a reflexive reaction, as if he hardly has control over it. “Those cheesy old space movies?” he asks.

Shiro shrugs, grinning. He refuses to be sheepish about this. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, sure they’re silly and the special effects are, well, ancient, but it’s got a good message and it’s fun.” To his surprise, Keith doesn’t laugh at Shiro’s explanation. His smile softens, turns from something startled and laughing to something almost soft. It gives his whole face a different cast, like a flashlight traded for a candle, its light gentler as it traces over the sharp angles of his face. “Is that what made you join the Garrison?” Keith asks. This time, Shiro laughs. It’s not the first time he’s been asked, but usually it’s not within twenty minutes of meeting him. “Nah,” he says. “I was obsessed with space as a kid, so it was kind of the natural path. I got a kiddy space suit when I was like six.” A grin pulls up the edge of Keith’s lips, one-sided. Shiro leans his hip against the counter, folding his arms together loosely. “What about you?” he asks. “I’m guessing it wasn’t a movie.” “No,” Keith agrees, shaking his head. “Mom’s a pilot, and I grew up just like twenty minutes from the Garrison.” Shiro mentally runs through the pilots he knows, trying to place one who could be Keith’s mom. He gives up pretty quickly; there are just too many and no way of telling who could be it. “I didn’t know there were any towns that close,” he admits. The nearest one he knows is an hour away. It doesn’t totally surprise him that there could be some po-dunk little town out in the desert, but he is curious. Over the years, he’s covered a good bit of ground on his bike. “There aren’t,” Keith admits, rubbing the side of his neck. “We kinda lived in the middle of nowhere.” Intrigued, Shiro raises an eyebrow but resolves not to pry. A pilot and her kid living out in the middle of the desert alone is certainly not the strangest story to ever come out of the Garrison – but it does raise a few questions. Before he can ask, the oven timer squeals, and Shiro jolts hard enough to bash his elbow into the edge of the counter. Swallowing down a litany of profanity and blinking back some tears, he grabs the oven mitt from the counter and tugs out the baking sheet. The cookies, once he’s settled the sheet on top of the stove, don’t look terrible, exactly. They’re not quite the color he expected, and there are deep cracks running through the tops – but that just means they’re baked through, right? He can feel more than see Keith lean over to get a better look. “Are you making those for something?” he asks. His voice is carefully neutral. “No,” Shiro admits. “I just really wanted cookies.” Behind him, Keith breathes out a chuckle that sets Shiro to laughing, and, in minutes, they’re both laughing aloud. He’s braced his hand against the counter to keep from folding in half, shoulders shaking with it. When he can finally straighten up, it’s to find Keith biting his bottom lip, as if to contain the laughter still apparent in his eyes and grin. “They might be edible?” Shiro offers. Keith shrugs, tips of his teeth peeking out. “Only one way to find out,” he says. Shiro turns back to the cookies, eyeing them uncertainly. There’s a quiet thud as Keith drops down from his stool, and walks over to settle just to Shiro’s right side. Heat radiates off him, enough that Shiro skin pebbles up. He glances up to find Keith studying the cookies as if trying to find the least terrible one by sight alone. “You really don’t have to,” Shiro says. “I don’t want to make you sick before Pidge even gets here.” Keith shrugs, an easy roll of his shoulders. His focus has shifted back to a grin when he looks up, and there’s a glint of something like a challenge in his eyes. Oh no, Shiro thinks. He’s going to get me in so much trouble. Not that Shiro’s ever had a problem on his own – but usually one of his friends at least acts like something approaching impulse control. Keith’s look now has Shiro doubting there’s anyone who could stop him. “Nah, we’re in this together,” Keith says. “Come on, which one are you trying?” Wincing, Shiro finally selects the one with the most obvious chocolate chips. They have to drown out whatever other weird flavors and textures are happening. Keith plucks up one that’s still got weird little spikes and peaks sticking out of it, as if the dough didn’t settle at all after Shiro pulled it off the spoon. “Cheers,” Keith says, tapping their cookies together. They bite in at a same time. It’s…dense. Chewing takes longer than Shiro would have expected, and the bite sticks in his throat when he swallows. Aside from the chocolate, there isn’t much taste at all. He’s pretty sure the dough he swiped off the spoon had more flavor. Keith’s expression is neutral, almost thoughtful as he chews. There’s a long moment after they both swallow where they simply stand there in contemplation with ugly cookies in one hand each. “Honestly,” Keith says finally, “they’re better than my mom’s.” Shiro is pretty sure he shouldn’t admit that. At least not out loud. Keith takes another bite and crunches down through the rest of the cookie. Despite himself, Shiro finishes off his own cookie. “They’re better than last time,” he concedes. Last time, they hadn’t been edible. The only way to tell where the chocolate was by looking where the gaps in the charcoal were, like the chocolate had been vaporized. “Sorry we missed the movie,” Keith says, leaning against the counter to look over his shoulder at Saruman standing before his army. “It’s okay. I’ve seen it before,” Shiro says. Keith makes a noise like a hum, low in his throat. He looks back at Shiro, considering, before raising his eyebrows. “Wanna watch it again?”  

