#thank fuck Lance was not straight up behind him

[konigs-left-pec]

Scent

A/N: I unfortunately had to start my blog over due to a bunch of stupid things I couldn't fix, so I'm reposting the only two fics I've ever posted (including this, my first ever smut.) Please give me your feedback so I'll know if it's shite. Thank you, babes! ❤️

Rating: E/MDNI. (Breeding kink.)

Summary: Despite having been intimate with you for some time, König notices something different about you and it's absolutely irresistible.

"Oh, scheiße... that's it."

You perked up at the way he rasped those words against the seam of your cunt, distracting you from the way you were aching for his fingers or cock, positively soaked and waiting for him to do something. Anything. You were always ravenously horny at this point in your cycle so this wasn't unusual for you, but his reaction despite still being fully clothed and literally just getting into bed with you was.

"You smell so good. I just-" you heard the clinking of his belt, felt his hands moving against your belly and thighs as he pushed inelegantly at his pants and boxers, "Fuck..." In a fit of possession, rough hands grabbed behind your knees, pressing them back to your chest and pushing the air from your lungs as he dove in straight at the source. He licked and sucked from your clit to your entrance like it was life-saving nectar, the sweetest ambrosia, filling his lungs with your scent as his nose bumped against you, the little hits of sensation lancing up your spine and making you squirm and arch against the bed.

"König, it just means I'm fertile." You said matter-of-factly, a throwaway comment as you stretched with an airy sigh, spreading your legs wider and dragging your nails gently over his neck and shoulders, wishing he'd just get to fucking you. He sat up and wiped your slick from his chin in a way that made your core twitch.

"Ach! I've been trying to figure it out for months." One thick digit pressed into your heat quickly followed by a second, causing you to gasp. You were so wet and so ready it felt like honey pooling in your slit, causing your bones to itch with anticipation.

"Will you let me fuck a baby into you?" He asked suddenly, seriously as his fingers kept on sawing into you, your hips churning slowly in counter. Had you heard him right? His eyes were glued to where his fingers plunged in and out, his other hand pressing down on his hard cock. He looked up at you pleadingly, withdrawing his hand only to place those sticky fingers in his mouth and suck, leaning fully over you.

"You will be so beautiful when you're full with my child, Y/N -" he said it like it hurt, a private confession pulled into the light to be judged. He pressed into you, heavy cock slipping finally through your sopping folds to repeatedly, blessedly bump against your neglected clit, "Bitte, mein liebling."

You had barely said yes before he'd made his first thrust, thick length parting your gummy walls as you threw your head back, hissing out a breath and clutching his shoulders as he rocked deeper and deeper into your aching clasp. He was desperately kissing you, all teeth and tongue as he licked into your mouth like he could steal your affirmation before you changed your mind. Honestly, your mind was pretty useless with the way he was groaning and fucking into you; each thrust deeper than the last, a jolt of pleasure pain on each ingress that burned out your senses and had you bearing down on his cock as you inched closer to your end.

"Touch yourself." Came his strained command, his rhythm faltering and pace slowing slightly as he breathed heavily through his nose, jaw tight as he reined himself back from the edge. Lazy thrusts lit up your belly as you quickly reached between your bodies to swirl your fingers over your clit, overcome with images of a pregnancy and your King with a babe in his arms, a babe with your hair and his eyes...

"m'close, so close, König... please..."

He all but whimpered against your neck, licking a hot stripe up the column to purr into your ear, "Give it to me, mein schatz." He picked up the pace, pressing into something devastating inside you that had you keening, twitching and pulsing around him as you hit your high, gasping into his mouth as he spent himself with a painful sounding groan. He thrust lazily a few more moments, drawing out the aftershocks and making sure his seed stayed where you both wanted it to be. He gently rested above you, holding his weight off of you as he began to soften; he studied you as you recovered, gentle puffs against your cheek and dark eyes set on your flushed face as he hoped you wouldn't regret this.

"You know..." you pressed a sweet kiss to the apple of his cheek, ruffling the damp hair at the nape of his neck, "it doesn't always take the first time."

"I guess we'll have to keep trying, ja?" He chuckled, clearly relieved as he withdrew from your body, drawing you close and lovingly pressing a hand over your belly where he hoped to take root and make his home.

#könig cod #könig call of duty #König #konig #konig cod #konig call of duty #könig x reader #könig #könig mwii #könig mw2 #könig x oc #könig x y/n #könig x you #konig x you #konig x reader #konig mw2 #konig x y/n #cod fanfic #cod mwf2 #cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod mwii #cod x y/n #cod x you #call of duty x you #call of duty x reader

[scrollonso]

First Kiss (Race 5)

A strollonso AU where 18 year old rookie Lance Stroll falls helplessly in love with the notoriously mean world champion. (1.9k words, angst, description of a car crash, drunk lance, fluffy ending) [@v3lnys @biancathecool] {I picked David Coulthard to be the cause of the crash because he DNF in Europe 2006 and bc he's no stranger to being yelled at for crashes, LMAO}

last part - masterlist - next part

Lance walked back into the paddock, engaged in a conversation with Nico. He had yet to get his actual drivers liscense out of pure laziness so the German was left to drive them almost everywhere together.

"Thanks again" Lance laughed, feeling slightly bad for making Nico be his personal chauffeur.

"Don't thank me, I only do it so people believe our PR friendships real" He joked, nudging the taller man with his elbow

"Ow" Lance frowned, clutching his heart "Words hurt, Rosberg" He looked down, trying to hide the smile on his face

"Cmon, daddy didn't tell you he's paying me for this?"

"No way, are we both being paid?" Lance looked up, the fake shocked expression on his face earning a laugh from his teammate

Qualifying was okay, Nico secured 9th and Lance got 12th (after a minor chassis problem that caused him to have to pit for half of quali)

Lance should've been upset but he didn't mind, he'd been in front of Nico most of the season so far so he was looking forward to letting his teammate shine.

Of course he wanted to win like everyone else in F1 but the last thing he was going to do was let it ruin personal relationships he was building, work was completely different than home, his friends were different than the coworkers he knew.

He greeted Nico warmly, congratulating him as Quali ended, wishing him good luck on the race the next day.

Fernando came over not long after, having secured pole position.

"Lancito, good job today" He hummed, patting the Canadian on the back

"I'm convinced I could get p30 and you'd still congratulate me" Lance laughed, wrapping his arm around the Spaniard

"It takes a lot of skill to do so bad they have to make a new space for you" Fernando shook his head, his lips slightly curved up as he spoke

"I'm just saving all my energy for the race when I overtake you"

"Oh, really? I'll keep an eye out for you then, mi sol" He said, eyes only leaving Lance when he heard his name being called, his engineer needing him "Good luck tomorrow, Lancito. Let's get you points again, eh?"

Lance nodded, watching as the older man left, feeling his heart flutter in his chest as he thought about how he was looking up at him. It felt nice having someone to admire in the sport as much as Lance admired Fernando, he was a great driver.

Time passed faster than Lance thought it would, before Lance knew it he was lined up on the grid, eyes scanning the cars around him, David Coulthard in p11 next to him.

As the lights went out and the race begun he sent it, overtaking into p10 almost straight away, Coulthard close behind him.

It stayed this way for a few laps, the Brit almost on his rear wing as they raced, he was just trying to keep him there.

It seemed as if everything was going according to plan until the pair reached turn 14 once more, Coulthard was sure he'd be able to overtake, speeding up and reaching Lances side just to be met with their wheels touching, Lance could feel it in his body as the drivers car made contact with his, his left back tire practically flying off his car as he spun out of controll, David losing his front wing as Lance spun of the track, causing him to pull off as well, tire losing air as both cars came to a stop.

They were on opposite sides of the track, the asphalt between them stopping any conversations from happening.

Once he reached the Racing Point garage he was quick to storm down the pit lane, tearing off his helmet and balaclava as he found his way to the Red Bull garage, Brad trying to stop the fuming Canadian

"Lance, Lance stop it. Come back to the garage we need to-"

"Fuck off, Okay? This is a fucking sport and a part of that is talking it out after shit like this happens. Believe me, I have some things to say to Coulthard." He practically spat, not meaning to take his anger out on his engineer but he was the closest one there

They reached the garage, a crowd forming as the two began speaking

"Do you feel better now? Fighting with me over tenth place knowing damn well neither of us were in the position to earn points anyways?"

"I know you're a rookie so you might not get it yet but part of RACING is OVERTAKING, I was doing what I'm here to do."

"You're here to destroy my car and run me off the fucking track? Really? I find that hard to fucking believe, Coulthard."

"Oh come on, Lance. We all know your daddy doesn't have a problem with fixing your mistakes. That's how you got the seat, right? Daddy knew you fuck up too much to get a seat so he bought two for you and Keke Rosbergs son."

"You have a lot of fucking nerve, Coulthard. You know that?" Lance got closer, he already wasn't finishing the race so how much harm would a little physical contact outside of the car cause?

By now both of the teams where trying to stop the drivers, yelling and trying to get between the two men, blinded by anger towards one another

The race was slowly finishing, Fernando ending up in p2 as the fight was still going on, Lance screaming into the 35 year olds face as he scoffed, refusing to apologize, Lance didn't think of himself as a violent person but he wasn't going to stand around and let some ugly arrogant prick disrespect him and refuse to admit the crash was his fault.

"YOU RUINED THE RACE FOR THE BOTH OF US." All he wanted was for that to get through the Englishmans thick fucking skull "God, you're a fucking fils de pute." He spoke under his breath, astonished at the audacity of the racer "You know, for someone who's been racing for twelve years and hasn't even come close to a world championship you sure are a stuck up cunt."

And with that Lance was finally pulled away from the garage, David Coulthard having nothing to say in response.

Lance felt like he was getting scolded for hours, even if it was only 15 minutes, the team trying to explain how he shouldn't have done that even if it was Coulthards fault

"Lancito?" He heard a familiar voice, being snapped away from his thoughts as he shot up, leaving members of the team in the middle of their sentences to go to Fernando

"Thank fucking god you're here. Are you thirsty? I'd kill for a drink right now"

"Lancito, Are you sure drinking is the best thing for you to do now?" He questioned as if he wasn't still following behind him

"What, do you think I'm being dramatic too?" He scoffed, stopping in his tracks to turn back to Fernando, he looked mad to anyone else but Fernando knew he was just hurt, Lance hated crashes, hated not finishing, hated disappointing people, and even though the last thing Fernando was was disappointed in the boy he knew Lance would still think he was.

"Let's get you that drink, mi sol. Getting your mind off it will help, eh?"

Lance expected to be taken to some cheap place around the city but instead Fernando drove them back to his hotel, deciding it'd be better to let Lance cause a scene in his hotel room rather than in some German bar.

The two drank together, Lances lack of experience and tollerance when it came to alcohol being painfully obvious.

"He's such a prick" Lance slurred, his voice more whiney than usual

"I know, Lancito, He really is." Fernando hummed, leaning back in his chair as his eyes stayed on the Canadian

"You're like my guardian angel, Nando, y'know?" Lance looked at him, lips slightly curved before he began speaking again "Never stop congratualting me, please, it-" hiccup "It means a lot"

Fernando just nodded, setting down his glass

"I-" He stopped abruptly, drinking more "I love doing good, when I do good I know you'll be proud of me" He ran his fingers through his hair, annoyed at the long strands covering his vision "I'm sorry- I'm sorry I'm not the best, Nando" He confessed, looking over at the Spaniard "I don't deserve my seat, but- but it's okay because I get to see you, I love seeing you win, it makes what people say about me worth it when I'm the first one you come to after the podium"

Fernando just listened, not saying much as it became more and more evident Lance would forget it all by the next morning anyway

"I-" hiccup " I love seeing you walk to me, passing all the girls, they're so pretty, it makes no sense why you walk past them for me, but i love it, seeing you ignore them and look at me like I'm prettier than all of them" hiccup

He smiled, not being able to help it as he heard the younger ramble on, glad he was no longer stuck on being upset about the crash

"Don't stop, Nando"

"Hm?" Fernando hummed, watching Lance set down his glass. He took that as a chance to stand up and snatch it away, figuring the younger man had drank enough. Fernando and Lance were now closer, Fernando looking down at Lance as he awaited a response

"Looking at me like this, taking care of me how you do, please don't leave me, Nando" He begged, reaching out for the Spaniards arm "Promise me you'll never stop congratulating me after races, please Nando, I need you."

He was taken aback by the sudden change in tone Lance had brought to the conversation. Fernando swallowed dryly, staring back at the Canadian, he looked gorgeous, the waves of his hair messily laying across his face, the lighting hitting him just right to show off the gorgeous colour of his eyes

"Let's get you to bed, Lance." He whispered, helping him stand up as he walked with him to his bed, pulling back the covers with one hand while he held Lance with the other, surprised at how light the Canadian really was

He sat Lance down, kneeling to take off his shoes before instructing him to lay down and pulling the covers back up.

"Goodnight, Lancito" He whispered, brushing the hair from his face as the Canadian hummed a response, not fighting sleep as it took over him surprisingly fast

Fernando on the other hand was fighting, not sleep, but the feelings Lance brought to light with his drunken words. He hadn't thought much of it before, sure he felt different with Lance than he did with his other friends but he was so much younger that he figured he was just taking a more mature role in the friendship. Now he wasn't so sure.

#this might be my fav so far #f1 #formula 1 #lance stroll #aston martin #fernando alonso #renault #racing point #renault nando and pink lance #au #alternate universe #rpf #real person fiction #first kiss au #strollonso #lance stroll x fernando alonso #this is NOT spell checked #scared to think abt all the spelling errors #lets just pretend we dont see them #i hope im not the only one that likes this #lowk rushing it #BUT I HAVE PLANS #david coulthard #just a little bit of him #mainly strollonso #and a bit of rostroll

[saintescuderia]

welcome to the mini series of the random, mindless thoughts had by a poet disguised in an orange jumpsuit watching cars speed by all weekend. enjoy!

--- note: 5am starts, 7pm finishes. all four days. gotta love formula 1!

thursday: media day!

i want the ferrari jacket

there are school kids here?

i don’t want the ferrari jacket

$7 for a small can of red bull is THEFT

especially since they broke the cost cap

me walking through the “accredited personnel” gate and tapping my special lanyard is a CORE memory

i think my uber driver dropped me off on the opposite side of the track

*stressing about being unable to admire the sights of albert park bc i’m stress-running from the opposite end of the track to my station*

pls don’t be a dick and say i’m late - i know

how is a 5am wake up not early enough HOW?

“last year i was stationed at the corner where charles spun out.”

sole thought = 💀💀💀💀

i. fucking. love. cars.

the whole SENSORY experience of a race ffffffffffffuuuuuck

“be careful taking pictures because that security camera is on us and is straight to race control and the FIA.” is such a cool sentence to hear

a porsche gtr should not be covered with branding idc

i’m definitely going to abuse caffeine this weekend

friday: FP1 / FP2

the sun is rising over the lake as i walk on the albert park track and i’m happy to be alive

especially as i found a toilet that isn’t a port-a-loo

ah, a cafe that does good decent coffee thank GOD

am i going to pay $10 for a croissant?

i'm going to pay $10 for a croissant.

i lived in paris but this one fresh lune choc croissant has topped it all

no like there will never be another croissant experience to beat me eating a fresh pain au chocolat on a f1 circuit as the sun rises over the water with the melbourne skyline in the background

aramco engineers are walking behind me as i shit talk about f1, nice

“it is an increasingly unique experience peeing in a port-a-loo beside a formula one track as cars race by.”

120’000 is a LOT of people

how has the float not broken yet?

metro boomin has released an album as i stand before live formula one. life has PEAKED

fernando alonso is the first F1 driver i ever saw live

there is a shift in formula one as the heritage fans of motor racing are on the out as the next generation of fans absorbed in driver hype and social media takes over and we see this in how F1 has created the new US tracks and made them all into spectacles and fans are here because of it being “cool” instead of caring about cars

… maybe i should buy the redbull jacket instead?

bonus: sole thought during the pitlane walk for the marshals

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

saturday: FP3 / qualifying

the relief of thinking you’re late and then seeing someone you know HA

commentators are now contractually obligated to bring up saudi arabia every time they talk about ollie bearman

jesus they’re as bad as the f1 girlies

i have to watch the grand prix replay after all of this i have no idea what’s actually going on

CHARLES GOES FASTER THAN MAX HA

kimi spinning out has me actively wanting to cry

a safety car FROM THE PIT EXIT

welcome to F2 everyone 👏👏👏

not me lying to the cute irish guy hitting on me about @saintescuderia

a big fat ha at the eshays holding their puffer jackets - even they can’t stand the heat

don’t flex on me that you’re here at F1 when you don’t even know what’s going on yourself bruhhhh

to the red bull fan telling me i’m “dramatic” for rolling under the fence (it’s how marshals have to do it) pls get help

$7 for a calispo is a JOKE

recording F1 quali isn’t even worth it bc they're TOO FAST

JOKES I GOT A PHOTO WITH ALBONO

i’m very lucky for my team of marshals :))))))))))

i’m only going to eat half my muffin

*finishes the whole thing*

sunday: race!

KIMI ANTONELLI!

do i ask for a photo?

*every photo of charles leclerc being abused flashes through my mind*

nah leave him be

five minutes later: i regret not asking him

the group of aussies dressed as lance stroll drunk at 9am have my heart and my respect

i need a coffee

seeing kimi walk right by me has now made so much invested for f2

i really need a coffee

yep they screwed kimi with all those safety cars

i really, really need a coffee

we get to go ON TRACK? for the DRIVERS PARADE

*starts practicing “get well soon” in spanish*

my heart is BEATING

lol jokes carlos didn’t even look at us

*checks footage to see that i accidentally just recorded guanyu zhou next to carlos the whole time :))))*

lol are they putting lewis and charles together all the time?

every marshal: “that was the shittest parade ever.”

i need a drink

pls don’t talk to me for the next two hours

don't meet your heroes kids

but also why the fuck did they do the float in one big car? and do INTERVIEWS? this is legit the one time the drivers can be there JUST for the FANS

F1 can PISS OFF

race start = okay it's happening

waitwaitwaitwaitWAITDIDIJUSTSEECARLOSOVERTAKEMAX?!

nevermind i love him

"race control has asked that you calm down, marshals are supposed to be neutral."

lol at the entirety of albert cheering that max is slowly coming to a DNF

mclaren swapping oscar for lando is DISGUSTING fuck zak brown

somehow, i've forgotten that charles is just there

SEND IT CARLOS VAmos

(this is all because i told you que te mejores pronto!)

daniel ricciardo....man..... aus gp can't market you like this.......

damn yuki got HANDS

ferrari and mclaren having the top 4 places is just *chefs kiss*

lewis just had to stall just pass my sector like i hope ur okay but couldn't u not be ok in front of me?

red bull deserves this after all the FLACK i've copped from red bulls fans ("dramatic" MY ASS)

wait george russell ARE YOU SERIOUS?!

singapore all over again. i can already see the memes.

somehow marshalling a gp has you closer and more removed from the whole thing i have no idea what's going on

(literally the only time i used my F1TV live timing)

finishing after the safety car means i can't stick my head out and clap for carlos FUCK OFF

wait, he came up right UP TO MY SIDE OF THE TRACK TO WAVE

... do you think he noticed me?

#saintescuderia #ferrari #F1 #formula 1 #charles leclerc #lewis hamilton #max verstappen #lando norris #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #mclaren racing #mclaren f1 #mclaren formula 1 #oscar piastri #albert park #aus gp 2024 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #f1 2024 #scuderia ferrari #dr3 #daniel ricciardo #danny ric #red bull racing #ollie bearman #mercedes amg petronas #team lh44 #alex albon #alexander albon

[autisticlancemcclain]

God, sunlight feels so good. Lance missed it. It’s really such a nice way to wake up. Warm sunbeams on your bare skin, a gentle brightening of the room; God, it even makes the room smell better… it sucks so bad that his room in the castle doesn’t have any windows. He’s so glad to finally be getting some now.

Lance shoots awake in a panic.

He should not be feeling sunlight on his skin right now.

He takes a half second to wake up fully, taking in the clean white sheets tangled around his hips, the sterile boringness of the room, the giant window with a sparkly view.

Oh, right. They stopped on what was essentially a Vegas planet yesterday to get a specific part for one of the castle’s reactors, and then he, Hunk, and Pidge convinced Shiro to let them hit the casinos for a bit.

The rest of the night is a blur.

“What the fuck did I do last night?” Lance mumbles, shifting around to stretch a bit. His hip bumps into a lump in the bed — a person-sized lump — and the movement makes him suddenly aware of a soreness in his rear.

His face heats up.

Oh.

That’s what he was doing last night.

Makes sense, he supposes. Drunk Lance is either extremely affectionate or extremely horny, so it was really only a matter of time. He rubs his eyes, then drags his hand down his face. Fuck. He’s gonna have a helluva time explaining this one to the team.

Fuck!

With a renewed panic, he throws himself out of the bed, tripping out of the sheets and looking around desperately for his clothes. Fuck fuck fuck! He is supposed to be on the castle right now!

He finally manages to locate his boxers, yanking them up his legs as he checks his watch. 5:13. Okay, not ideal, but no one’s usually awake before seven, so if he grabs some coffee or something on his way in he should be able to make it without making anyone suspicious —

“Lance, please shut the fuck up,” mumbles a grouchy voice, tinged with sleep, and Lance’s heart drops to his throat.

“Keith?!”

Keith drags himself upright, black hair a rat’s nest around his head, and glares heavily, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“What part of shut the fuck up do you not understand, God, it’s like your voice is actively bashing into my head —”

Lance registers the exact second Keith awakes fully, because his eyes widen and he yelps, yanking the sheets up his chest.

“Oh my God!”

“Oh, drop the fucking sheet,” Lance snaps, face flaming. “It’s obviously not something I haven’t seen before.”

Keith thankfully does let go of the sheet, using his hands to yank on his hair instead.

“Fuck,” he says, turning panicked eyes to Lance. “Oh, we fucked up, we fucked up good —”

“Why, thank you, Keith, that’s oh so lovely to hear from you in this situation —”

“Fuck, we gotta call Shiro —”

Lance abandons his search for pants and lunges towards Keith, yanking the comm out of his hands and throwing it randomly behind him.

“Are you cracked in the fucking head,” he hisses.

“My comm!” Keith cries. He throws off the sheets and stumbles in vague direction Lance threw it, ass fucking naked.

“Put some goddamn pants on!” Lance shouts, whipping a pillow at Keith’s chest and frantically looking away, pretending his did not just get and eyeful and that said eyeful was not an objectively kind of a nice one.

“Piss off,” Keith snaps, face red, but dutifully locates his pants and puts them on before continuing. “I’m calling Shiro now.”

Resisting the urge to tackle the thick-headed dumbass to the ground, Lance forces himself to stay where he is.

“Do you want to be lectured for three straight days?” he demands.

That makes Keith pause. “It won’t be that long.”

“Sure, but then what? He’s going to be mad, Keith. Or at least disappointed. And you know we’ll be assigned the most boring missions possible until he forgets about it, and who knows how long that will take?”

Keith hesitates a moment, then sighs, giving up on his search for his comm and flopping back on the bed.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, face muffled in a pillow. “This sucks. And my head hurts.”

Lance reaches out, pressing his hand to Keith’s forehead — it’s definitely a little hot. Keith groans, wrapping his hand around Lance’s wrist and holding tightly.

“God, your fingers are freezing. Do not move them.”

Despite the situation, Lance smiles, brushing his fingers carefully through Keith’s fringe.

“Let me go. I have painkillers and peppermint oil in my jacket pocket, it should help.”

“Mmf. Fine.”

As soon as Lance’s hand is relinquished, he pulls away, hunting around the mess on the floor for his clothes. He finds his jeans first, but can’t find his shirt — only Keith’s black one, and a white shirt with some text on it.

“Keith?” he calls, pulling it on and tilting his head down to read it. “Why has my shirt been replaced with one that reads ‘SEAT RESERVED FOR DILFS’ with an arrow pointing to my face?”

Keith props himself up his elbows, squints at the shirt, and then winces.

“I may have,” he says reluctantly, “the faintest memory of throwing up on your shirt. So. I imagine you replaced it.”

Lance pouts. “Aw, man. I liked that shirt.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. You are getting me a new shirt that I can wear without getting mocked, though.”

“Noted. What’s the ETA on that advil, by the way?”

“Coming, Mr. Impatience,” Lance mumbles, finally locating his jacket. (Thankfully Keith didn’t throw up on that, or Lance would have to kill him.) He digs around in his pockets, finding the peppermint oil where it usually is, but not the advil. He flips his other pockets inside out, and thankfully the bottle comes tumbling out, along with two slips of paper. He hands to pills to Keith, along with a bottle of water and the oil, and then reads the papers curiously.

His eyes widen.

“Keith,” he says, voice strained, “I have some very good news, and then some very bad news.”

“Good news first,” Keith says immediately.

Predictable.

Lance hands Keith the smaller slip of paper. Keith squints again, harder this time, bringing the paper close to his face.

Lance rolls his eyes.

“Coran had reading glasses made for you, you know. Months ago. How many times have I told them to bring them with you places?”

“I don’t need them,” Keith insists, paper perhaps an inch from his face. “I’m just — hungover.”

“Okay, dumbass.”

It takes Keith a second to read it — really, Lance might start carting around his glasses for him — and then his eyes get just as wide as Lance were.

“That’s a lot of zeros,” he says quietly.

Lance snorts. “Sure is. Apparently we’re very good at card games when we’re drunk. Or very lucky at one game.”

“Apparently,” Keith agrees. He looks back down at the paper, whistling. “You’re gonna have a hard time finding bad news bad enough to beat this, I think.”

Lance grimaces. He glances down at the bigger, fancier paper, then hands it to Keith.

“I really don’t think so.”

This paper is a lot easier for him to read — it would be hard for him to miss the giant ‘CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE’ printed in bold at the top of it.

“Oh, shit,” he says weakly. He glances at Lance’s hands. “I guess that explains why you’re wearing my dad’s ring.”

Lance stares at his left hand in horror, where, on his fourth finger, shines a red stone inlaid in heavy gold — Keith’s father’s ring, that he’s never once taken off his pinky in all the time Lance has known him.

“Fuck!” Lance exclaims, immediately taking it off to give back to Keith. He knows how much that ring means to him.

Only — the ring isn’t coming off.

“I can’t get it off,” Lance says, looking at Keith in a panic. Keith looks back, just as freaked.

“It’s stuck?”

“No, it’s not — it’s not tight, I can move it and my fingers are narrow, but it’s not coming off!”

“How is that even possible?”

Lance pulls on the ring until it hurts, twisting it every which way and shaking his hand roughly. “I don’t know!”

“Here, just — stop freaking out,” Keith orders. Lance freezes, heart pounding. Keith slowly reaches over and wraps his left hand around Lance’s wrist, right hand on the ring. Lance has a sudden, vivid memory of their hands in the exact same position, stood in front of an alien with bright pink hair and dressed like fuckin’ Elvis, because of course they were, only in the memory Keith is sliding the ring on instead of trying to pull it off.

“Okay, that’s weird,” Keith says, finally giving up after pulling hard enough to make Lance wince. “It must be the marriage ritual in this place, or something. Alien magic, I dunno.”

“There has to be something we can do,” Lance says, snatching back their marriage certificate — their fucking marriage certificate, dear God — and reading it over carefully.

“Here!” Lance points out a tiny block of text near to corner, then reads aloud for Keith’s benefit. “Klent City State 347th Union Office.”

Keith sighs in relief. “Oh, thank God. We’ll just explain the situation to them, and boom. Annulment. Problem over, we rush back to the castle before anyone else wakes up, and then we never speak of this again. Perfect.”

Lance nods, swallowing around the sudden bile in his throat. “Yeah. Perfect. Get dressed, Mullet. We have a divorce to attend.”

Keith snorts, rolling back off the bed and digging around for his dumbass go-go boots and jacket.

Once he looks away, Lance allows himself a pained wince, pressing his fingers to his eyes and scrunching his shoulders up to his ears.

“Lance? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Lance says, pulling his hands away and straightening himself out. “Just — I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Keith, obviously, does not do that, because he is incapable of following instructions. He presses his hand to Lance’s forehead in a mirror of what Lance did earlier.

“You hungover, too?”

Lance shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. I don’t get hungover.”

Keith raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously,” Lance insists. “I drink lots of water when I drink, and besides that, I never really have enough alcohol to get hungover in the first place. I am essentially a toothbrush bristle, Keith. I get drunk off, like, two drinks.”

Keith snorts. “You had a lot more than two drinks last night, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Lance flushes. Keith is remembering correctly. Lance hadn’t even intended to drink last night — he wanted to have fun and be sober — but he’d gotten bored watching Hunk and Pidge demolish the slot machines, and he didn’t feel like helping Shiro and Allura supervise Coran, so he went to go find and bother Keith. Unfortunately, he found Keith leaning close to some guy, laughing brightly, his hand on Keith’s bicep, and he’d tipped back an entire line of shots before he could convince himself not to be a dumbass.

Not that Keith needs to know that. Not that it even means anything.

“I got bored,” Lance says instead, which isn’t even technically a lie. “But, no. I’m not hungover. I’m just — um, it was a big night last night. Lots of light and sound. I’m a little overwhelmed and oversensitive.”

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

A minute later, something is being placed on his head. Lance looks up in surprise at Keith, who just smiles sheepishly.

“No idea why there is a sparkly pink ball cap with my clothes, but you need it more than me.”

Lance laughs brightly. “Oh, I remember this one! You remember when we were first running away from everyone else? Hunk was on our tail at some point, so I decided to steal your hair band and shoot him with it to distract him. Then you were moping about your hair in your eyes, though, and you grabbed the hat right off some dude’s head.”

Keith’s jaw drops. “I did not.”

“You really did, dude,” Lance says, grinning. “Clean off his damn head. Then you walked off like it was nothing.”

Keith shakes his head at himself, snorting. “Whoops. Sorry, Random Alien Dude.” He pauses for a minute, checking his watch. “Hey, we still have a little over an hour before everyone else gets up. Do you think we can grab some food on the way? I’m starving.”

“Shocking,” Lance says drily, but makes no argument. He could go for some shitty fast food too, honestly. They make their way out of the hotel, both of them wincing at the brightness when they finally make it outside, and head to the nearest brightly lit sign that offers grease and salt.

“Good thing we’re billionaires now,” Keith teases. “We wouldn’t be able to afford this otherwise, because your drunk ass was losing at every game we played.”

“I was not!” Lance says indignantly, but Keith pays him no heed.

“You were so. You only started winning when I was blowing on the dice.” He smiles smugly, poking Lance in the cheek. “You suck at poker, dude.”

Lance huffs, reaching over and stealing one of Keith’s fries as revenge.

“Hey! Paws off! You have your own!”

“You’re being a dick, and you upchucked on my favourite shirt last night,” Lance points out. “I deserve at least half of your fries.”

Keith inclines his head. “Yeah, alright, fair. But if it makes you feel any better, I couldn’t find my boxers and these pants are tight as hell, so I promise I am also suffering.”

Lance eyes, without his permission, glance down at the front of Keith’s pants. He flushes.

“That does make me feel better.”

Because Keith is suffering. That’s why.

…Whatever.

“Hey, by the way,” Keith says, swallowing his last bite of food. “How come you’re limping?”

Lance could smack him. Honestly.

“Why do you think, dumbass?” he snaps. “I’m not…used to this kind of thing. Or whatever.”

It takes a moment for Keith to clue in, but when he does, his eyes go wide and he freezes in his tracks.

“Please tell me I did not just take your fucking virginity.”

He looks so genuinely horrified that Lance can’t help himself, so he rears back and punches Keith in the arm as hard as he can.

“Ow!”

“I don’t buy into that shit, so don’t flatter yourself,” Lance says harshly. “It’s the most dumbass idea I’ve ever heard. So what last night was my first time? It doesn’t — don’t be an idiot about it.”

Keith glares at him for a moment, rubbing his arm — in hindsight Lance could have probably held back a little, he’s definitely going to bruise — but then sighs.

“Yeah, sorry,” he relents. His face turns slightly teasing. “I just — I guess I just didn’t expect that from you, Loverboy.”

Lance scowls. “It makes perfect sense! I bet your first time was some rushed and unsatisfying bullshit on a random couch in an unsupervised room.”

That makes Keith frown, looking at Lance strangely. “There’s no possible way you know that.”

“Of course I know that, because it was the fucking Garrison, man. That’s what everyone did. I have no interest in that garbage. I want it slow and on a nice bed or I don’t want it at all.” He flushes up to his ears, realising what he said. “Or — I did want that. Whatever.”

Keith is quiet for a long time as they walk, and the tension is so thick that Lance almost considers giving up and calling Shiro despite his whole tantrum earlier.

“I hope it was like that,” Keith says quietly.

Lance thinks back to all he can remember last night — it’s not much, but he does remember it, remembers them clumsy and drunk and laughing and affectionate. He remembers how Keith had kissed him softly, pressed him gently into the mattress, how the skin of his hands had been rough under his gloves, tangled with Lance’s beside his head. He remembers how Lance’s ring — Keith’s ring, Keith’s ring, they’re not really married — had glittered in the dim light of the room, how the same soft glow had been reflected in Keith’s indigo eyes. He remembers feeling so loved his chest hurt with it.

But Keith doesn’t remember — ‘I hope it was like that’, he’d said. He doesn’t know.

And it doesn’t matter, anyway.

“I don’t remember,” Lance lies. The words burn his mouth.

Both of them are quiet. Bitterly, Lance wonders if their relationship is ever going to be the same, or if everything they’ve ever built is ruined. If Lance ruined everything. Fuck, and he and Keith worked so hard, too. They both put so much fucking effort into their relationship. And Lance cherishes it — he really does. He likes having someone who’s just as competitive as him, grinning at him as they train, teasing and taunting as they spar. He likes having someone to look just as lost and confused with when Hunk and Pidge start talking tech. He likes having someone who will strike goofy superhero poses behind Shiro’s back whenever the man says something particularly Captain-America-ish. He likes having someone sit carefully next to him on the observation deck on bad nights, asking him to tell stories of his family to ease the hurt.

He likes being Keith’s friend. He hates that he ruined it with his stupid, stupid feelings. He should’ve just let Keith flirt with the alien dude. He should’ve stuck with Hunk and Pidge. Hell, he should’ve let Hunk bust out the Drunk Lance Backpack Leash —

He startles when a warm hand grabs his, tangling their fingers together.

“Keith?”

“Alien marriage magic,” Keith says, looking straight ahead.

“Huh?“

“I keep getting — urges,” Keith explains. His cheeks are red. “I keep wanting to — touch you, or whatever. It must be the bonding magic.”

Lance swallows roughly, looking away. He should really pull away. He’s only making things worse for himself. He should let go, maybe even sidestep away.

Instead he tightens his grip, and steps even closer.

“Must be.”

Lance can’t bring himself to look at Keith for the rest of their walk. There’s no point in making things even harder for himself, after all. Eventually Keith is going to let go, and their going to get their wrongful marriage rightfully annulled, and Lance is going to give back his ring — not his fucking ring, God, why has he become so possessive over it already? It’s only been one night, and barely! — and they’re both going to go home and pretend this never happened. Just like Keith said.

Except it did happen.

And Lance won’t forget it.

“We’re here,” Keith says quietly, jutting his chin at a flashing neon sign.

“Real tasteful of us,” Lance mutters as he looks at it. Keith snorts.

“Practically a destination wedding,” he agrees. Despite himself, Lance smiles.

Keith lets go of his hand to push open the doors. Lance does a very good job of not crying about it, which is excellent. Point to Lance for that one.

“Hello, there,” greets a woman, smiling kindly. “Come to get married?”

Lance winces. He wonders how he looks at Keith for her to assume that.

He’s taking back that mental point he just gave himself. He does not deserve it.

“Uh, opposite, actually,” Keith says. He clears his throat, embarrassed. “We got drunk and hitched last night? And now my dad’s ring is stuck on his finger. So. We were wondering if you could fix that.”

The woman looks a strange mix of pitying and amused. “Yes, that would be the bonding spell. Interesting that it worked on you both, if you were as inebriated as you say.”

Lance furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing important,” she says, waving a dismissing hand. “If you wish to annul your union, I can do that for you.”

“That would be great,” Keith says.

Lance says nothing.

“Alright, then. Hold out your hands and close your eyes.”

Both of them do. Lance feels something ticklish and breezy wrap around his hands, and something glows brightly enough that he can feel it even with his eyes closed.

“Now, all magic bonds work on two things: consent, and desire. The breaking of those bonds is very similar. Both of you must envision your ties together, specifically those of marital union, and then use your desire to be unmarried to envision those ties broken.”

Lance squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying to envision his bond with Keith. He’s not one hundred percent sure what that means, so instead he tries to picture Keith, just as he is. He thinks of sly smiles showing the barest peek of crooked incisors, of a strong hand on the small of his back when Lance gets overwhelmed, of a gravelly voice whispering ‘I bet they’re waiting for you, Lance, and when you come back to them it’s going to be great,’ of the scent of pine and sandalwood, somehow, even in space. And then he envisions Keith’s panicked face when he woke up, when he saw that it was Lance that he spent the night with. He envisions the steadiness in Keith’s voice as he asked the woman for their annulment.

The glow burns brightly, strong enough to hurt his eyes through his eyelids, and then there’s nothing.

“Did it work?”

“If you both followed the instructions, yes.”

Lance opens his eyes, glancing over at Keith’s expectant face. He swallows the lump in his throat, and forced himself to wrap his fingers around his ring — not his fucking ring — and pull.

It doesn’t move.

“It’s still stuck,” Lance says desperately. He pulls harder on the ring, more and more panicked by the second.

“Shit, Lance, don’t hurt yourself —”

“I’m — I’m pulling, and I followed to instructions, I envisioned the broken bonds —”

“Both of you followed instructions?” the woman interrupts.

“Just as you explained,” Keith says. “Our bond, and then envisioned it breaking.”

She raises her eyebrow. “Hm. That’s strange. I’ve never seen the ritual fail for two willing parties before.”

“Fuck,” Keith whispers, dragging his hand down his face. “This is bad. Did it maybe not work because we’re human? Well, I’m half-human, but still.”

“We’re a largely tourist-oriented planet,” the woman explains. “Most people who come to this office are not native here. There is no reason your species should have affected the spell.”

“Yeah, I get that, but humans have never been to space before, so maybe —”

“It’s my fault,” Lance blurts. He shrinks back at their questioning looks. He looks down at his hands, twisting his ring — fuck — around his finger.

“Lance?“ Keith asks quietly.

“I don’t want to get divorced,” Lance admits. He’s ashamed to feel tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not fair, I’ll try to ignore it, but —” He looks down at his feet, voice small. “I don’t want to get divorced.”

“Oh, thank God,” Keith says, and before Lance can even process, Keith strides towards him, cradling his face in his hands, and kisses him soundly.