#sheith #voltron ficlet #voltron fic #my writing #lakdjsh i am so sorry dude

[thevoilinauttheory]

Character Info: Maximiloix

Full Name: Maximiloix Soleil Voilinaut

Pronunciation: maxi-mil-wah so-lay voy-li-nah Nicknames: Max (by most, begrudgingly), Maxie (by Caromont, and annoyingly, by Amarice), Master Voilinaut (by his students)

Height: ~7′4′’ Age: 107 Zodiac: Born under the Spear in-game; Capricorn Languages: Common, Old Ishgardian, Old Sharlayan, Dragonspeak (to a degree, his pronunciation is horrible), Sign Language; in the process of teaching himself Far Eastern languages and dialects; is familiar with Ilsabardian words and terms, unable to speak the language fluently. Knows some, ah, “others”, doesn’t share them openly unless angered or as a scare tactic.

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

Hair Colour: Strangely pure white, various streaks of dark brown. Eye Colour: Heterochromatic - Left, silvery white; right, celeste green [natural] Skin Tone: Slightly tanned due to time outside, though born fair skinned Body Type: Lithe, though somewhat toned due to physical labor. Accent: He doesn’t think he has an accent. But vaguely french, hint of oxford - when angered, flustered, embarrassed, or when he thinks he’s by himself, he has a cockney accent. Dominant Hand: Right, ambidextrous Posture: Proper, back straight, stick-in-ass type of stiffness. Scars: Thin scar along right side of his cheek, ending at his jawline; massive deforming scar on right forearm; various deforming scars on his feet; various cuts and scars along chest and back. Tattoos: Geometric shapes and symbols on arms, chest, and back. 

CHILDHOOD.

Place of Birth: Ishgard Hometown: Ishgard Birth Weight / Height: Unknown (All records lost) Manner of Birth: Unknown (All records lost) First Words: “No!” Siblings: Eldest of nine; does not know many of them. Older brother of: Cedrenaux, Taveant, Sylvain, Valere, Valeria, Isabelle, Majorie, and Karina Voilinaut. Parents: Genevieve and Adelnard Voilinaut Parental Involvement: Knows very little about his parents, as he was abandoned at four winters old. Due to how long it’s been, he barely remembers their names, let alone their faces.

ADULT LIFE

Occupation: Teacher of all things magical and historical; local hermit and grumpy old man. Occasional author. Might be a treasure hunter. Current Residence: Mist Ward 9, Plot 37 (Cactuar - his current residence); Lavender Beds, Ward 15, Plot 6, Room 3 (Mateus - room in his grandson’s home when he visits.) Close Friends: Shango Thango, Amarice Sovald (as much as he will never admit it), Caromont Allard, Misha Voilinaut. Relationship Status: It’s, uh... it’s complicated. Technically married? And also technically a widower. Financial Status: Stable, loaded, no one really knows how he came into so much money. He usually just gives it away.  Driver’s License: Well, he’s got a chocobo license, if that’s anything to go by. Vices: Alcoholism, self-martyrdom, and negative self talk. When in a particularly stressful mental state, he will pace holes into the floor while bashing himself - finding every convoluted way to blame every problem someone has on himself.

SEX & ROMANCE.