“Wha —” Lance mumbles against chapped lips, confused and scared and unable to shake the hurt built in his chest quite yet. “You —?”

“So long,” Keith whispers, pulling away and then pressing back in again like he can’t help himself. “I — I’ve loved you for so long, Lance.”

Lance feels the tears leak finally from his eyes, dripping onto Keith’s cheeks. “Really?”

Keith pulls away for real this time, resting his forehead against Lance’s and laughing softly. “You have no fucking idea. You’re just — you are everything I’ve ever wanted. When I woke up this morning and saw my ring on your finger I thought I was still dreaming.”

Lance’s hands loosen their grip on Keith’s shirt, resting open-palmed on his chest. “But you wanted the annulment.”

“I wanted you to be happy,” Keith corrects. “I want you to be happy. Ideally with me, but — you were so panicked, this morning. I don’t want you to be tied down with someone you don’t want.”

“I want,” Lance says quickly. “I have — I love you, too. Always. Since the Garrison, probably.”

Keith grins. “Even when we were rivals?”

“We’re still rivals, Mullet. If you think I’m going to stop kicking your ass just because you’re my husband then you’re solely mistaken — oh my God. You’re my husband.”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

“No, Keith —” Lance pulls away slightly, so he can look up at Keith with the appropriate amount of panic. “What are we going to tell the team?”

But instead of freaking out like Lance expects, Keith is totally calm. Amused, even. He slides his hand down from Lance’s face to his hand, pulling it up to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss just below his knuckles, right above his — his! — ring.

“That I went to space Vegas and married the love of my life,” he says. He shifts slightly, turning Lance’s hand to press a kiss to his wrist.

“That I gave him the ring that I got from my father and he got from his grandfather and I’m happy I did.” He pulls up Lance’s sleeve, kissing the middle of his forearm.

“That I don’t regret it for anything, and would do it again in a second.” Three kisses, slowly, one after the other, up his bicep.

“That I look at him and every day is brighter. That even drunk me looked into those gorgeous brown eyes and couldn’t think of anything but being with him forever.” A lingering kiss to his shoulder, then a trail of them to his neck, where Lance can feel him smirk.

“That I got hitched and then spent an amazing night after doing more than just kissi—”

“Okay,” Lance interrupts, pressing his hand over Keith’s mouth and going red. Keith presses a kiss to his palm, eyes sparking in amusement. “I got it, Gomez. We’re telling them the truth. Maybe cool it a little.”

“For now,” Keith agrees, muffled.

Lance shakes, pulling his hand back and looking away. After a second or too he rolls his eyes at himself — why the hell is he holding back? — and presses a another long, lingering kiss to Keith’s lips.

“Ditto, by the way. With — all that mushy shit.”

Keith snorts. “Poet, you are.”

“Roses are red, violets are blue, shut the fuck up.”

That makes Keith laugh outright, pressing their lips together one last time before pulling away. He turns toward the officiant woman, who thankfully looks amused.

“Uh, sorry for wasting your time.”

“All is well,” she says, smiling slyly. “That was the most entertainment I’ve had in a long time. Enjoy your day, boys.”

Smiling like fools, they duck out of the office, giggling as they stumble back in the direction of the castle.

“Shiro is going to give us so many chores,” Lance says brightly.

“So many,” Keith agrees.

“And Hunk and Pidge are going to tease us for eternity.”

“Mhm.”

“Allura too, probably.”

“Most likely.”

“Coran’ll be on our side, though.”

Keith stops, wrapping his arms around Lance’s waist and dipping him before kissing him again.

“You’re a sappy loser,” Lance informs him.

“You love me so much you couldn’t even pretend to want a divorce,” Keith shoots back.

Lance sighs happily. “Not even a little.”

And God, is he ever grateful for that.

#this cannot accurately be described as friends to lovers #idiots to lovers #vld #voltron #klance #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #pining lance #pining keith #mutual pining #pining klance #getting together #shenanigans #misunderstandings #drunken hookups #accidental marriage #autistic lance #brown-eyed lance #smooth keith #romantic keith #supportive keith #my writing #fic #longpost #tall keith

[theprinceofliones]

🔞nsfw🔞

I tagged it so ya’ll can’t come get me *runs off*

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Tristan tastes like what Lancelot thinks rose petals would.

He's soft at his core, soft and slick, and so very /pink/. His tongue laps up the sweetness spilling from his cunt, his fingers dipping into the softness of his insides that wrap around his digits like a vice---as though it never wanted them to leave.

Lancelot's hair is tugged on harshly, causing lightning to shoot up and down his spine every time Tristan pulls on his golden locks, his fingers tangling in thick strands to pull him closer, to feel /more/.

He sighs into Tristan's core, wraps his lips around the sensitive bundle of hot pink nerves atop his cunt, sucking on his clit and Lancelot thought Tristan was going to yank his hair straight off with how wound tight he was and the powerful grip he had on his blonde strands, as if he needed some sort of grounding or else he’d fall apart.

Tristan’s chest heaves and his legs shake atop Lancelot’s shoulders. He whimpers and whines and squirms and /fuck/, he’s the most beautiful thing to ever walk this mortal plane.

Lancelot uses his thumbs to spread his folds open and he /spits/ right onto his open core. Tristan jerks with a gasp before he moans as Lancelot doesn’t hesitate for another second, diving right back into his meal.

The younger Prince shakes like an uncontrollable leaf, his hands suddenly releasing Lancelot’s hair to reach up and tangle in his own silver strands. It’s as though he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he doesn’t know what to do with all the sensation that Lancelot is gifting to him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tristan pants and suddenly sits up, running a hand through his hair before grabbing onto Lancelot’s strong shoulders and /digging/ into his skin. “Lance, Lance, Lance—“ Is the mantra he’s repeating and Lancelot can’t help but grin cheekily into his slick folds.

He reaches behind Tristan and pulls him impossibly closer by his bare ass, his digits digging into the meat of his bottom and Tristan squeals with it as he twitches sharply.

After all, who the hell needs air anyway? It’s overrated, if you asked Lancelot. Why would he want to do something as stupid as breathe ‘air’ when he could spend the rest of time right here between his sweet prince’s legs—right where he could give Tristan everything he /deserved/?

Suddenly, Tristan seizes up and his breath hitches and Lancelot knows he close and resumes his licking and sucking with a newfound vigor.

“Close,” Tristan gasps out. “/Fuck/, Lance, I’m so fucking close, /please/.”

Lancelot promises to deliver.

He slips two of his long fingers back inside of his cunt again and Tristan falls back against the mattress of his bed with a moan of pure relief as soon as he does.

He curls his digits upward so fast and hard, over and over again and Tristan can do nothing but take it.

It’s all too much, that tongue sucking on his clit, those fingers beckoning him closer and closer to release—it’s all too much.

With a long, drawn out moan, Tristan clamps around Lancelot’s fingers and orgasms against his tongue.

Lancelot groans as soon as that sweetness, deeper and warmer now, floods his tastebuds and he licks it up like a madman starved. He draws out Tristan’s orgasm until the younger prince is whining sweetly and twitching in overstimulation, pushing at his head gently as he whimpers now that his pleasure has turned to borderline pain.

He released the hold his mouth has on his cunt and ever so carefully slips his fingers out of his pussy, watching as a string of slick still connects his wet fingers to his now swollen core. Lancelot sighs and licks his digits clean and Tristan flushes in mortification.

“Gods,” Tristan pants for air, still thoroughly wiped out. “What the hell are you, anyway? Some kind of sex demon or something?”

Lancelot laughs and licks his soaked lips. “Nah,” He says, voice a little hoarse and Tristan sits up to nuzzle their cheeks together as a ‘thank you’ for treating him.

“I just like the way you taste, is all.”

#smut #nanatsu no taizai #mokushiroku no yonkishi #the seven deadly sins #the four knights of the apocalypse #tristan liones #lancelot #fandom police don’t get me #I am merely a pawn in nakaba’s game

[death-himself]

ok season finale thoughts

THANK GOD they put in Luke training Percy, honestly that's a change I really like. The medium of film allows you to do flashbacks like that, and that's a really good change. they had me worried but thank god

I started checking how long things were for this episode to determine how I felt about pacing, the Ares fight was roughly 6 minutes long. For a 40 minute episode I think that's decent, but I still wish it were longer

the entire fight I thought they were on the beach in CA, so I was very confused when the Montauk cabin was there until later in the ep T-T

thinking about it though, the pearls teleporting them to Montauk is a nice change, especially since this Poseidon explicitly cares more about Sally

why were annabeth and grover trying to argue to keep the bolt?? that just...did I misread that scene what the fuck why

I guess it was just because they were worried about percy dying but like, it felt weird

that first shot of olympus, just incredible, loved that

the throne room...kind of underwhelming

BUT i paused for like 5 minutes counting the thrones, there are 11 and then a HEARTH FOR HESTIA I CANT I LOVE THAT

hestia gives away her throne to dionysus, so it doesn't make much sense, but since dionysus is at camp most of the time I think that works. plus I just love hestia so no complaints about that

Zeus is the first god to actually feel like a god, wish Hades also felt that way, but loved Zeus

rest in peace Lance Reddick, he was perfect in my opinion, I think it'll be hard to top him

the switch to Ancient Greek was cool, also really appreciated that they used the proper pronunciation of the gods' names (at least I think it's the proper pronunciation)

the throne room scene felt very similar to the book, so I'm pretty happy with it

they changed annabeth's hairstyle the second she got to camp lol

the aphrodite and athena cabins saw her come back alive and was like "awright time for a makeover" she was there for like 20 minutes max

I know a lot of people have been talking about how dark the show is, but as someone who hasn't been having that problem, the fireworks made those shots look so cool

I really hope people having that problem are also able to see in that scene, because the lighting is just so nice

AND THEY DID THE FUCKIN THING AGAIN Percy figuring out Luke so quickly, I got so mad, can this kid be tricked once

ok, how I would've done that scene so it's still somewhat the same but more interesting: they start going over the lines in the prophecy, they reach the betrayal line, queue a slow look of realization from Percy, swelling dramatic music, then maybe have Luke realize Percy's figuring it out and he trips Percy to the ground and pull out the scorpion

fuck the tell don't show thing they're doing, Percy didn't have to outright say, "o you stole the bolt" WALKER'S A GREAT ACTOR have him have that look of realization with the audience, he's shown he has the acting skills to pull that off really damn well

anyway Luke's "I'm here to recruit line" was my favorite part of that scene, that line felt scary

and I know they were probably going for a parallel of them training in the woods earlier vs actually fighting each other, but that didn't really feel necessary to be honest, we didn't really need that fight scene

and Annabeth revealing herself and Luke visibly panicking, I liked that too

this scene had a lot of cool things, but the way we got to that was disappointing

dionysus straight up not realizing percy's name wasn't peter wasn't funny to me at first, but now I'm realizing he was probably trolling so I can get behind that scene lol

that man definitely knew percy's real name and has always been actively choosing not to use it

they changed Annabeth's hair again, I'm in love. so ready for her to have a different hairstyle every season

that dream sequence felt a little unnecessary and it confused me a bit, but I'm alright with it

sally writing down everything kronos is saying in his dreams, love that

how they killed off gabe is exactly how I was expecting them to after watching the first couple episodes. and him wanting to pick the lock after Sally changed them makes him even worse. Having him try to do that along with looking through a package not addressed to him, PLUS him not even living there anymore. All that shittiness put right before him turning to stone definitely made it feel deserved

I came away from this episode not entirely satisfied, but content. This episode felt the most book-accurate to me, both events-wise and tonally. And I think that's because the chapters it's based off are the most serious in the book, so with the new tone the show's taking, it fits right in

I'm gonna make another post about my thoughts on the season overall, but I think I'm gonna rewatch the whole thing first

#pjo #pjo spoilers #pjo disney+ #pjo disney+ spoilers #percy jackson #percy jackson spoilers

[clxckwork-sun-n-moon]

Heard you needed fluff or Hurt/Comfort, and I happen to be a professional at fluff!~

For straight fluff; Character A surprising Character B after a bad day. Bringing their favourite snacks, peppering them with kisses and attention, giving them the world! All to see that lovely smile <3

Hurt/comfort; An argument with someone you’re close to turns ugly and neither of you want to see each other after. It’s a nice surprise though when they come back to you later and apologize and try to make you feel better with sweet activities <3

QvQ thank you very much~ I've also got your other ask, so expect a response to that (hopefully) tonight! (I say hopefully because I can feel myself crashing sdjfhsdk)

Fluff - Mr Sandman (General Moon x Reader) // Hurt/Comfort - Bite Me (SCtW!Eclipse x Reader)

Mr Sandman

Bad day didn't really begin to describe what you'd been through. Your dishwasher had been mostly broken for a week and finally kicked it, so you'd needed to inform your landlord, only for the pair of you to get into an argument over responsibilities (he was in charge of repairs, but apparently you were in charge of making sure he got around to his tasks?) You'd then had one of your better Tupperwares have its lid break in your hands, loosing your lunch/dinner over the kitchen floor and having to clean up curry (good luck getting tumeric out of vinyl flooring). And now you had to get to your work shift in the snow.

"Fuck!" You bit your teeth together as your feet skidded on another patch of ice, just barely holding your balance. For some reason today the wind had decided to be extra chilly, biting through your jacket to your bones, just to spite you. Wrapping your arms tight, you continued to beeline down the well-known walking route you had from your apartment to the Pizzaplex. It was harder in the early evening, now that the sun decided to make its disappearance at around four instead of six or seven which you most preferred. So now you were battling poor visibility AND well-hidden patches of-

Your foot shunted left hard as it found zero purchase, and you immediately knew you wouldn't be able to catch yourself. Falling rapidly, you hit the ground with your side, crying out as a sharp pain lanced up your arm.

For a moment you considered remaining there, laying on the freezing ground and letting the snow and ice do the rest of the work. But you had a work partner waiting for you, and he'd never let you live it down if you gave up here. Sighing heavily and blinking back tears, you eased yourself back upright and continued to trudge onwards.

As always, the Pizzaplex's lights were out by the time you arrived. Letting yourself in through the security side-door, you dropped off your backpack of Stuff that would help keep you going through the night, and changed from cold wet jacket to security uniform jacket. Torch in hand, you let out a long breath and headed out into the main lobby area, beginning your first sweep in the direction of the Daycare. Sometimes the knowledge of what you did and who with still managed to catch you off-guard. But you knew you wouldn't give it up for anything. Even when you were cold, sore, hungry and feeling about as emotionally alive as a cicada in autumn.

"Moon?" You looked to the ceiling first, you'd learned that trick fast. Normally you were interested in how long you could go without spotting him, but tonight you wanted a low stress night shift. "Come on, no hide 'n' seek tonight."

"You're hurt." Moon's voice from right behind your shoulder prompted a shout and harsh swing, smacking Moon right on the cheek. You cradled your hand, hissing in pain, while Moon attempted to right his head from the crooked position you'd knocked it into.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry," you wheezed out, reaching up and helping him ease the head to the side until - crack - it set back on right. Dark eyes with red pupils focused back on you, his hand wrapping around yours. Not the one you'd hit him with though.

"Language. You're holding your left side closer. And you have a limp," he commented. "You're also cold."

"That's...not creepy at all. How can you tell about the cold?"

"Thermal vision." Despite having punched him in the face, Moon wasn't showing anything other than a down-right focused professional attitude. Apart from the jumpscare, but even then, he'd already been pointing out your injury. It was a little concerning how he was behaving. Looming over you as the wire let him drop to the floor, he pressed a hand over your ribs where you'd taken the brunt of the fall. Of course, you hissed in pain, recoiling from the pressure.

"What the fu-flip, Moon? I just - I don't have - today is not a good day to be messing around with me, okay?" Your words carried a heavily snap, the build-up of too many things going wrong within the last six hours. Tears threatened the back of your eyes, and you started to rub them away before they could spill. Moon's eyes widened, just a touch, before narrowing again. This time his hand rested on your arm - the uninjured one.

"Rest," he said simply.

"I can't, I have my job to do."

"Can't do your job if you're hurting. Rest." He glanced back at your side, back at your face. The usual curl of his lips was one of distress, not frustration. "I need you to be okay."

Oh. Any words of retort you had remaining died, and subsequently broke most of your prepared barrier. Sniffing back sobs, you let the tears pour freely, and felt melt arms fold around your shoulders, pulling you into a cold but gentle embrace.

"It'll be okay, starlight."

"I'm trying."

"Good." His arms shifted down, and you could feel your feet leaving the ground. As you clung on instinctively, he explained, "First aid spot. Then break room."

"...Will you stay?"

"Of course. Who else will be giving you cuddles?" Pause. "Freddy would but we're not telling him about this. You will not tell him." The earnest warning is enough to make you break a small smile, imagining the Glamrock running through the Pizzaplex just to give you a hug.

"He won't know a thing," you whisper back.

"Good." And Moon smiled as he said that, looking down and seeing your faint smile. That was good to start with.

------

Bite Me

There should have been more thought in what you were saying. You didn't care though. It was just you and Eclipse and the air burning with the argument that scorched between the two of you. Hell, you can't remember what started this. All of it has boiled down now to you, him, and trying to make him hurt. Unfortunately he was doing exactly the same.

And it was working.

Ugly hurt churned in your stomach as you both bared your teeth at each other - significantly more threatening in Eclipse's case. The words rang harsh in your head, "useless hunter", because they were true. Scrunching up your nose, you snarled out a wordless shout of anger, before turning on your heel and storming for your bedroom. You made sure to slam your door for good measure.

You weren't sure how long you sat at the door, sliding down to the floor to hug your knees and sob. His words had bitten down more than you'd want for him to swallow, chewing you up and then letting you collapse, sick to your stomach. Now in the aftermath, you let yourself ride out the continuous waves of hurt and guilt.

You'd just wanted him to back down. To admit he was wrong. To try and understand and see it from your perspective. But you'd fucked up, and instead of owning it, you'd responded in kind to his aggressiveness. You'd lashed out. You'd fucked up.

Crawling from the door, you managed to make your way into your bed, holding one of the pillows tight to your chest. You wanted to take it all back, every word you'd said. But the fear of refusal alongside the hollowness of guilt held you heavy to the bed.

Tap tap tap. Claws on the wood. You knew who it would be. How long had it been? It felt like hours but also only minutes.

"C'me in," you mumbled, unable to bring yourself to sit up. Footsteps shuffled from the door, making their way around the room to your side of the bed. Eclipse ducked his head down to your level, curled up small in how he crouched.

"Star?" he murmured. You blinked back. "...It was rude of me to say what I did. You were hurting me, but we wanted to hurt you back, and we shouldn't have done that. I'm...sorry...."

You laboured on your response, breathing in deeply.

"I shouldn't have tried to hurt you," you managed to croak back. "I'm sorry too."

"Can I hold your hand?"

"'Course." A hand of skin and flesh reached out, and was ensconced in a hand of scales, claws and feathers. There you two remained, curled together but apart, until Eclipse decided enough was enough and hauled himself onto the bed. His feathery weight was more a comfort you'd care to admit, as you nestled your cheek against his chest and rested, letting the remaining tension ease away.

#answered #clockwork writings #zelda7999 #friendly neighborhood mutual #aaauuughggh these felt good to write~ #accidentaly hurt/comfort'd the first prompt but aaaahhh

[seraphimfawn-fallen]

Helping Love - Part 2: He's an Omega

Veronica knew when she walked in the door yesterday from a long few days of night shifts, with one of her friends who she worked with let her stay over with, that something was wrong in her mother's house. She didn't like her stepfather, the way he singled out the youngest among them and the way Lance shook whenever he was near him. It irked all of her nerves badly and she didn't like it. 

So, walking up the stairs, knowing her mother was at work at this time and walked straight to Lance's room and saw a key in the lock. Of course, he got locked in again by his father. Bastardo. She hated him, Rachel would often express somethings that Veronica had a hard time trying to understand, maybe it was because she worked so much? It had to be. 

She turned the key and heard quick shuffling on the other side, fuck she forgot to call him out before she turned the key. She turned the nob and found a discarded blanket halfway on the bed and floor and if she looked close enough to under the bed, she could see blue eyes looking at her. "Sal, hermano, está bien, solo soy yo." she called out gently as she closed the door behind her with a glare and squatted down to look at a certain spot "V?" Lance called out looking at her, she nodded. "Come on, where's my hug?" she smiled as he crawled out with a small wince and hugged her. She hugged him tightly but lose enough so that he could breathe. She noticed bruises on his neck, and she pulled back to examine him, "Lance, what happened and where the hell did these come from?" she demanded softly like a mother would, but she was his big sister, she helped teach him things he didn't know when no one else even bothered to give him time. 

"I-I fell..." he stuttered as she gently pressed on one of the bruises with her thumb, Lance jerked a bit in pain but didn't move away from her. "Lance, this doesn't look like you fell" she tapped the bruise of his arm that he had to put back into place and he bit his lip with a wince, "I fell, I'll be careful next time. I promise" she frowned, he always said he promised when she found him like this, but it made her gut twist whenever he said it. Like he was lying to her. She really needed to take some time off work to be there for Lance, he was alone in this house and with his bastard of a father made her worry leaving him alone at all. 

She eventually sighed, today if she wasn't wrong, it was his presentation day but for some odd reason she had a sinking feeling in her stomach, and it wasn't a pleasant one either. "Do I have to go to my presentation today..." he whispered fearfully almost as she gave him a sad smile. "Unfortunately, yes, you have too. But I want you to remember something," she started making him arch a brow a bit as she grabbed his shoulders lovingly and firm but lose on his left arm because of the big bruise that couldn't have been from a sprain and looked him in the eyes, "I'll always be here for you. I promise" she told him as he looked surprised and looked like he was about to cry, she chuckled a bit and hugged him as he hugged her back. "Thanks V" she smiled, "Always Lance because that's what a big sister does for her loved ones that she cares about" he smiled a little glad to have her as his big sister. 

They broke the hug, and she helped him get dressed and was absolutely fuming when she seen more bruises on Lance, she was pissed honestly because none of these came from him falling somewhere. She worried for him terribly, he was as frail as he was fragile and she's not dumb, she can see faded scars that lay on his skin. "Lance," he looked at her with a bit of a head tilt "Whatever you present as, I won't leave you just because you have an ABO status. I swear to you I won't turn like everyone else" she told him sternly as he smiled and hugged her once more, "I love you V" he said as she chuckled hugging him back "I love you too Little Blue" he giggled, and she ruffled his hair. They heard footsteps coming up the stairs and they were creaking, immediately Lance stood rigid as Veronica stood up with her hand resting on Lance's hair like a mother would as a sign of hesitance and worry. Sometimes Lance got confused if she was his mother or his sister, he preferred either or since she was always there for him. The door opened and Lance bit back a whimper, Joseph looked at Veronica who looked at him in a small glare, "Can I help you?" she asked with a tone Lance wasn't familiar with, maybe she got it from her job? Joseph glared and looked to Lance who was wanted to shrink back from his piercing gaze. "Boy, let's go. Now" he gulped and left Veronica's protection hand to his father's side quickly and glanced back to Veronica nervously, she moved her hand in a gesture he was familiar with but didn't remove her eyes from Joseph. 

Joseph glared once more at Veronica before he grabbed Lance's wrist in a grip and dragged him away with Veronica's eyes following them. Getting in the car, Lance took the furthest seat away from his father and put his seatbelt on like Veronica taught him and they were off once the car's engine turned on. 

Lance watched all the passing buildings with interest, he hardly got to leave the house even going outside seemed like it was forbidden, maybe that was why he seemed a little pale. At least according to Veronica. But he was curious on the world outside the McClain house, it was rare for him to leave the house, but his parents knew he couldn't keep him forever in the house so when he was old enough, his mother planned to ship him out into the Garisson. For that he was excited to escape to the stares he always found himself staring at. 

Tracing his eyes over the blurs of people, cars and buildings they eventually pulled up the center where the tests for those who will get their new status. Now he was nervous and scared. What if he presented as an Omega? Everything will be worse from here on out! He took a breath and followed after his father obediently, he was trained by torture to follow someone without thinking. More often it was those who had more power and authority over him. Watching as his father went to the desk while ordering Lance to a seat which he obediently listened and remained quiet while hiding his hands in the long sleeve shirt Veronica gave him and she frowned at his figure sometimes. Lack of eating and how skinny he is, even his height was something she was worrying about. For his age, being this short wasn't a good thing despite all the males in the McClain family are tall and have muscle, Lance on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Skinny and short and had little muscle. 

He was still a child, almost 9 years old. So, it was acceptable, to a degree. 

He only had two more years before he would go to the Garisson. It was going to be his first escape, his newest safe place that he was ready to grasp. He just had to wait and be patient and hopefully during that time, neither Luis nor his father put his hands on him that would lead to him hurting more than a beating would. He just needed to breathe and pray he wasn't an Omega. That's all. 

His father soon joined him and with a glare that gave his order, they sat in silence with his father messing around on his phone even with the irritation it seemed to bring him. They waited for their names to be called but still Lance was nervous, very nervous he felt like he was shaking with anxiety. Soon enough 10 minutes later, Lance's name was called and the two went with the nurse. Oh man, Lance couldn't stop his nerves from spiking, he didn't like it or the dread in his stomach. She led them to a waiting room and gestured for Lance to follow her to the test room that was across the hall, she pointed to a seat, and he took a seat while she gathered the necessary items for the tests. 

She set them on the table and rolled up his sleeve, but he stopped her before she went further up, she paused looking at him confused "C-can you please do the other arm?" he asked hesitantly while taking a gulp, he didn't want her to see the bruise from his used to be broken arm. She tsked lightly but agreed and rolled up his other sleeve then grabbed a needle, "Now just take a breath, this'll be quick" he nodded fearfully at the needle but took a breath as it went into his skin and began to draw blood, seeing blood was never his favorite even if he's seen his own blood before. She then took out the needle and pushed the handle to let the blood drop out onto a machine, Lance looked at curiously, wondering what it was supposed to do and wouldn't blood ruin it? It's technology, Veronica was always explaining that liquid and Machine did not mix at all. 

The machine made a beeping sound that Lance by instinct covered his ears, he didn't like loud sounds it made his ears ring unpleasantly. She glanced to him and looked back to the machine while pursuing her lips, how was she to tell him? Omegas weren't treated fairly at all, and a Male Omega was rare. Turning to Lance with a frown as he let his ears go and fiddled with his sleeves while waiting, oh dear, she prayed he would have a good life even with his new status. 

Clearing her throat to gain his attention he looked at her nervously, "M-may I ask what I am?" he was timid with his question, and it made her heart ache, he was such a sweet boy from what she's seen he didn't deserve this much less this status of the three. "You're an Omega hun. I'm sorry" his eyes widen in fear, "I-I... I'm what?" stuttering made her aware that was not what he wanted to hear as she knew from previous patients that this was the expression to look out for when those who present as an Omega. "You're an Omega, these kinds of tests for status are simple. One blood test on the machine and the machine will scan your blood for your status, yours came back as an Omega. I'm sorry" she explained while he felt like he wanted to crumble to the floor and never leave it. The one thing he didn't want to be is exactly what he was. He was an Omega, and a rare Omega at that. He's dead when they leave the clinic. 

#klance #voltron #bottomlance #omegaverse #Langst #Helping Love

[vvatchword]

Over the space of an eternity, he became aware of a faint, rhythmic humming. It took a moment for him to realize that this was blood rushing up into his head. An invisible fist squeezed his heart.

“Daddy.”

His eyes flew open. The blackness was so complete he could have drowned in it. He slapped numbly against his helmet; after four or five tries, he finally tripped the switch for his lamp. It lit up a section of cracked tile. Beyond that was only shadow.

He listened closely. He couldn’t tell whether he had heard the word or imagined it.

Did it matter?

He rolled over, his muscles protesting, and groped for a purchase on the tile. His hands and feet were dead weights and his fingers and knees wouldn’t bend. As he struggled to find some command of his legs, he rolled over too far. With a sickening lurch, he tumbled into deep, scummy seawater.

The puddle was as cold as the ninth level of hell and brought him roaring out, slapping indiscriminately in every direction until he heaved himself onto solid ground. All the memories of the shark-eyed woman and her cohorts swept back to him in a wave. Then he remembered Sister, her chalky face… the goon… the gun…

Pain jabbed behind his eye and lanced from one temple to the other.

No time.

Com

part

mentalize.

He struggled to his feet. His reflection shone back at him from dark water. He was wearing his diving helmet. 

Oh shit.

Oh shit!

Now he remembered! He’d gone diving! He’d dived! Fuck! Where was he? How long had he been out? How much oxygen did he have?

He rotated his cuffs. Left arm normal—one red tube, one neon-blue, both diving into the inside of his elbow; red at 0, blue at 100%. It was his right arm that was shocking: depth meter shivered at 3,280 meters, and as for his available air, the little dial pointed to 75%.

Shit! Shit! Shit! He was at record-breaking depths here, and at 75% he should’ve at least found the object of his mission. He couldn’t play loosey-goosey with his timing. He’d fucking die.

Wait. Wait wait wait.

What had he come down here for, again?

Sister.

That’s right, Sister! Gone! In trouble!

He closed his eyes and sought her presence. To his horror, he felt nothing but the squeeze on his heart. He tried to think her out, praying she was thinking of him, too. It had worked in the past, when his head had been cottony and he had stumbled to the wrong vent.

She did not answer.

He took a deep breath and shouted. At least, his intent had been to shout. The roar that blasted out of him shivered the water like a thunderclap, bounced off of the walls, echoed away, and away, and away…

A little loud, but thank god. He needed loud.

He waited.

Then, quietly, the answer came to him. It was sharp and short, like a polite cough in the back of a theater. And then, just as quickly as he had sensed it, it was gone.

He sagged. She was alive. They hadn’t killed her yet. But there was no time to lose.

No time at all.

75% O2.

Sister.

Guns.

He lumbered off into the darkness and immediately sank into water up to his thigh. He flailed and slipped and stamped one foot down, then the other, and rocked upright. The floor had buckled dramatically; soft as sponge, and slick on the grades, and the water murky on top of all that. Like ice-skating without skates.

Wait. When had he ever ice-skated?

He slapped his helmet until his ears rang. No time to think about that.

Sister!

He staggered, slid, threw his arms out, and sidestepped across the room. Tingling heat built in his chest and throbbed at the tips of his fingers. At least his hands and feet were starting to feel real again.

As he caught himself on the banister, the lights overhead flickered on and blazed liquid agony straight through his eyeballs.

He slapped his hands over his faceplate with a howl. Imprinted on the backs of his eyelids was an inverse image. A spacious alcove framed a stylized letter “A” couched in a blazing sun.

He slowly parted his fingers.

“Hrroooh,” he said.

He sloshed in a slow circle. This was not the area he remembered seeing last.

Live electricity sparked from gashes in the walls. Waterfalls poured from the ceiling, and the faux plants were slimy-black where they hadn’t disintegrated outright. And the mold! The place was coated with mold so thick he could’ve cut it off in slabs and built a mattress.

Shit.

A bad dream. Probably the worst bad dream he’d ever seen.

He took a deep breath.

One. Two. Three.

He let the breath out.

He clomped up the staircase. He was already starting to feel better. Still stiff, back like an ironing board, but his muscles were starting to squeak along in some semblance of normalcy, and the pain felt pretty good, if he were honest. It was going to be all right; lots of bad dreams turned out all right. He was at 75% O2. Not bad, good enough to return to the boat. Sister was alive, check. Should get her to the boat, too. Jewels was there, on the boat. Jewels, good old… whoever? Whatever. But Jewels was… jewels were?… good, definitely.

Good feelings about that word.

Great feelings about the boat.

The lights flickered on again. He reflexively covered his face. This time, the inverse image printed on his eyelids was a vent: a nickel starburst framing a gaping void.

One minute he was standing on the staircase. The next minute, he had jammed his faceplate up against the vent and started hammering his fist like a madman. The wall shivered with each blow, raining rotten chunks of plaster.

He hesitated mid-swing. Dropped his fist. Big swathes of intact wallpaper jiggled like gelatin for a good minute after he’d finished. He could see using the dream-sight, but not far. The vent was full of rubble. No little girl could possibly crawl through that.

Wait a minute.

He stood still. Breathed. Checked his wrist. 73%.

Big breath in.

Count to three.

Big breath out.

Again.

Again.

He’d clearly fucked up somehow, and bad. Problem: he wasn’t yet sure how exactly. He felt like he was groping in the dark, feeling shapes he had forgotten names for. Like someone was shouting to him and he could only hear their tone of voice, and that tone was, “You fucker! You dumb fucking asshole!”

Sister.

A warm cloud floated over him. The alarms jangling up and down his spine faded off reluctantly.

Yeah. Sister. That was the ticket.

Find Sister. Save Sister.

He jammed his right hand into the drill, tilted it back and checked the fuel gauge. Nearly full.

Save Sister.

He lunged up the stairs. The wood smashed flat and spongy beneath his boots. A big groove, fresh and black, had already smashed the stairs down, crushing the wood down to the stone foundation.

That explained it. He had broken down and dragged himself, that’s all. Then he got fixed. He’d been fixed before. They’d practically had to sew his arm back onto his shoulder once. What was a shot to the head?

Take the bullet out.

Sew the head back together.

Screw it back on.

Follow the rut back to Sister.

He passed a constellation of plate-sized craters in the wall, their outlines crusted with mineral buildup. Someone had slashed paint all over the walls, vividly white in his headlamp. A dozen handprints in peeling paint, the heels pressed together, like butterflies for Sunday School. Words had been splashed on the wall, too—some of them still fresh. A big triangle had been drawn over one bare patch. Lots of triangles. Lots of letters. He barely noticed that they were there.

Above the staircase, an ample arch, then the hall. He followed the rut dragging down the right-hand corridor.

73%.

A pile of furniture hulked in a corner, slimy black armchairs and chairs splayed on swollen legs with drooping seats. More craters in the walls, obscured by salt and shadow. A steam room, a pool slowly filling with seawater.

Whispers down the hall.

He froze.

Sister!

He hooted and slapped his hip.

He splashed down a new corridor, this one narrow with low ceilings and pinstriped wallpaper. These were private rooms for massages, although how he knew this, he couldn’t remember. Water-worn wallpaper peeled off in sheets; heaps of silt and melting carpet filled the doorways. He brushed by a fluorescent light hanging by a looped wire, swinging back and forth like a noose. He saw a shadow on the wall in the right corridor, lit up by pink-white light.

A nicotine craving hit him out of nowhere. His mouth tightened, pinching down for the familiar soft shape in his mouth, and felt nothing.

He forced his mind away—no use thinking about that, not here, not now—and instead, he started thinking about Sister again. This time the flicker of her presence was a little stronger—faint, like picking up a faraway radio signal and hearing the shadow of one’s favorite song. His heart throbbed, painful but reassuring.

He swung around the corner.

A vending machine leaned against the wall, flanked by two cartoonish girls as pink as princesses. There was a sign, but the words hurt his eyes, so he looked away. A handful of glowing vials gleamed from inside, but he could barely see what they were; the glass had been beaten until it was opaque. He sagged when he realized the whispering sound was actually some internal mechanism of the machine’s.

On the wall, something bright caught his eye. Its color was brilliant against the wallpaper, flesh-colored in the light. He dragged closer. More words and shapes slathered over and over in unmistakably fresh paint.

The bad feeling was back—the feeling that said something was very wrong with him. This was probably why he actually tried to read the painted words. He had to close one eye and read it one letter at a time, and at the end, his head was splintering.

“SISTER IN DEMETER”

To its left, someone had drawn a triangle. No, several triangles, all different sizes.

He whirled around. Triangle on the wall with an arrow pointing, all in the same fresh white paint. Triangle on a piece of upholstery. Triangle painted on the ceiling. He had passed how many of these? He had passed them and not seen them.

He touched one of the letters. It pooled around his finger. He drew his finger back. A spot of white. Its cleanness and clarity startled him. He turned his hand from side to side. The fog was starting to part a little, and in its wake was a hell of a headache.

Sister, came the oafish thought, something like reassurance. Sister.

His hand had started shaking. He turned it over again.

There, printed on the back of his left glove, a triangle. Faded, yes. Scarred, yes. But perfectly legible.

A buzz popped on in his brain and suddenly his whole body went rigid. His heart ramped up. He panted but he couldn’t breathe deeply enough to fill his lungs. Someone was coming for him and when they got there they were going to steal something he could never get back.

No! No! No!

He jerked backward like he could outrun his own hand. But he’d forgotten about the vending machine and slammed into it. The machine’s audio kicked in, but it had pitched down into a guttural demon thrum.

“Are you as good as—are you as good as—”

With a roar, he whirled on the machine and shoved it through the wall. The wood popped apart like wet cardboard and wallpaper peeled free. The machine crashed through the floor with a screech of metal against metal. A muffled crash, a loud splash, and just like that, he was lost in the dark again. All that was left was emergency lighting struggling down adjacent hallways.

He slapped his hand down, wiping the white on his hip, and whirled around.

70%.

Sister.

Just Sister.

Only Sister.

Sister was good. Sister was all he needed.

Sister.

He jogged back down the hall, the walls shuddering as he passed. Here, the floor was flooded, and he could only tell the drag marks by how they felt underfoot. His dream-sight nosed ahead of him; around this corner were the squash courts with their placards still advertising available rates, and here was a hallway lined with stacks of chairs all the way to the ceiling, and here a number of sagging armchairs had been lined across the hallway and lashed together with stanchion belts. He kicked through them like they were nothing, rotten fabric and rotten wood and rotten bone.

68%.

He tramped up a set of stairs, past a restaurant and a club. Big holes in the floor, strewn with seaweed and what looked disconcertingly like clothing. His brain was still buzzing, and the pressure built up behind his eyes.

Without warning, the buzzing screamed up behind his eyes and all the lights and colors blew out—and for a second, there were bright colors and light—and with it all came a lightheadedness so violent he didn’t know if he were still standing up. He could smell—what was it? Gunpowder? Body odor? Rot?—and against his skin, the air pressure and clean cold breeze from a different time.

A woman backed up in the restaurant, her arms up. He could feel the tightness of her chest and hear the echo of gunfire and bootsteps. She was in her stocking feet. She was calling out: “Please, don’t bring guns in here. Please, we’re just trying to…”

Next second, he was blinking against the wall, and for the first time, he was struck by the silence. No buzzing. No light.

Ghost!

He leaned inside the restaurant. No woman, just the familiar craters running from the floor up to the ceiling. He did remember this place… from somewhere. Sometime. A good-dream, definitely. The room had been so full he hadn’t been able to see the opposite wall. Now he could see the whole row of windows gleaming in the dark, only slightly lighter than the rooms themselves.

Wait.

What had he been doing again?

He had to stop and think about it. Lord. It hurt his head like the devil.

Oh! Yes!

Sister!