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual / Demisexual Romantic Orientation: Panromantic Preferred Emotional Role:  submissive  |  dominant  |  switch  |  unsure Preferred Sexual Role:  submissive  |  dominant  |  switch  |  sex repulsed Libido: Surprisingly high for his age. Will never admit it. Often frustrated. Turn Ons: Being tied up, or otherwise restricted of movement or sound. Any touch, kiss, or gripping of his neck or throat. Scratching, biting, and hair pulling. Teasing or embarrassment. He’s a fairly vanilla guy. Turn Offs: Giving oral (does not mind receiving, though he typically prefers even ground with his partner, thus, will not expect them to give to him if he cannot give to them - unless they explicitly state that they want to); overtly forceful, rough, or painful sex; being blindfolded; having sex with strangers; destruction of clothing or property. Love Language: Tends to be colder than most when relaying his love for another. Never seems to openly admit to it, however will shower his partner with every bit of sweet nothings while alone with them - as if making up for the earlier coldness. Brings small gifts for his partner, seemingly meaningless to others but heartfelt to his partner’s wants or needs. Lots of jealousy, really good at hiding it - will openly admit his love if pressured into it, or put in a situation where he’s accused of not loving his partner. Relationship Tendencies: Of the three relationships he’s been in, only one failed. Has a tendency to be very possessive and jealous of his partner, and while good at hiding it to others, will often let his partner know of his insecurities. He will not force them to stop doing anything, unless he realizes it is bad for their health. Often ends up being the one taken care of, though he prefers to be the one taking care of others. He is very honest and open with his partner, usually laying all of his troubles and thoughts onto them - not for them to solve, but to help him clear his head. 

MISCELLANEOUS.

Hobbies to Pass the Time: Charity work, traveling, and writing. Mental Disorders: Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, Severe Insomnia, Schizophrenia (caused by insomnia) Physical Illnesses/Disabilities: Arthritis (old age), blind in one eye; unable to hold anything heavy in right arm due to previous injury Left or Right Brained: Left Fears: Losing family, losing friends, losing his students, losing his work. Abandonment, being disowned. Drowning (minor hydrophobia), being buried alive. Self Confidence Level: Extremely low. Engages in self-martyrdom due to it. Will appear over-confident, egotistical, and prideful in public - though spends his nights breaking down in his own head. Vulnerabilities: Unprofessional and casual social interactions; being caught being affectionate, helpful, or otherwise “good” to others. People pointing out his kindness in public. Being included, invited, or expected of things. Being outside at night. Eating sweet foods.

--

Tagging @shangomango and @amarice-sovald for character mentions! You, too, can do this if you’d like!

Tagged by!: @truth-of-the-warden! Wow, thank you so much for this one! Lots of stuff here lol (I don’t think I’ve ever gotten that in depth in Max’s romantic or sexual life before, but uhhhhh there you go. Not that anyone wants to think about that, I hope)

Tagging!: @renofmanyalts, @jasleh, @cadrenebula, @houserosaire, @ahlis-xiv, @marie-shepard-ffxiv, @claihn, @skyysinger, @jarethnunh, @fractured-aether, @lukawarrioroflight, @ambroseffxiv, @amdapori, @aetherstitch, @aetherochemistry (welcome back! have a meme, old friend!), @weaveroftruth, @thedarkestdragonknight, @miqo-vynnie, @sword-and-lance, @saintreinette, @sunlitpeony, @divine-ruin!

#tagged answers #about: Maximiloix Voilinaut #that was a lot to think about with max #and unfortunately #i already knew all that stuff and had it all planned out #i just never planned on sharing it lmao #poor people having to read this #the cold truth: tagged

[witchy-writes]

Maybe in time you'll want to be mine [chapter 3]