He marched off past the club, looked through to see another makeshift barricade. Dining and masseuse chairs lay on their sides, lashed together with rotten rope. A Garand lay quietly on the bar, chamber open, slime blackening the stock.

67%.

He should be thinking of emerging again about now, stepping on the diving chamber, lifting up, up, up, to the safety of the surface…

He had just passed another restaurant when a woman screamed.

His gait hitched only a second.

That wasn’t a ghost.

He launched off. In the dark, he could see the luminous white mark on his index finger, the slash of white on his thigh.

The scream howled up, higher and higher, half pleading, half agony.

“I swear to God! We’re not splicers! I don’t even like Sinclair! I swear to God!”

The scream cut off. A sharp gurgling cough.

Another woman’s voice leaped up to fill the vacuum, chattering, breathy, stupid.

“We ain’t done nothing wrong!” she said. “We ain’t done nothing to Lamb! We like the Family! We was going there to join right after this! I swear… I swear! I h-haven’t spliced. I haven’t! There’s nothing in me!”

He crashed around the corner. Half of the wall came with him. The hallway opened into a sprawling atrium. Paintings hung like closed windows, so furry with mold that they could no longer be seen. Triangles had been painted in every frame, “SISTER IN DEMETER” across every wall, a phrase more remembered than read. His eyes panged.

At the center of the atrium, a magnificent arch framed a grand balcony and a window beyond. There was a sign arched over the entryway, but he jerked his eyes away—there were words there—the words were bouncing—god he fucking hated words he fucking hated reading—

Fracturing the window-light was a pillar carved into the shape of a tree. He remembered that stone tree—the tree hung with crystal fruit—the bar—the woman in white—that Moneybags guy—camera—she was going to pick up the camera—so much booze—real cigarettes.

Fuck, he could use a cigarette.

A woman in an ill-fitting diving suit slumped over the balcony, her helmet rolled up against the banister. Dark beads dropped from her hidden face. Above her, her friend hovered in midair, hands grappling at her throat, hacking, coughing, spitting. One shoe dangled from her right foot; wiggled, waggled, fell three feet to the floor. She wore a man’s breeches and dress shirt and her arms were white up to her elbows.

Not a ghost. Nobody held her. She just floated there.

He skidded to a stop. The hovering woman whipped to look at him and her eyes were huge, rolling, horrible.

“No,” she said. “Don’t—”

Then her head snapped to the side and she flopped to the floor like a shed jacket.

A silence had come over him. It probably only lasted ten seconds, but he felt as though he regarded some hidden predator, and that it regarded him.

It felt like someone he should know.

“Hoooo?” he said.

Two invisible hands grabbed under his breastplate and yanked. He lurched forward, one helpless step after another, but he wasn’t walking—he was pedaling in place—faster and faster and faster—heels skipping against the wood, then dragging—

He jammed one heel down and then the other, leaned backward hard, drill roaring to life in his fist. He rammed his free hand into the wall on his left, bashed the drill into the wall on his right. But he didn’t slow down: he sped up. He flew free of the corridor—his left hand hit air. Faster and faster and faster, plowing two enormous furrows into the floor with the corridor booming down behind him like a chain of dominoes.

He slammed through the two corpses, punched through the balustrades like they were matchsticks, and soared into empty space. He had remembered a grand staircase leading down from the balcony. There wasn’t one anymore. Just two partial steps at the bottom, and the rest blown to hell, a jumbled heap of masonry and steel.

The lightheadedness hit him again, the lights smeared, and for a breathtaking moment, he lost his mind.

Ghosts whirled below him in evening dress, packed wall to wall, layered over and passing through one another. Silvery and staticky and fading in and out, sometimes with the faintest blush of color; women’s gowns flaring out in dead colors to dead music; the twinkle of long-lost gold. Rushing up to meet him were a cacophony of alien voices heard as though through static.

Oh, we are so happy to be will we see Mr. Ryan tonight maybe I should just set the story straight—

Then the hands dropped him.

A sickening heaviness as gravity took over. He slammed into a mid-level bough sprouting from the stone tree. The branch reeled on its joint, glass leaves clashing together. He grappled madly for purchase, but both his arms and the branch were slick with filth, and he pawed madly, helplessly, sliding, sliding, inch by inch, until at last, he clutched at air.

Muscle memory kicked in. He flung his left arm down, and the floor trembled—an updraft heaved up in a mad effort to cushion his fall.

It was too late. The whole ton of him crashed down upon a blockade. The sandbags were soaked, heavy as stone, and punched the oxygen tanks straight into his back. He howled, heels thrown up in the air, sparks flashing behind his eyelids. Up burst a cloud of shrapnel—glass and rusty nails and rotten wood and god-knew-what-else. His fingers twitched on the drill’s lever two or three times and it skipped off the floor and yanked his arm out of its socket.

He rolled across the floor and thudded anticlimactically against the bar. A line of empty bottles rocked back and forth. He coughed and rocked upright. The ghosts were gone. The floor was empty and dark and he was alone.

Sucking air, he rolled up to his knees. At least the stiffness had mostly faded; his joints bent, his legs lifted, he could feel his fingers. Leaning on the bar, he thrust himself up onto his feet. One good yank on his elbow and his arm popped back into socket. The discomfort shot his awareness into crystal clarity.

The window was the only source of light, and it wasn’t much—like the blush before dawn. Outside the window, a coral garden wavered, sparkling with bioluminescence. He turned in circles, sweeping shadows away with the dream-sight. Detritus, dashed furniture, broken glass, twisted rebar, nothing more. He jerked on the drill’s lever once, twice. It roared up, throbbing in his fist, before whining down again.

Nothing.

So he slammed his drill into the floor and roared until the puddles shivered.

The sound faded off. No answer but that of wood crumbling, glass and masonry rolling to standstills, the steady plink, plink, plink of water on stone.

And a scratchy sound on the ceiling.

He tilted back as far as his stiff back would allow. It took his dream-sight to see what he had missed before.

Up in the glittering boughs of the tree, among the apples and faceless cherubim, a spidery shape drooped. It wore the patched remnants of three diving suits all sewn together and an oversized helmet. An oxygen tank had been lashed down to the body with rope. All odds and ends: scraps of leather from bathysphere seats, men’s dress belts, and neat stitches from fishing wire. Everything was blue in that room except for the single red point in the helmet.

A mind-splitting scream rent the air.

He slammed back into the bar. The scream was a dizzying, ear-blowing, visceral sound. It blew the fog out of his brain and all the alarms came back, plus new ones he hadn’t heard before.

The realization jolted him.

Sister.

“She is my daughter.”

He flung his arms open and bellowed. There was no logic left in him, only waves and waves of overwhelming relief.

Her answering scream echoed through the room over and over. The red light blazed up; his vision smeared. Glasses shuddered under the bar, then began popping—first only one or two, then every glass in the cases, every bottle on the bar. Shapes shifted in his mind, lifting toward the light. He could almost see them.

She plunged down the trunk.

She was… coming a bit fast.

And… she was a bit tall. Maybe six feet?

His bellow wobbled off into a croak. Hadn’t she been, you know… small?

His confusion deepened when she smashed him through the bar.

He plowed shoulder-first through lines of rotten furniture. He flung his drill arm out and it skipped, gouging divots in the tile. A babble keened up in his brain in a voice that wasn’t his.

How could you how could you how dare you I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE

The monster’s weighted boots jammed against his chest as he skidded: black, dripping, and long-legged, a spider with Sister’s mind. Sister’s syringe had been lashed around her left wrist, and a harpoon three feet long strapped to her right arm.

Her harpoon swept up against the painted heaven.

The harpoon was falling on him. The needle was falling on him. The needle. The needle the needle the needle the needle the

His brain popped.

There was a protocol for feelings. Feelings could be Good and Bad. “Good” was for Sister and for the doctors in the Red Place who gave him Blue Stuff and Red Stuff and for the technicians who patched his suit. “Bad” was for things that hurt him or Sister—bullets, blows, explosions. He had operated in this dichotomy for a long, long time. It was comfortable. It was cozy.

So the sensation of real anger was shockingly sinful, dreadfully powerful, carnally thrilling: some ancient, screaming, swearing, swinging monstrosity blazing from the impacts of a thousand injustices, a thousand traumas, a thousand unanswered prayers. He was dazzled by its brightness, by its power, and most of all, by its owner: for it was his, and his alone. His fury would fight for him, his fury would die for him, and he loved it, he loved it, he loved it!

They were still skidding over the floor when Sister’s harpoon punched down. With speed he didn’t know he had, he slapped the shaft aside, rolled with the impetus of his blow—his terrible weight now brought against her—and flung the barb through the floor.

They rolled free of each other, he rolling onto his feet and thrusting himself aside with an updraft, she with a long-legged spring and a hard yank on the harpoon. All the hair stood up on the back of his neck and he barely ducked in time before she boomed off a bolt of lightning. The far wall blew apart with a shuddering roar and little tongues of electricity licked at him through the dust.

The jolts felt good.

Pain was good!

Her babbling was still racing through him, words he could feel like a second heartbeat.

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate

And to his shock—a shock that was sinfully delightful—words of his own crawled out of some dark recess. They began as a whisper and rolled up louder and louder and louder:

how

how dare you

How dare you.

How dare you!

He screamed, beating his drill against the floor.

She screamed, beating her harpoon against the wall.

They flung themselves at each other. She slung arms of lightning at him; he slung his fist—much harder than he had to—and wrenched half of the bar apart by the mere will of his mind. The bar-top launched between them, the lightning boomed into it and the whole thing flipped over him and shattered against the wall. The shockwave stole his breath.

Good!

She sprang across the room—she was so nimble, so quick—

jack jump over the candle stick

—and he was bashed from behind.

Jack be nimble!

Tables and chairs. She was hitting him with furniture. A booth cartwheeled into him, bursting into clouds of splinters and nails and rotten stuffing. He stumbled, but he did not fall. He hooted at her, something like laughter, and snapped his fingers. Droplets hissed on the palm of his hand and the little ports on the inside of his glove burned silver, and out spidered electricity, electricity like anticipation, electricity like thirst. He crashed through a pinwheeling table in a fog of splinters and flung his hand up and lightning boomed out of him. Half of the wall collapsed in a wave of plaster.

She flickered through the onslaught in puffs of violet and carmine and flung her arm out in response. Invisible hands yanked his electric arm sideways and he blasted an arc of electric destruction across the wall, across the ruins of the staircase, but he flung his other arm up with a howl and popped off a neater, thinner bolt of light.

This one struck home. With a screech, red light flickering, she missed a step, a foot slid, she solidified—solid, blacker than black—her arms and legs seized up—she tumbled and hit the floor—

like dove hunting

He stalked toward her, snapping his fingers. Light arced from thumb to forefinger to the gap in his palm. He could roll the light

like cigarettes

She recovered fast, rolling up awkwardly to all fours, then to her feet, the oversized burden of her helm dragging her down as she stumbled away. He did not speed up. He snapped his fingers and the light that spat out was orange. He was starting to burn red-hot. He was burning, burning, burning, molten inside and out, and with mad, curdling bloodlust he chased her with his eyes.

He didn’t have to run.

She would come to him.

Static hissed on in his helmet. He didn’t notice it at first.

“Eleanor!”

Sister jerked aside like a startled fish and slammed against the wall. She had jumped up onto the stage area—

a woman with her hands trembling on either side of the mike, her eyes closed as she surrendered to one rapturous note

—which was framed by a single sheet of glass. The mirror shivered as Sister dashed herself against it before drunkenly zig-zagging into a thicket of music stands.

Static crackled.

“Eleanor, where are you?”

He marched toward her, dragging his drill against the tile. He filled the mirror one step at a time. She was scrabbling to her feet, pawing at her helmet, hissing helplessly. The babble was gone. All that was left was the static.

“What are you doing? Where’s your video feed?”

He thundered toward her. She took off like a

little bird trying to fly. The cat crouched

and flopped back to the floor. Something was off, something was wrong. It was a hurt that ran through her whole body. He could feel it, same way she could feel him burning.

“I’m sorry we have to do this, Eleanor. Just be honest with us. That’s all we ask. It’s all we ever ask.”

They smashed into the mirror together. Fissures lanced, spiderwebbed, showered them with shards, and he yanked her back and slammed her against the mirror again, again, again, until the wall was naked stone and they were powdered in silver. Every blow throbbed through him and his heart was crushing, crushing, crushing in an invisible vise.

“We can tell you’re up to something, Eleanor. Your heart is racing.”

His burning fist was knotted up under her throat. He could feel her fear like ice in his own stomach. She was afraid. She was afraid and he loomed over her and he could feel the fear like silver trembling, like

the white belly rolled, the tail lashed, the jaws gaped

“Just turn on the camera.”

He shoved her against the wall, dragged her across it, hit every blade of glass and crooked nail and he could feel everything, even the weight and heat of his own arm. She stabbed stupidly at him, but with the little needle she’d borne as a child; it snapped against the lip of his helmet and flipped into the false twilight.

He hurled her after it.

She banged onto the floor and rolled up against the window. Where his hand had gripped, the metal of her helmet burned scarlet. The fabric had burned away at her throat. He could see the raw flesh, blood. His knuckles were burning with her blood.

“I’m sending the others. I’m sorry, Eleanor. This is for your own good.”

A click.

He marched on her, shot through with agonies that weren’t his own, steaming in the chilled air. His index finger played with the lever in the drill, which spun loosely, lightly, over and over.

He could have driven it down below her helmet into the unguarded belly. Instead, he squatted down before her. She swung the harpoon, but she was too close, too uncoordinated. The shaft gonged him on the helmet. He let it. His fingers folded around it. She yanked back, but her strength was nothing compared to his. She was crumpling in front of him, her knees folding under her as she twisted away.

Slowly, he stood. He dragged her up with him. Her hand clamped onto his wrist, then clapped onto his viewplate. Fingers of light licked across the glass. She shook with the effort.

Pathetic.

How dare you.

Harpoon locked in his fist, he whipped her through the air in a perfect arc and dashed her against the floor. Her elbow snapped and her shoulder dislocated and

his heart exploded.

In a day full of agonies, this was the worst: like someone had fired off a car battery in his chest. He heard screaming, an unbelievable screaming, but he couldn’t tell whether it was him or her or both. All he knew was that one second, he was upright, and the next, he was lying on his back, spasming like he had just hugged a live wire.

He seized over and over. He chewed the insides of his mouth until he choked on blood. Blackness and haze curled in on the edges of his vision. He fought it back, wild as a beast—not here, not like this—but desire wasn’t enough.

He blacked out.

When he drifted back into awareness, she was looming over him. The side of her helmet was dented in, the glass in the porthole shattered. Through it, he could see a single black eye, strands of hair, dark circles. Her arms hung limply at her sides. He’d broken them both. And some ribs. There was worse inside. He could feel that, too.

If she had wanted fear, she didn’t get it; he felt nothing.

He lay there and breathed. Deep breaths. Counted to three. Deep breaths. He cast his will down into his arms and found only meat. She stood broken against the light. No words. No feelings. He was starting to feel all of her fractures. Shouldn’t she be better by now? Shouldn’t she have healed up? He remembered bullets blowing through her and the wounds closing up behind them.

She set her boot on the throat of his helmet and leaned down.

Why are you here?

He stared up at her blearily.

I found out the truth, you know. I read all about how we were made. You’re a lie.

In the wake of his anger, there was nothing to return to. No Good, no Bad; no diving; no Jewels; no boat. He was floating in limbo.

Suchong and Alexander made you. You never loved me. They made you love me. Love that’s not a choice isn’t love at all.

He wanted to be angry again but the spark was gone.

I can’t kill you right now. I’m tired.

Her boot grated off of his throat. There was so much damage. She shouldn’t have been able to stand.

If I see you again, I’ll kill you. Go die somewhere else.

Behind her, a concussive burst. Another long, leggy specter materialized out of the shadow. Then another burst, and another. Spidery shapes drifted out of the darkness, bent below the hideous weights of their helmets and tanks. Such tiny bodies, such massive burdens.

I killed it, said Sister. Sinclair was planning to use it for something. I don’t know what.

From the dark came metallic scraping, clicking, clanking. Shades surrounded him. Red winks in the blackness.

Daddy, said a not-Sister. It’s Daddy.

They stood around him and stared. They were all whispering: Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.

Not your Daddy, Sister said. Her voice was sullen. My Daddy.

They trembled altogether. A dozen alien feelings welled over him before he realized that they weren’t his. There was hatred, there was anger, there was suspicion, but the common thread was the adoration. It was as tactile as the air he breathed. If he hadn’t been so drained, he would have taken each feeling and looked at them a while. Maybe there was a new one that could belong to him.

Stop it, Sister said. He’s no father. He doesn’t love anyone. He’s a trained animal.

Look! He’s still alive, said a not-Sister eagerly.

Not long. Look at his heart. Sister turned. I need ADAM.

A pop, a wet red cloud, and she was gone. He was left lying there, breathing, waiting. The shades looked at each other, looked back at him, and one by one, dissipated. Only one remained. She leaned over him, head cocking slowly. He could now feel Sister through his whole body without even trying. But this strange new not-Sister—all he could feel was what she radiated. And what she radiated was an intense jealousy and something like love.

She turned to look at the ocean. Like Sister, she had a smaller needle lashed around her left arm. There was a baby bottle screwed onto it. Without looking down, she unscrewed the bottle, procured a plunger from one of her dozens of pockets, capped the bottle. She tossed it to his side. Something red and shining splashed inside of it.

A pop, a glowing red cloud, and she was gone.

There was nothing left to do but wait for his life to return to him. From far away, he could feel Sister healing. This was comforting.

Good.

He breathed.

This, too, was good.

Deep in his belly, the anger uncurled. He breathed, and the flame swelled up. He cupped it in the darkness of his body and watched it tremble.

How dare you.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

#bioshock #fanfiction #vvatchword #i have committed so many literary sins here #The Dramatic List of Hard Returns drives me crazy and I should stop that shit #whatever #I want someone to see it #look at it #look #some guys fight and shit

[demcnsinmymind]

ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏᴅᴅʟʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

tagged by: @ebonyforged​

tagging: you

longer so behind a cut

What does your muse smell like? This one’s really hard and I don’t even know why. I don’t picture him to smell much like anything and am more than open to hear what others might think he could smell like. I think someone said that they imagine it to be peppermint-y, sandal wood-y. Whenever I think about it, the word ‘frosty’ just comes to mind, like the way the air smells when it’s really cold and idk why. Just a down to earth barely there smell and simple body/hair wash.

What do your muse’s hands feel like?   Precanon hands were pretty normal just in about every way. He certainly wasn’t a handyman so they’re on the softer side, his hands were used for lots of writing, be that physical or digital, and maybe holding a camera, but he never really carried anything heavy, so yeah, pretty well cared for and standard. Postcanon hands are a different story. Months of surviving inside Collingwood and trying to find/work out a way out have left his hands much rougher and dryer. They’re a bit calloused, but it’s not severe. It’s just in general that if you look at his hands postcanon, you know he’s done some stuff to survive.

What does your muse usually eat in a day?   I headcanon him to be pretty terrible at eating, both pre- and postcanon. Sure, he loves to eat and he does have a knack for shitty fast food at times, but he’s got a habit of forgetting to eat and does not eat regularly. It usually takes people reminding him to eat or him getting really hungry until he eats something. Precanon that’s because of his workaholism, postcanon it’s due to his PTSD and general trauma surrounding the fact that he almost starved to death. Pre-canon Lance occasionally had phases where he tried to eat better and healthier, especially since he also used to be a sports nut, but his job/being a workaholic just won’t allow keeping up strict and healthy eating habits. Post canon Lance eats waaaaay less than pre canon Lance, but he’ll eat literally anything and might even hoard some food just in case, simply because he still fears starving again. Even though he might not even eat that much of it. So yeah, his relationship with eating/food is just highly complicated.

Does your muse have a good singing voice?  It’s funny, but I headcanon that he does not. In fact, I headcanon that he has a terrible singing voice, which is why he rarely sings and only if he’s by himself. I don’t know why, he has a great speaking voice given his job as actor/director. But he just...can’t sing for shit haha.

Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks? Laaaawd, he has a truckload of bad habits. The most obvious being his previously mentioned bad eating habits. Sleeping is also another thing. Or more so, his lack thereof. Pre-canon, he constantly pushed himself to stay awake way past his getting tired. And he always slept too little, once again because workaholic. He’s a little bit better at sleeping post-canon, simply because he now considers sleep deprivation a terrible thing to feel and cheerishes his sleep more all thanks to all his being deprived of it inside Collingwood. Other bad habits include getting into ‘relationships’ he knows are shitty for both people involved, over-analyzing things, overcompensating and talking too big, interrupting people and being too straight forward at times. Nervous ticks include getting fidgety and fumbling with stuff when he’s nervous, chewing on his lower lip, and generally just talking to himself/a camera when nervous/scared. The scribbling/writing is also a big thing, as has been made evident by all his writing on walls.

What does your muse usually look like / wear?

I mean

Edgy early 2000s MTV tv host type. Converse sneakers, jeans, black/band shirts, black jackets. He’ll hate you if you make him wear a suit/tie/dress shoes. Sure, he’ll wear them for a job if need be, but privately? Fuck no.

Is your muse affectionate? How much? How so?

Surprisingly, yes, he is. I’d say it’s right in the middle, not too affectionate, but also not cold. But I’m talking about physically affectionate. Verbally not so much.  He was quite touchy feely and surprisingly gentle with people in canon, especially people he liked/cared about like Sasha for example. In general, it takes him a long time to warm up to people and trust them/like them enough and will keep his distance from most people, but if/once you’ve managed to crash that barrier with him, then he’ll be very affectionate if the situation calls for it. I don’t headcanon him as a person who’ll be much into cuddling, excessive hand holding and a lot of kissing, he’s aro after all, but there will be gentle touches and caresses here and there. He doesn’t care for it being returned, doesn’t even really know how to handle/enjoy it most of the time if he’s on the receiving end, but he likes giving out these little affectionate gestures.

What position does your muse sleep in? He’s a side sleeper. Nothing much else to say there. It’s canon. 

Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room? It depends entirely on the context. If he’s doing stuff for the show, like moderating a scene or acting, absolutely. In private/not in character? Nah, not really. He’s more reserved and does his own thing, which usually doesn’t involve much noise and volume. That’s only intensified post canon, he’s learned to be sneaky and quiet inside Collingwood, and Azzy gets a kick out of sneaking up on people all soundless and creepy.

#text post #headcanons #hc : basics #hc : psyche #hc : habits #hc : prefs #thanks for tagging me <3

[roscoehamiltons]

ate brunch ✔, did a workout ✔ , showered✔ , got my snacks ready ✔ , time to catch up and watch the british GP! 

(all the details i know from what i’ve seen online is who’s on the podium and that there was a safety car involved)

- interesting that george is starting on the softs

- i wish the mclaren chrome cars had less papaya on them; they basically look the same as before when viewing them from the front

- thank god there’s no br*d p*tt in the formation lap like ppl were saying earlier 🙄

- omg lando is leading!!!!

- no lewis losing multiple places!!! 

- oscar did such a good job to keep up

- yesss lewis gaining back a place already, alonso is next!!!

- oh drs is gonna be enabled soon, i’m sure max will pass lando soon then. he already has a less than a second between them

- inch arresting that mclaren is still able to keep up with max 👀 what r they cooking

- easy pass by max, what did i say

- lol at the commentator saying he was surprised that george didn’t complain about charles only for the radio broadcast to show george complaining

- yessss lewis got past alonso, carlos next!

- nyck once again crashing into ppl 😬 luckily nothing major. i don’t particularly care for him but i do have sympathy for his situation and desperate people drive desperately

- charles let’s keep george behind u as long as possible pls

- oh nooooo este retiring!!!! what happened? engine failure?

- r the drops on the visor sweat or rain george?

- oh finally something happening... charles pitting?? ferrari fucking up or no? (probably, because it’s ferrari)

- ah, the commentators are saying charles can’t find much pace in the hards and mercs can do an overcut on charles now so ferrari did indeed fuck up then

- ouch the commentators saying the alfas are not performing well 😔 what i would give for valtteri and guanyu to have a better car

- carlos pitting... let’s see how it goes. hard tires? interesting choice but ig they can’t go on the softs 

- george pitting now. oof a slower pit stop, mercs need to work on that

- i like charles a lot better than george but george did a good job to pass him. gonna give him credit where it’s due, he’s a very good driver. 

- oh kmag’s car is on fire. and there’s the safety car i heard about!

- hm ferrari pitting charles again...and nearly hitting alex in the pitlane smh 🤦‍♀️

- not a terrible pitstop for lewis but slow compared to mclaren

- random but i just remembered that the protestors were threatening to come onto the track for silverstone, i’m glad that they haven’t so far (and probably won’t since i haven’t heard anything about it)

- oop george getting mad about lewis getting ahead. tbh i thought his reaction would’ve been more extreme given the reaction he’s gotten online about it lol but i think one little swear word is fine. also like the commentator said, it’s just how the luck went 🤷‍♀️

- alas i already know the podium order so i know lewis doesn’t get ahead of lando in the end 😔 at least i’m not going to get my hopes up. i say that yet part of me is still holding my breath that he somehow does it as i’m watching the restart and first few corners

- god lewis was so close to passing lando!!! such good racing with both of them. if only the mercedes had better straight line speed, if only they had a better car

- i missed it, did lance not give pierre the place back when he went off track?

- alex passing carlos!!!!!!!! way to go!!!!! alex has been having such a good weekend, i’m so happy and proud of him. and now somehow charles is ahead of carlos now too 🤭

- oof carlos driving desperate now. he’s lucky he didn’t crash into the back of pierre before he passed him. 

- as i say that pierre ends up retiring 🤦‍♀️  contact with lance? i wish they had showed what happened. nvm, as i say that, they show the replay lol. 

- love the commentators hyping up alex and saying he deserves the points this weekend 😌😌 and lewis as well! i used to just watch the international feed but i’m really liking the f1 tv feed so far

- miss flo is the flag waver!!!! 

overall thoughts: mclaren did a very good job to hold on, both lando and oscar had really impressive drives today! lando deserves driver of the day. but also i think people have underestimated oscar and if he continues this form and improves, people should be worried. always happy and proud to see lewis on the podium, especially when it was unexpected. not to mention it’s his home race! hearing the crowd cheering for him in the post-interview and on the podium is so heartwarming and deserved. i just wish that mercs had a better car lol but don’t we all. very happy and proud of alex as well, what a good weekend on his home race as well. i feel like it was one of the more entertaining races of the year even though there were a couple of lulls, so i’m gonna rate it 8/10. 

#f1 #formula one #2023 british gp

[racingliners]

F1 Re-Watch 2022: Round 14 - Belgium

So I remember sweet f all from Spa, bc I’m pretty sure that was around the time of both family stress, and my parents catching covid, so this and the next two races are total blanks to me bc I was both not on tumblr much and didn’t watch any of Channel 4 highlights.

(I mean I’m also running on the assumption that Verstappen won bc that’s almost all he did last year).

So let’s just jump in and hope Seb and Lewis had a somewhat fun time

I am highkey dreading this race, Zandvoort and Monza bc I have NO IDEA what happened so like these combined could be six hours I never get back

at least Seb looks pretty in the intro

As I also watched Spa 2021 I’m glad I have context for whatever that race was.

ANYWAY, starting grid:

Mick P19 :(

why the fuck is Charles in 15th????

NICKY P11, GOATIFI

Seb and Lance top 10 😭🙌

how on Earth did Alex get 6th in quali?! (I mean, the ultimate good for him, but HOW?!)

I’m really going to have to start looking up quali results before I press play to avoid all this whiplash bc I didn’t even notice Sainz on pole aovhaeog

[Start/Lap 1]: Perez almost driving into Alonso at the start aegehg 

“A brilliant start from Sebastian Vettel” THAT’S MY BOYYYYYYYYY

oh fuck me Lewis on Fernando violence

so Lewis does not have a fun time in this race then 😭

The racing gods giveth (Seb up into P5) and the racing gods stab you in the chest (Lewis DNF)

[Lap 2]: The way you can literally see the Ferrari bouncing up and down the straight. Yikes.

NICKY NO don’t take out Val like that

cut to a solitary Lewis by his car. Does not spark any joy.

Thank fuck we have a replay bc WHAT WERE THOSE TWO LAPS?!

Seb’s start was bloody gorgeous though. KING SHIT.

but yeah... no F1 car should be flung up into the air like that with any kind of contact.

Oh not even Lance and Seb being violent on the first lap. Everyone left their braincells at home it seems.

[Lap 4]: Charles making his first pit stop bc pain I guess????

Seb being in 5th is the race’s only saving grace rn

...there was a tear off in one of Charles’ front breaks is2g I’ll start causing violence next

right safety car coming in, I paused to grab some chocolate for emotional support snacking.

oh boy Charles doing his own strategy calls and you know what I trust him more than the Ferrari pitwall

[Lap 5]: Perez v Russell v Alonso. I AM IN DISTRESS

“Then comes Sebastian Vettel” INJECT IT INTO MY VEINS

I mean he’s just there in P5 vibing but GO ON SEB!!!

Verstappen already into P6 after starting 14th

oh no don’t cut to a solitary Lewis I’m sad again

[Lap 6]: ALEX??? PASSING A McLAREN????

What is going on in the House of Commons

Seb drops to P6

[Lap 7]: Jesus that shot of Verstappen closing on Alonso really shows how strong the RB18 was last year.

“We are for Plan B” Please... I’m not strong enough I am already at my limit 😭

[Lap 8]: Verstappen already into P3. If I speak.

also my emotional support chocolate had been devoured.

Charles passing Gasly at the bus stop chicane? Nice.

[Lap 10]: Okay I think the race has finally settled down now, apart from Charles making his way up through the field

I’m still this close to asking for a refund though

Clinging onto Seb in P6 and Lance in P9 with both hands rn

cut to Jacky Ickx, watch Ferrari disrespect his presence with more clownery

[Lap 11]: Ignoring potential RBR team orders and focusing on Seb being almost a second behind Alonso

oop Sainz pits, tbf comms have been talking about high tracks temps so no wonder people are complaining about high deg

[Lap 13]: Oh Verstappen got past Perez. 

anyway, Charles up to P6!!

“Could George Russell undercut Perez” oh I hope so I’ll take anything at this point

Seb also pits, it was slow 😭

[Lap 15]: Charles being a little bit unhinged trying to get past Perez, I support his right to go feral

“We are considering Plan D” I WILL BURN DOWN MARANELLO

No, I’m not kidding. I’ll call it a belated Ides of March.

Russell v Charles 👀

whew he actually got past on the kemmel straight!

George said I’ll avenge Lewis by dragging the W13 places it doesn’t deserve to be

[Lap 17]: SEB INTO P8!!! LET’S GET IT

I’m also acknowledging Ferrari putting Charles on Plan D and moving on

MICK PASSING NICKY UP EAU ROUGE!!! A KING!!!!

[Lap 18]: ...and Verstappen retakes the lead

“Hasta la Vista Carlos” eafuvhefuawh okay Brundle I’ll give you that one right it was funny

oh Seb is on the hards. I do not know how to feel about that.

[Lap 19]: Alpha Tauri finally remember to pit Yuki

“Why would we stop now” A very good question Charles, you tell em

[Lap 21]: I’m actually glad Seb is holding the gap to Alonso ahead bc I still haven’t recovered from the first lap

And Perez passes Sainz like he’s just taking a stroll

oooh Lance passes Galy round the outside of the the chicane for P11, noice

[Lap 23]: It’s me I’m the unimpressed McLaren garage

also thank fuck we’re past half-distance

Lance v Dan up Eau Rouge??? BOYS THINK OF MY NERVES

[Lap 25]: Seb watch: he has really closed up to Alonso, I’m stress

[Lap 26]: oh looks like we’re gonna get another pitstop shuffle *cue Disco music*

oh fuck Ferrari are double stacking

okay it wasn’t awful

[Lap 28]: Oh dear potential Canadian on Canadian violence.

Anyway Seb’s in P5 so I think we should end the race and call it a day

[Lap 31]: Charles closing up to Seb, my Ferrari boys 😭

oh and here we are with a Charles onboard

not surprising that was an easy pass, nice to see my lads briefly reunited though

[Lap 33]: Russell hunting Sainz for sport, gap down to just over 4 seconds

[Lap 34]: Seb pits, he couldn’t make the 1 stop work I guess 😔

but still in the poinnnnnnnnnnts!!!!!

[Lap 35]: and he passes Gasly for P7!!!!

oh shit he got double French tag teamed

asdfghjkl Ocon with the double slipstream, maximum zoom

[Lap 36]: Sainz v Russell watch: gap down to under 3 seconds

oh jeez not Brundle calling the Merc a Williams asvhauvhuhu

[Lap 37]: a 4 car battle for P10 you say? 👀

Midfield spice (beloved)

[Lap 38] I can’t believe it took this long to make reference to the Great Contract Drama of Summer Break 2022. I may have been tuned out of a lot of the races last year but boy was last Summer Break the most hilarious

“It’s too late for Plan G” McLaren???? Don’t take lessons from Ferrari I BEG

[Lap 39]: Alex having the best time being a train conductor as he clings onto P10. Pet power!!

[Lap 40]: I’m still trying to get my head around Verstappen going from P14 to P1 in the dry like ?????

Like yes I will acknowledge that Verstappen is a good driver, but jeez man

[Lap 42]: ANYWAY, Seb still in P8, please Spa give me something in the way of joy

Sainz v Russell watch: gap holding at 2 seconds so I think Ferrari are going to escape Spa with a podium

and cut to a replay of Yuki passing Zhou before the bus stop chicane

[Lap 43]: I was about to question why they were pitting Leclerc, but it’s to try and get fastest lap.

oh jeez but Alonso is right there. 

And he passes Charles. Clowneria Ferrari strikes again.

There is not a big enough facepalm emoji.

[Lap 44/Finish]: oh phew Charles got past Alonso on the Kemmel straight

and Sainz holds onto P3. Props to George for trying though.

Charles didn’t even get fastest lap. And he got a 5 sec penalty for speeding in the pitlane so he drops to P6 🥲

but anyway SEB POINTS!!!!!!!!!! WE LOVE TO SEE IT!!!!!

Seb finished in P8 and nothing else happened idk what any of you are talking about.

Ugh yeah I’m trying to not let my personal attachment to some drivers affect my thought on the race but... oof my friends. This didn’t spark that much joy. Granted, there was a somewhat decent amount of action, but the first two laps were not fun to watch. So I’ll give it a tentative 6 front wings out of 10. Next race - Zandvoort! 

#F1 2022 re watch #F1 Liveblog #Belgian GP edition #F1 Re watch

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

7 times Merlin shows off his skills as a Physician,

+1 time The Knights have to work together to stitch Merlin up.

TW: Lots of blood and graphic description of injury/sickness.

1)

The patrol had been going perfectly fine, even the small skirmish with a group of bandits was over and done with pretty quickly.

It was when the knights were taking stock of things after the fight that Elyan found Gwaine struggling to stand, leaning his weight against a tree and owlishly blinking his eyes with a look of deep concentration on his face.

Elyan put a soft hand on his back, quietly saying Gwaine’s name. The other knight whips his head up quickly to look at him, and the movement almost toppled him, but Elyan catches him with a hand on each shoulder and raised an eyebrow. Gwaine stares at him with squinted eyes, slurring his words as he slowly says:

“Elyan, mate, I don’t mean to uh... freak you out, but... there’s like... a whole bunch of you.”

It’s then that Elyan finally notices the slow trickle of blood from behind Gwaine’s ear, dribbling down his neck, he keeps hold of Gwaine’s shoulder as he looks behind him:

“Merlin! Gwaine hit his head!”

Elyan looks back around when he hears the knight gasp, to see him looking at him with wide eyes:

“Fuck, did I?? That’s not good, someone should.... should call Merlin.”

Elyan just bites his lip to stop himself from laughing, and nods sympathetically, as if agreeing with him. Gwaine slumps back against the tree and Elyan helps him sit down as Arthur and Merlin finally rush over.

Elyan moves out of the way, and Merlin crouches in front of the injured knight, setting his medical bag next to him as he takes Gwaine’s face in soft hands.

Gwaine gives him a bleary grin as Merlin checks his pupils and huffs:

“You... are very pretty.”

Merlin would have been happy to ignore Gwaine’s nonsense, but flushes slightly when he hears Elyan and Arthur snort behind him. He scowls at them briefly over his shoulder before beginning to clean the wound behind Gwaine’s ear, and checking for any further injury. The other knights gather around, having checked over the bandits for anything of interest, and Percival is the first to speak:

“He’ll be fine, won’t he, Merlin?”

Before Merlin can answer, Gwaine lifts a clumsy hand to pat the physician’s head with a shit-eating grin on his face:

“You know who is fine? This guy, very very fine.”

Merlin chuckles as he blushes, taking Gwaine’s hand and putting it back in the knight’s lap. The others laugh behind him but Merlin ignores them as he works, keeping his gaze on the wound, but speaking to Gwaine:

“Thank you Gwaine, but why don’t you keep your hands to yourself for a few hours?”

Gwaine huffs and pouts, looking very much like a child, but nods when Merlin smiles at him. Merlin finishes up, cleaning his hands as he stands, looking to the knights behind him:

“He’s got a pretty big concussion so he can’t fall asleep for the next twelve hours or so. He might feel nauseous at some point, and his balance will be way off, so I’ll ride with him. We need to keep getting water in him, but other than that, there’s not much we can do until it clears up. He’ll have a banging headache for a few days.”

Arthur nods, trusting Merlin’s judgement and gesturing Leon and Percival forward to help the knight up. Thankfully, they were on the tail end of their patrol and can just ride straight back to the city, but everyone takes great amusement in Gwaine’s slurred and nonsensical flirting with Merlin. That is, until the concussed knight turns his attention to Percival, and devotes his shoddy pick-up lines to the flushed giant, at which point it goes from mildly amusing, to absolutely hilarious.

2)

Everyone worries when Leon doesn’t show up to training.

Gwaine being an hour late? Not a worry. Leon not being early? Definitely a worry.

But when Lancelot sprints back to the training field after being sent to check on him, calling Merlin’s name desperately, everyone’s worry gets vastly amplified.

Merlin runs up to meet him halfway across the field, brow furrowed in worry. Lance rests his hands on his knees for a moment, struggling to speak through his quick breathing:

“He’s... there’s something wrong with him, I... I think he’s sick.”

Merlin immediately starts a quick paced journey back up to the castle, sprinting even quicker than Lancelot in his panic; Arthur and the others follow behind him, having not heard the conversation but turning understandably panicked at Merlin’s reaction.

When they finally catch up to him, he’s sat on the side of Leon’s bed, checking his breathing and pulse with a frown on his face. The knight is practically catatonic, eyes shut tightly, murmuring and twitching in his sleep, drenched in sweat and shivering.