more pain and angst

Lance froze when he recognized the door of his old cell. Lotor had to drag him the remaining steps until they were standing right in front of it. “Why are we here?” Lotor didn’t answer, instead he proceeded to insert the code to get the door to open. “Lotor, my prince…” Lance could feel his hands shaking a little “Did I do something wrong? Lotor stopped in the middle of his task, turned to him and took hold of his hands. "My blue, I wouldn’t throw you into this cell again. You keep my bed warm.” he brought Lance’s hand towards his lips and kissed his knuckles “Unless, if you gave me a reason to…” That last sentence made Lance feel even more nervous. Lance, that morning, was washing Lotor’s white locks during their bath when his prince told him he had a surprise for him. Lance had thought it was another one of his luxurious gifts. Maybe a new outfit or new jewelry. Lotor finished inserting the code and the door opened, revealing the cell that Lance had been held captive, waiting for the rescue that never came. And still hasn’t come. “Step inside.” Lotor ordered him. Lance almost started to beg for Lotor not to lock him in that cell again, but he knew disobeying Lotor would make things worse for him. So he did as he was told and found his “surprise” waiting for him. “K-Keith…” Lance’s jaw dropped. In front of him, Keith was chained to the floor. The chains had a short length, making it impossible for Keith to stand up, forcing him to stay kneeled. Aside from the chains, they had also forcibly put a metal muzzle on Keith, which made him unable to speak. When he tried to talk only incomprehensible mumble came out. Keith, once Lance walked in, started to pull on his restrains with all the strength he had, but was unable to break any of its links. Despite the cell being poorly lit, Lance could still see the bruises on Keith’s face, meaning that either Lotor or the guards had mistreated him. Lance was startled by Lotor’s hands on his shoulder. “Red has been here for a few days now.” He leaned closer to Lance’s ear “I thought it was about time you two saw each other again.” Lotor’s arm moved to wrap around Lance’s waist and pull him closer. Lance could see how much this action had further provoked Keith, who was glaring daggers at Lotor. The prince pressed a kiss to Lance’s cheek, looking directly at Keith while doing so. Lotor was mocking Keith. He was mocking him that he had managed to win over Lance’s heart. Keith had, after all, seen that private moment that Lance and Lotor had in his room. Keith noticed that while Lance wasn’t moving away from Lotor, he was shaking. Lotor noticed this too, and let go of Lance. “Come on. Go say “hi” to Red.” Lance turned his head to Lotor, unsure if Lotor was testing him. If he walked to Keith would Lotor think Lance cared more about him than his prince. Or did Lotor really wanted him to do it. Seeing Lance’s indecisiveness, Lotor had to resort to grab Lance’s arm and drag him again to where he wanted him to be. Lance was now standing at the distance of two steps from Keith. Once Lotor let go of his arm, Lance kneeled. Blue eyes met grey eyes. Those grey eyes that Lance had grown to love so much. “Keith…” Lance whispered. His trembling hands moved to hold Keith’s face between them. Lance’s fingers found the clasps of the muzzle and undid them, freeing Keith from it. “Lance.” Keith leaned in and gently bumped his forehead against Lance’s one. “I love you.” No matter what Keith had been forced to see on that screen, he still loved Lance with all his heart. Hearing those words caused Lance to start sobbing and soon tears were streaming down his face. “Keith. Keith.” Lance held onto Keith as he cried, burying his face against his shoulder. Lotor wasn’t pleased with this. When he had brought Lance here he thought he would reject Keith. He thought Lance would break Red’s heart even more. The prince didn’t like how this didn’t go the way he wanted to. He roughly grabbed Lance by his hair and started to brutishly tugging him. Lance was desperately gripping onto Keith, but Lotor was stronger and successfully yanked Lance away from him. “Lance!” Keith watched as Lotor dragged Lance the furthest away from him, unable to do anything to stop him. Lance screams made Keith feel sick to his stomach. Lotor, still pulling Lance by his hair, hauled him back onto his feet. His other hand grabbed Lance’s neck. Lance tried to push Lotor away from him, his hands hitting against his chest, which only angered the prince more. Lotor bashed the side of Lance’s head against the wall of the cell. “No!” Keith yelled. Once Lotor let go of Lance, the boy fell down and lay there on the floor, not moving. “Lance! Lance!” Lotor kneeled down next to Lance’s body, ignoring Red calling Lance’s name over and over again. Lance was just unconscious. He was bleeding from the side of his head that had hit the wall. Aside from that he seemed to be fine. Lotor easily scooped him into his arms and carried him out of the cell, leaving Red all by himself again. Lotor wished he didn’t have to do that, but Lance was the one to be blamed for this. Once Lance wakes up, Lotor will have to find a way to punish him. Maybe he could have Red watching it.

This is the last chapter I’ll add to this story. I’ve decided to leave an open ending so the readers can decide if this has a happy ending or not. If you want to give me prompts to write more Lancelot in this scenario, please send me a message. I would be happy to read any prompt.

#lancelot #lotorlance #voltron #vld #voltron legendary defender #my writing #lance mcclain #lotor