Merlin looks back with a gulp to Arthur, stood by the door with a worried expression:

“I need you to go to Gaius’ chambers and pick up my bag. It’s fully stocked, I re-did it last night and it should have everything I need, but I can’t leave him.”

Arthur’s eyes widen at Merlin’s last words, obviously realising how sick Leon is, but Merlin’s harsh-

“NOW, Arthur!”

-breaks him out of his stupor, and he sprints away in the direction of the Physician’s chambers. The other knights, a breathless Lancelot having finally joined them, go to crowd into the room, but Merlin looks up at them, sternly saying:

“No, everyone out, it’s probably contagious, and with Gaius in the lower-town I do not have enough hands to treat all of you at once. Out.”

They all reluctantly file out of the room, but leave the door open, and Merlin rolls his eyes fondly as they all stand in the hallway, staring at their sick friend with furrowed brows and bitten lips.

Leon mumbles something and shifts in his sleep. Merlin looks back down at him, wiping the sweat slicked hair away from his forehead and rubbing a soft hand up and down his arm. The knight blearily opens his eyes, breaths shallow and rasping as his hand twitches towards Merlin. The younger man gives him a soft smile, hiding his worry as he takes Leon’s hand in his own. Leon relaxes slightly at that, blinking at him confusedly as he mutters:

“Mer...lin? I don’t... don’t feel... great.”

Merlin nods, stroking the back of Leon’s hand as he softly replies:

“I know, Leon, I’ve got you. You’ll be fine in no time, alright? Just go back to sleep.”

Leon nods slightly, and closes his eyes again, trusting Merlin’s words. His hand goes limp in Merlin’s once again and the physician swallows worriedly.

Arthur finally runs back in with Merlin’s bag clutched tightly in his hands. He’s breathing deeply, and at Merlin’s gesture, gently chucks the bag to him from the middle of the room, retreating again to stand by the door.

Merlin turns his attention back to Leon, rummaging through his bag, as Arthur asks, the concern clear in his voice:

“What else do you need, Merlin?”

Merlin doesn’t looks up at him as he pulls various supplies out form his bag, checking Leon’s breathing periodically:

“I need a few changes of clothes, a patient pallet brought up from Gaius’ chambers, a constant supply of cold water and clean cloths, and a spare chamber-pot; he’s almost certainly going to throw up at some point.”

Arthur nods, going out to speak to the knights. He sends Percival and Gwaine to the physician’s chambers to bring back some of Merlin’s clothes and a pallet, sends Mordred to talk to the steward about having a servant outside Leon’s chambers constantly so Merlin could have whatever he needed, whenever he needed it, and sends Elyan to rummage through the storage rooms for a spare chamber-pot. 

He walks slowly back into the room, but still keeps his distance, fidgeting harshly with his hands as he gulps, quietly, but worriedly asking:

“Will he be alright??”

Merlin, still not looking up from Leon and his bag, replies softly:

“He should be ok, but I need to keep an eye on him. I’ll be sleeping in here until he’s better, and I won’t be joining you at all until he’s at least up and walking around. Gaius should be back day after tomorrow, so try not to get injured until then, otherwise go to Gwen, she’s got a pretty good understanding of basic treatment. Shut the door behind you.”

Arthur nods mutely, understanding Merlin’s dismissal, and walking from the room silently. He turns back, quietly saying:

“They’ll be a servant out here to fetch anything you need. Thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin nods distractedly, focused on mixing some sort of paste in a bowl as Arthur sighs, and shuts the door behind him.

It was about two weeks before Merlin moved out of Leon’s chambers, but it was at least a month before he stopped periodically, almost subconsciously, reaching for the knight’s wrist to check his pulse. There had been a few scares, when his pulse was so weak that Merlin could barely feel it; he lost a lot of sleep over those first two weeks, too afraid to close his eyes in case Leon stopped breathing, and too concerned about his friend to let another physician take over.

Leon found it endearing, but didn’t mention it when he noticed Merlin coincidentally bumping into him multiple times a day and finding excuses to touch his fingers to his wrist or neck, even briefly.

He was fine in the end, thanks to Merlin’s thorough treatment, but it was a scary couple of weeks, when having to think about burying Leon was a genuine worry.

(The knight also demanded that Merlin be given a week off from his manservant duties when he was feeling better, which Arthur eagerly agreed to. Though he did spend almost the entire time trailing Leon round like a lost puppy, under the guise of “making sure he didn’t overdo it”.)

3)

Since he had arrived back in Camelot, Elyan had been spending more and more time in the family’s Blacksmith’s.

He felt the need to fill the void that his father had left in the old forge, and he enjoyed returning to his roots; there was something therapeutic about being surrounded by fire and hot metal once again.

But his years away from it all made him a little clumsy, having lost a little of the instinctual caution he had when he was a teenager. Which is what led him to be sat on a bench in the Physician’s chambers, watching with fond amusement as Merlin fretted and gathered various dressings and bandages.

The burn on Elyan’s arm was serious enough to need more than just cold water, but it was definitely not serious enough to warrant such worry from the Warlock.

He finally came to stand between Elyan’s legs, checking over the burn with soft hands after placing everything he had gathered on the table next to him.

Merlin looked up at the knight, and Elyan had to stop himself frowning at the man’s worry, and was that... fear?

He finally cleared his throat, glancing away briefly before saying:

“I uh... I could lessen the pain a little with magic, if you’re ok with that. But I have more than enough supplies to treat it normally if you don’t want me to, it’s really no-”

Elyan cuts him off with a gentle hand on the shoulder and a soft smile:

“It’s fine, Merlin. We trust you, remember? If you think your magic can help, then by all means, go ahead. I trust you.”

Merlin lets out a breath, relaxing as he nods and returns Elyan’s smile with a weak one of his own. He had only told the truth about his magic a few weeks ago, and things were still a little... raw. After what happened to his father, Merlin was expecting Elyan to be one of the least accepting of the sorcery, and he wasn’t wrong at first, but after a few harsh words from Gwen about all the times Merlin had saved her, and about how hard Merlin had tried to save Tom, Elyan did a complete switch, and became one of The Warlock’s most ardent defenders.

Elyan marvelled at the warmth spreading down his arm as Merlin’s eyes glowed gold and he muttered a few incantations. The burn was still there, but it seemed cleaner, and definitely hurt less. Merlin followed up his magic with some burn salve and carefully wrapped bandages, looking up at Elyan with relief in his eyes at the knight’s fond, trusting smile.

He continued his bustling around the chambers under Elyan’s amused watch, returning with a few small tinctures:

“Take one of these a day, starting this evening; it’ll help with the pain overnight. Come back the day after tomorrow and I’ll re-bandage it. Let me know if... uh, you want me to... you know-”

He wiggles his fingers vaguely, and Elyan raises an amused eyebrow at him, slowly saying:

“Re-do the magic?”

Merlin bites his lip and nods slightly. Elyan gives him a wide grin, hopping off the bench and ruffling Merlin’s hair:

“Will do, Merls. Thank you.”

With that, the knight walks cheerfully out of the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving a very happy, slightly less worried Warlock/Physician/Servant behind

4)

A particularly impressive move from Lancelot and a misstep from Arthur is what leads to The King sat on the grass with a belt between his teeth and Merlin stood behind him, one hand reached around and flat on his chest, the other on his shoulder-blade.

Lancelot is understandably freaking out, and Arthur is half focussed on how impressed he is, and half focussed on the stabbing pain in his shoulder.

Merlin moves his hand slightly and Arthur groans around the belt, biting down as the servant mutters an apology:

“Sorry. This is gonna hurt like a bitch but I need you to stay as still as possible, ok?-”

Arthur nods slightly, mumbling something that sounds like “just get on with it”, but it’s hard to understand with a mouth stuffed with leather:

“-Alright, on three, ok? One, TWO-”

On two, Merlin pushes Arthur’s arm back into it’s socket with a sickening pop, and The King groans even louder, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down on the belt in his pain. The knights all wince in sympathy, Leon putting a soft hand on Arthur’s other shoulder as the man breathes deeply.

After a few moments, Merlin straightens the arm, moving it round in a circle to make sure everything is where it’s meant to be, before grabbing the sling he’d had Percival hold, and wrapping Arthur’s arm carefully, letting it hang against his chest.

Arthur finally spits the belt out, grimacing as he flexes his shoulder slightly. Merlin puts a hand back on his shoulder, eyes glowing gold as he mutters a spell. The blond lets out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding at the blissful numbness spreading from his shoulder, down his arm and across his back, before looking up at an almost hysterical Lancelot.

Arthur chuckles at Lance’s face, shaking his head slightly as he says:

“Very impressive, Lancelot, though if you could save that for enemies, that would be great.”

Lancelot finally bursts, not seeming to have heard Arthur’s praise:

“Ar- Your Majesty I am so sorry, I really didn’t mean to-”

Arthur waves his free hand in dismissal, taking Mordred’s offered hand and standing up, still with an impressed smile on his face:

“Don’t be stupid Lance, like I said, it was very impressive, and with Merlin around there’s no harm done.-”

Merlin grins and blushes at the subtle compliment.

“-Besides, I dole out at least one injury a month, it’s about time one of you got me back. Well done Lance, you beat everyone else.”

He says it with a grin, and Lancelot finally relaxes slightly, raking a hand through his hair as he gives the amused King a weak smile, much to the other knights’ amusement. Merlin steps back in front of Arthur adjusting the sling and speaking forcefully:

“No training at all for a week, no full contact sparring or skirmishes with bandits for two. And I want to check it again before you start.”

Arthur’s face falls indignantly and he whines:

“Oh come on, it can’t be that bad! It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

Merlin scowls:

“Yeah, it doesn’t hurt because I numbed it with magic, prat.”

Arthur looks like he wants to argue, but Merlin just raises an eyebrow (very reminiscent of Gaius), the meaning of “I dare you to argue with me right now” VERY clear.

Arthur backs down, muttering a petulant “fine” under his breath, much to the knights’ amusement.

5)

To say that Mordred was panicking would be a vast understatement.

But to be fair, everyone was panicking.

Everyone thought that the fight had gone rather well, finally surviving a battle with mercenaries injury free, that was until Mordred had tried to stand up, only to find that he couldn’t breath, and his chest hurt.

Tears leaked from his eyes as he lay on the ground, squeezing Arthur’s hand so tightly The King was sure it would bruise; but he didn’t care about that, all he cared about was running his free hand over the younger man’s armour, desperately trying to figure out what was wrong.

Mordred took in shallow, gasping breaths, his vision swimming as the stabbing pain in his chest spiked with every movement. He had been calling out for Emrys in his head, unable to speak, and finally the panicked man burst through the trees, pushing through the crowd of knights and dropping to his knees at Mordred’s side.

He’d wondered off an hour or so ago to collect some herbs for Gaius, and had missed the whole fight, though he’d begun his sprint back when Mordred had called out for him at the start of the battle, pushing himself even faster when it became apparent that the younger man was badly injured.

Arthur immediately looks up at him, but doesn’t let go of Mordred’s hand as he speaks quickly, only just managing to keep the shaking out of his voice:

“He can’t breath properly, I think he got kicked in the chest but there’s no blood or anything, I don’t know what’s wrong with him Merlin, he can’t breath.”

Merlin curses under his breath, wiping Mordred’s hair away from his face as he rushes to say:

“Help me get his armour off, someone grab me my smallest knife and a roll of bandages, now.”

With that, Percival rushes to the dropped medical bag, riffling through it for what Merlin had asked for as Gwaine and Elyan rush to remove Mordred’s armour, and Leon and Lancelot move to stand guard, watching for any more attackers.

Mordred whimpers every time he’s jostled, but Merlin and Arthur hush him, squeezing his hand and stroking his hair. With the focused look on Merlin’s face, Arthur can tell that he’s talking to the Druid through their mental link, so doesn’t say anything, knowing that it’s probably the only thing stopping Mordred from panicking even more.

The armour finally comes off, and Merlin quickly puts his ear to Mordred’s chest, cursing to himself once more as he holds his hand out wordlessly for the knife.

Percival puts it in his hand without hesitation, and Merlin quickly cuts Mordred’s tunic away before hovering the sharp point over the side of his chest, looking up to Elyan and Gwaine still kneeled at his side and saying:

“Hold him down, he can NOT move when I do this.”

They don’t ask what “this” is, trusting that he knows what he’s doing as Gwaine moves to straddle Mordred’s thighs and hold his hips down, and Elyan pushes his shoulders into the floor. Arthur leans over to take both of Mordred’s hands tightly in his own, and without any more hesitation, Merlin pushes the blade down into Mordred’s chest with a soft apology.

Mordred whimpers even more, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, and letting out a pained yelp when Merlin twists the knife slightly. With the movement, there’s a hiss of air, and Mordred takes a deep, gasping breath.

Merlin relaxes slightly, and nods at the others to let go. Gwaine and Elyan move back, but Arthur stays, holding Mordred’s hands and trying to cover the disgust on his face as Merlin holds the knife in place.

Mordred finally opens his eyes, and Merlin gives him a reassuring smile before looking to Elyan:

“Elyan, you’ve got the steadiest hands, I need you to hold this-”

He nods down at the knife, and Elyan’s eyes widen in panic before he gulps and nods his head, carefully taking the knife from Merlin’s hands, and holding it place. Merlin moves to where Elyan had been sat, above Mordred’s head, and he leans down, moving his ear from one side of the Druid’s chest to the other, careful to avoid Elyan’s hands holding the knife.

He listens to each side for about ten seconds each time, moving between them a few times, before finally sitting up and nodding to himself in satisfaction. He grabs the roll from Percival’s shaking hands, once again wiping the hair from Mordred’s forehead and giving him a reassuring smile, before looking back up at Elyan:

“Pull it out when I say go, ok? Straight out, don’t twist it, don’t bend your wrist, just straight out.-”

Elyan nods firmly and at Merlin’s-

“-Go!”

-he pulls the knife out, quickly getting out of the way as Merlin presses one hand over the wound, eyes glowing gold as he mutters a spell. Mordred lets out a breath as he’s relieved form the pain slightly, closing his eyes briefly before Merlin says:

“No, come on Mordred, I need you to stay awake, I need to know that you’re ok whilst I do this alright? You can sleep later, I promise.”

Mordred nods slightly as he opens his still teary eyes, and Arthur leans closer, smiling at him and asking some unimportant question about what he wants for his birthday coming up. Merlin gives the King a grateful smile as he brings his hand away from the bloody wound, glad to see that the spell had worked and the bleeding had slowed considerably.

With the help of Gwaine and Elyan, Merlin gets Mordred into a sitting position, wrapping the bandages tightly around his chest, periodically checking his pulse and breathing with his hand.

He ties it off, letting a breath of relief escape him as he collapses back onto the floor. Mordred is slumped against Arthur, groaning as he desperately tries to keep his eyes open, but Merlin presses a hand to his forehead, eyes once again glowing gold as he mutters:

“Sleep.”

The younger man passes out pretty much immediately, and Arthur supports his weight, giving Merlin a concerned, questioning look. The Warlock meets his gaze, giving him a weak smile and nod:

“Collapsed lung, had to release the pressure. He’ll be fine, but infection is a concern so I need to get him back to Camelot as soon as possible.”

Arthur nods, and with a gesture from him, Leon and Lancelot lean down to pick the younger man up, carefully depositing him on the front of Arthur’s horse, to be taken back to the castle.

Merlin looks around to the others, noticing the shaking that had slowly started in Elyan’s hands as he stares down at the blood coating his fingers. Merlin touches a soft hand to his shoulder, and Elyan gasps, looking up at him quickly with wide eyes. Merlin gives him a smile, hovering his hand over Elyan’s as he murmurs a spell.

The knight looks down again to see his hands completely clean, and he flexes his fingers, before giving Merlin a tight smile, and muttering a quiet thank you.

Everyone mounts their horses, quickly urging them to follow Arthur back to Camelot.

6)

Lancelot was trying his best not to wince, but his wrist really did hurt.

They’d just made camp; Merlin, Lancelot, and Arthur were on their way back from visiting Hunith in Ealdor for a few days.

Originally it was meant to just be Merlin and Lance, but Arthur insisted that he come along for extra protection. All three of them knew it was just an excuse (Merlin was the most powerful Warlock in existence after all) but no one mentioned it. It had taken months and a lot of sleepless nights for Arthur to finally get the magic ban repeal through, and Lance and Merlin knew he needed a few days off, with no worries or responsibilities or titles or stupid crowns or councillors or meetings, so they were happy to have him tag along.

The knight must have sprained it when fixing the barn roof, but was reluctant to say anything; he didn’t want to put a dampener on the mood, and Hunith had been so accommodating, he didn’t want to be a bother. But when Merlin noticed him struggling to remove his saddle-bag with one hand, he raised an eyebrow, and held his hand out wordlessly.

Lancelot went to fake innocence, but Merlin just raised his eyebrow further and crooked his fingers. The knight sighed, putting his wrist in Merlin’s hand with nothing but a sheepish look. The Court Sorcerer ran his fingers over the soft skin there, noting the bruise with a disapproving tut before he mutters a spell.

His eyes flash gold, and Lance flexes his wrist as both the pain and bruise recede. He nods with a smile:

“You’re getting better at that.”

Merlin just huffs and rolls his eyes:

“Yes, well, you knights do insist on giving me plenty of opportunities to practice.-”

Lancelot huffs out a brief laugh, before he quietly apologises. Merlin just shakes his head with a smile:

“-It’ll still be tender for a few days, so don’t use it too much, Physician’s orders.”

Lancelot smirks slightly, and Merlin knows he isn’t going to like what he says:

“Of course, anything you say My Lord.”

Merlin scowls and squeezes the knight’s wrist slightly, muttering-

“I will turn you into a fucking toad.”

-much to Lancelot’s amusement.

Arthur finally reappears from collecting firewood, and raises an eyebrow at Merlin’s scowl and Lancelot’s laughter:

“What are you two up to, or do I not want to know?”

Merlin huffs and stomps off to collect his saddle-bag, and Lancelot clears his throat, still chuckling as he replies:

“Hmm. It would appear that Lord Merlin Emrys Ambrosius, Court Sorcerer of Camelot, Protector of the Once and Future King, Last of the Dragon-Lords, is not all that fond of his fancy new title.”

Arthur laughs, and Lancelot forgets his now long-gone pain in favour of joining in.

7)

This was one of the most serious injuries any of them had seen in a very long time.

Leon had been called in the tent to help Merlin, having been the least tired with the steadiest hands at the time.

Arthur was pacing angrily, Mordred was doing his best to meditate, Lancelot held one of Gwaine’s hands in his own, and Elyan had an arm around his shoulders, as Gwaine himself bounced his foot up and down. At the beginning, he’d tried to hold his tears in, but as the image of a bloody and dying Percival slowly cemented itself in his mind, he gave up, and let them flow.

They’d been in there for hours, and whilst the rest of the knights tried to have faith, the angry curse that Merlin had let out almost two hours ago, closely followed by hurried movements and Leon shakily asking what he needed to do, had not helped their anxieties.

Inside the tent, they were just finishing up. There was blood everywhere, metres worth of soaked bandages strewn around the tent, along with most of Merlin’s medical bag, which had been upturned and spread around for quick access.

Leon was exhausted, having spent hours monitoring Percival’s breathing and pulse with no break, passing Merlin whatever he asked for, and occasionally having to hold bits of his friend together whilst Merlin worked his magic (both literally, and metaphorically). But however tired Leon was, Merlin was a hundred times worse.

He’d drained most of his energy during the fight, and had to dig incredibly deep to pull out enough magic to keep Percival alive whilst he stitched him back together. The blade he’d been stabbed with was imbued with dark magic, and shards had splintered inside the wound. Luckily, no organs had been punctured, but plenty of blood vessels had been nicked, and nothing could be left inside or it would cause likely deadly problems later down the line.

That just meant almost everything had to be done by hand; magic was useful in keeping the knight asleep, and dulling the pain as much as he could, but as far as the actual healing went, Merlin had to focus on keeping his mind sharp and his hands steady.

His face had remained blank, and his voice deadpan through the whole process, and around half a candle-mark in, Leon asked in a whisper:

“How are you so calm? I... I’m trying my best but I don’t know how you’re doing this.”

Merlin doesn’t look up at him as he quietly replies:

“If I panic, he dies. I have to trust that I know what I’m doing, and just get on with it. You’re doing fine, Leon. It isn’t... it isn’t Percival, it’s just another knight-”

Merlin’s voice lowers, whispering his last words to himself:

“-just another patient.”

Leon nods, taking another of many deep breaths, focusing on keeping his hands steady and counting Perci- the patient’s breaths.

It was maybe an hour later, that Leon widened his eyes, looking up at Merlin in a panic; before he can say anything, Merlin feels it as well, cursing loudly to himself and dredging up his last reserves of magic to hold his tools in place (in Percival’s abdomen), moving up hurriedly to be by his chest, where he quickly starts CPR.

Leon takes a deep breath, gulping before says:

“Merlin, what do I... what do I do??”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, focusing on keeping rhythm, and Leon can hear him counting under his breath; he gets to twenty-seven when the knight starts breathing on his own again, and Merlin gives himself enough time to take a fortifying breath before going back to the wound and carrying on with what he’d been doing, as if nothing had just happened.

Another hour later, Merlin was putting the last stitches in, satisfied with his work, but by no means... hopeful.

And half a candle mark after that, the knight had been thoroughly cleaned and bandaged, tightly.

Leon (shakily) and Merlin (blankly) cleaned all of the Physician’s tools, and packed away all the detritus; they needed to keep Percival’s environment as clean as possible. He’d tried to force himself to do more, but Merlin’s energy had almost completely abandoned him, and Leon had convinced him to give it a rest; the longer he tried to force it, the longer it would be before his magic built up enough to be useful again.

Merlin finally exited the tent, drenched in blood, leaving Leon to keep an eye on Percival whilst he went to update the others.

When he set foot on the leaves, everyone’s head whipped up. Arthur had given up his pacing, and Mordred had abandoned his meditating, but Elyan, Gwaine, and Lancelot were all still huddled together; though everyone jumped up quickly when they set eyes on Merlin.

They looked at him expectantly, desperately, and Merlin met Arthur’s gaze first:

“You need to go sit with him, Arthur-”

He’s interrupted by a pained cry from Gwaine, and Arthur’s grief-stricken face. A request for the King to go sit with an injured man... that could only mean one thing in their minds. Merlin held his hands (still bloody) up placatingly:

“-he stopped breathing once, but we got him going again. If he makes it cleanly through the night then his chances shoot up, but if he gets an infection before morning then... there won’t be much I can do. Someone needs to go in with Arthur to take over from Leon, he’s exhausted-”

Mordred takes a step forward, a concerned look on his face as he softly says:

“You’re tired too, Merlin, you should sleep.”

Arthur nods, but Merlin waves him off, muttering:

“I’m fine.”

Everyone notices the bleariness of his eyes, and the shaking that had just begun in his hands, but they don’t say anything. They had been expecting this, it happens every time there’s a serious, life threatening injury. Merlin can compartmentalise for as long as needs to, but shock usually hits an hour or so later, when everything catches up to him. With how serious this injury had been, with how exhausted Merlin is, and how covered in blood he is, they aren’t surprised that it’s hitting a little sooner than normal.

Arthur nods at Elyan, and the knight takes that as his cue to go into the tent. Leon walks out a moment later, almost as covered in blood as Merlin, and breathing deeply, tears in his eyes as he heavily sits down. Lancelot wraps him in a blanket cleaning his hands wordlessly with a wet cloth before pushing him to the floor and telling him to get some sleep. Leon closes his eyes and is gently snoring within seconds; Lancelot goes back to Gwaine, forcing the man to look away from the still fairly bloody Leon as he whispers reassurances to him.

As this is happening, Arthur walks slowly to Merlin, putting a soft hand on his shoulder and gently saying:

“What do you need, Merlin? Right now, what do you need?”

Merlin’s eyes had been getting wider and wider as he stared down at his hands, covered in blood and now shaking violently. He looks up in shock at Arthur’s touch, seeming to have forgotten that he wasn’t alone:

“I.. uh, I need two people with Percival at all times, monitoring his breathing, pulse, and temperature. I need... need his pupils checked every ten minutes or so, and I need someone to count how many rolls of bandages I’ve got left so I can figure out how often I can afford to change them and.... and I-”

He looks back down to his hands, gulping, and Arthur can tell that Merlin is really not with it as he continues:

“-I need to go... go and wash my hands.... excuse me.”

With that, he stumbles off in the direction of the stream they had been taking water from. Arthur gestures at Mordred to follow the Warlock, before exchanging short nods with Lancelot, and going into the tent.

Mordred grabs a cloth and a spare tunic, before following Merlin’s trail. When he catches up to him, the older man is knelt at the side of the stream, scrubbing his hands viciously in the water. Mordred sits slowly besides him, gulping before quietly saying:

“Emrys? Merlin?”

Merlin hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t look up, and Mordred huffs quietly, leaning over to take Merlin’s hands with a quiet:

“Let me.”

Merlin tenses only slightly before he fully relaxes, and the two men move to sit cross-legged, facing each other. Mordred dips the cloth he bought in the stream, and carefully wipes the blood from Merlin’s hands and arms. The Warlock sits absolutely still, and Mordred can tell that he isn’t really... present. He tilts Merlin’s head up, and his eyes seem to come into focus slightly as the Druid cleans away the blood on Merlin’s cheek and temple.

Mordred puts the cloth to the side, picking up a spare tunic and offering it to the other man:

“I thought you’d like to change.”

Merlin looks down to the offered fabric, and it takes him a few moments to process what Mordred had said before he nods slowly, and takes the tunic. He stands on wobbly legs, and Mordred quickly follows him, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. 

Mordred looks away as Merlin changes. It wasn’t that he really cared, but Merlin was usually incredibly careful to hide his scars from people, (though everyone was aware that they existed, having caught glimpses here and there) but he was far too out of it to realise what he’d done. Mordred refused to take advantage of Merlin’s shock just to satiate his own curiosity about the marks marring his mentor’s skin.

He looks back to see Merlin just stood there blankly, bloody tunic dumped on the floor and hands still shaking slightly. Mordred sighs, he’s been warned about this, but he’s never seen it this bad before; it would seem that the last few hours had finally caught up to Merlin. The Druid takes a few careful steps forward, gently laying his hands on Merlin’s shoulders as he speaks to him in his mind:

“Merlin? You with me?”

His body doesn’t move at all, but Mordred can see his jaw twitch as he gets-

“I’m... I’m with you.”

-from the link. He sighs again, pulling Merlin into a hug; one hand running through the other man’s hair, the other hand firmly in the centre of his back, acting as an anchor, trying to keep Merlin in the here and now. It takes a few moments, but Merlin returns the hug eventually, burying his face in the crook of Mordred’s neck, and holding him tightly round the middle, breathing deeply.

Merlin takes a deep breath as he feels Mordred’s magic probing him for injuries and soothing his headache and exhaustion. In all the rush of Percival almost dying, Merlin hadn’t checked in with himself, and is surprised when Mordred finds, and heals, a bruised rib, and a cut on the back of his leg. Mordred doesn’t have nearly enough energy to be of any help to Percival, but he can heal Merlin’s aches and pains.

Merlin pulls back from the hug, giving Mordred a brief, teary smile before he croaks out:

“I need to go back to Perci-”

He’s cut off by Mordred harshly shaking his head and placing a hand on the side of Merlin’s neck:

“No, you’re exhausted Merlin, you need sleep. Arthur and Elyan are looking after Percival, but you and Leon both need at least a few hours of rest.-”

Merlin looks annoyed, like he wants to argue but is too tired to come up with a retort, and Mordred continues:

“-I promise, I will wake you up if anyone needs anything, but you’re of no use to Percival exhausted. Merlin, you’re about to keel over, and you don’t have any magic reserves left, I’ve given you a little of mine to start you off, but you need sleep.”

Merlin looks at him, his gaze assessing, though sleepy. He gulps, sagging slightly as he whispers:

“You promise you’ll wake me?”

Mordred gives him a weak smile:

“I promise.”

With that, Mordred picks up the bloodied cloth and tunic, tucking them under one arm as he pulls Merlin’s arm over his shoulder, semi-dragging the Warlock back to camp. He lays him down next to Leon, and the knight, in his sleep, reaches out and pulls him close.

Mordred lays another blanket over the two of them, before traipsing over to sit with Lancelot and Gwaine, where he finally lets his tears fall.

+1)

If Merlin knew how ridiculously they’d act, he would have hidden his injury and just dealt with it himself.

Unfortunately, Merlin had mistakenly assumed that Camelot’s seven best knights (one of whom was also King), would be able to be a little more composed.

He sat on a large rock, one arm hanging limply at his side, dripping blood onto the floor, as he stared at the knights. Mordred and Percival looked close to tears, Gwaine looked close to vomiting, Leon and Lancelot were just about managing to stay calm (but Merlin could see the panic in their eyes), Elyan was desperately riffling through Merlin’s bag, muttering something along the lines of “what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the-” , and Arthur was hovering directly in front of Merlin, biting his lip and breathing deeply as he offers reassurances to Merlin.

Merlin is half distracted by the pain, and half trying not to laugh at everyone’s panic. He’d both treated AND had so much worse than an arrow to the shoulder; don’t get him wrong, it was serious-ish, but it did not warrant this level of panic from seven of the Kingdom’s most fearsome warriors.

Elyan finally bustles over, hands full of random medical equipment, at least half of which are definitely not needed right now, but Merlin holds in his chuckle and doesn’t say anything. Arthur turns to the knight, gesturing everyone to gather close as he says, trying to keep the shaking out of his voice:

“Ok, do we take it out? Or do we break off the shaft and leave the head in?? I can’t fucking remember...-”

He trails off, and Merlin rolls his eyes, walking quietly to the remainder of his medical bag, and pulling out what he needs as he sits back on his rock. Gwaine glances back at him, but looks away again quickly as his face goes a little green and he mutters:

“Oh my Gods there’s so much blood.”

Merlin huffs and rolls his eyes; there really isn’t that much.

Leon looks to Merlin, and is the first to notice the man calmly sat there, treating his own injury. He lets out a very undignified yelp, stalking over and pulling the bandages and alcohol from Merlin’s hands and giving him a stern look:

“No, absolutely not, you’ve lost too much blood, you’ll make it worse, we’ll do it.”

Merlin rolls his eyes again, and gestures to the panicking group behind Leon incredulously as he says:

“This really isn’t a big deal, you lot are making a fuss out of nothing, I’ve had so much worse; can I have my stuff back now??”

Leon huffs, and Lancelot walks up to stand next to him, a concerned frown on his face:

“No, we’ll do it. Just... just talk us through it? It’s about time we had to stitch you up, I knew we’d need to eventually.”

Merlin stares at him for a few minutes, before sighing and shaking his head:

“Fine. Only you and Leon though, everyone else is too... jittery, for my peace of mind. They’re allowed no where near the arrow, or the needle and thread.”

At that, Gwaine goes even more green, mumbling a a quiet-

“Oh Gods, he needs stitches.”

-as he turns away. Merlin just scoffs slightly, and gestures Leon and Lancelot closer:

“Check the arrow for weakness, if it’s fully intact and feels strong, just yank it out. If it snaps, you’re going to have to dig the head out with a knife.”

Leon pales slightly, but nods, stroking his hand up and down the arrow far to gently to actually be able to tell anything. Merlin rolls his eyes:

“For pities sake-”

With that, he lifts his hand up, and pulls the arrow out in one quick motion, thankfully the head along with it. Gwaine promptly turns around and throws up in a bush, Percival running soft circles over his back distractedly as he stares in disgust at the bloody arrow in Merlin’s hand.

Leon gasps and Lancelot lets out an inhuman screech as he clamps a hand over the wound. Mordred whimpers and Arthur lifts a slow hand to cover his open mouth. Elyan blows a harsh breath out, stumbling back slightly and dropping all the things he had been carrying, much to Merlin’s annoyance.

Lancelot angrily looks to Merlin as Leon’s shaky hands try to thread a needle:

“Why?? Why would you do that Merlin? We have to be careful, we have to... we have to treat it properly.”

Merlin clears his throat, wincing slightly at the pain:

“You were being too careful. Let me put it this way, the longer you take, the more likely I am to get an infection and die a horrible death, all from a very simple, easy to fix wound.”

Merlin can vaguely hear Gwaine vomiting again in the background.

Leon takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he mutters to himself:

“Just another patient.”

Merlin remembers what he’d said all those months ago on Percival’s almost-deathbed, and rolls his eyes; this was hardly of the same magnitude, but if it helped Leon thread the damn needle, then he wasn’t going to say anything. The First Knight looked up to Lancelot, showing him that it was ready, and Lancelot looks to Merlin:

“What next, we clean it, right?”

Merlin nods amusedly, and gestures to the glass bottle of alcohol that Leon had taken from him, and a clean cloth:

“It’s gonna sting like hell but keep going alright? Wash it out properly, then put pressure on it until the bleeding slows, then stitch it up. You know how to do stitches?”

Lancelot shakes his head, but Arthur steps forward and nods, taking the needle from Leon as he says:

“I do, I’ll do it.”

Merlin takes a deep breath a nods, and with that, Lancelot cleans out the wound. Merlin hisses in pain, clenching his hands tightly as Lancelot mutters apologies and the other knights crowd closer. Leon strokes a soft hand up the Warlock’s back, Arthur has a hand on his (uninjured) shoulder, Mordred was whispering reassurances through the mental link, Elyan stood by with bandages and clean cloths, and Gwaine gave Merlin his best smile, despite still looking a bit sick with Percival at his side, holding him up.

Finally it comes time for stitching, and Lancelot swaps places with The King, Merlin one again rolling his eyes as the blond takes a deep, fortifying breath. He finally starts the stitches, and compared to the alcohol just moments earlier (and the Serket sting, and the Dorocha attack, and the fireball, and the poison, and the and the and the...) it’s a tickle. 

Merlin starts making a mental list in his head of all the things he’ll need to replace from his bag next time he gets to the market, which had apparently been the wrong thing to do, because a few minutes later Arthur is slapping him gently on the cheek and calling his name. Merlin turns to look at him incredulously:

“What??”

And Arthur heaves a sigh of relief:

“There you are, we thought we’d lost you.”

“Lost me? It’s an arrow to the shoulder, I’m fine! I was just thinking about all the bloody shopping I’m going to have to do, because you’ve given me at least two extra stitches, and used way too much alcohol and bandages! Honestly.”

Arthur is a little taken aback at Merlin’s outburst, but starts laughing after a few moments of shock, everyone else joining in, slightly hysterically. Merlin looks around at them, bewildered:

“Look, I know I... go into shock or whatever when someone almost dies but this... this is too much. You’re all ridiculous, and next time, I’m treating my damn self.” 

Leon finally breaks out of his giggles, ruffling Merlin’s hair slightly:

“We’re just glad you’re ok, Merlin.”

Merlin rolls his eyes fondly, giving the knights a reassuring smile:

“I am ok, I’m absolutely fine. Honestly, seven of Camelot’s finest warriors all hysterically panicking over an arrow to the shoulder. Gods, I hope you know I’m telling Gaius, Morgana, and Gwen about this, and they WILL laugh at you.”

Arthur turns on him quickly, pointing a finger in Merlin’s face as he flushes:

“You absolutely will not.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, smirking dangerously:

“Try me.”

~

THE END!!

Ok so this one was one of my favourite prompts ever and I’m so grateful @semideadpanda sent it in, so thank you!!

If anyone wants to extend this or write it out properly, then go for it!!

Check out This List of things I’m working on, it will likely be #15 next! :)

#merlin #merther #bbc merlin #perwaine #good mordred #didn't realise that this has hints of all the ships in it until i read it back lol #so read it however you want lol #but it wasnt intended to be romantic #leon #sir leon #elyan #sir elyan #percival #sir percival #gwaine #sir gwaine #lancelot #sir lancelot #protective knights #protective lancelot #protective arthur #protective leon #magic reveal #court sorcerer merlin #guinevere #gwen #gaius #mordred #bbc mordred #morgana

[kashimos-hajime]

the girl in purple (1/8) | r.b.

summary: In his mind, you’re wearing the white blouse and long purple skirt again, long riding boots covering dark pants, innocent smile on your face as you wait for him in the noon sunlight. Or, four years ago, Bertholdt asked for a favour and you said yes.

WARNINGS: swearing, ass jokes, flashbacks and flashforwards, mostly fluff and banter, pining and angst at the end, bertholdt is our soft best friend <3 pairing: reiner braun x fem!reader word count: 5.0k

a/n: pt 1 of 8 of a birthday present for the legend, the icon, the bad bitch herself, ISABEL!!@!@!@ @luciilferss​ ALSO, song not mine! it’s the sea shanty called wellerman.

masterlist

crossposted on ao3 x

You sigh, wiping the back of your hand before grabbing the next hay bale that needed to be lifted to the loft. Your back aching, you grit your teeth as you lug it towards the ladder. It’s the last one and after a sweaty afternoon, you just want to get into bed. Hopefully Annie did end up getting you supper—you had to work through it just so Shadis didn’t get your ass up tomorrow to finish the job.

“Here, let me help.”

“Oh, thank you,” you reply, glancing to see your savior and a warmth shoots through your body when you realize it’s Bertholdt. “You know if Shadis catches you helping me, it’s going to be hell to pay, right?” The boy smiles, shrugging, and you can’t help your own grin as he gestures for you to climb up. Skirting up the ladder, you turn around to take the hay bale and pushing it towards the corner before jumping down and dusting off your hands. Stable clean-up is never fun, but with autumn right around the corner, they all want to get a head start before the chill sets in.

“I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“I knew there had to be a reason you were in here,” you tease. “Shoot.”

“Well, we have visiting privileges next weekend,” Bertholdt continues as you walk around the stables, picking up tools as you make your way towards where the broom is leaning against the wall. The tall boy ambles after you and you shoot him an amused look, curiosity pricking at your fingers. 

Half-way through their training in the corps, and Bertholdt still manages to keep you guessing. You don’t know what it is about him, but your friend’s always been the quiet one. It’s part of why you like being around him, but you just wish his friend liked you. Annie seems more than fine with you.

Reiner, on the other hand, can barely even look at you. It’s a real downer.

“I was just wondering…”

“You should ask Annie,” you cut off before he can finish, picking up the broom to begin sweeping the stray hay into a neat pile. Bertholdt’s spine goes ramrod straight and his cheeks redden so intensely you can’t help but laugh. “I’m pretty sure she would say yes. You guys are friends, right?”

“Yes, but we’re—we’re not—why would I ask Annie, specifically?” he stammers. The horses neigh as you walk past, their necks stretching out for treats but you ignore them, heading for the entrance. “She could go with a bunch of other people.”

“Yeah, but she always goes with me.” Glancing at Bertholdt, your eyes narrow when he smacks his forehead, covering his flustered expression miserably. Poking him in the gut with the handle of your broom, you continue, “And she only likes a few people here. You’re one of them, Bertl.” 

“Well, if you think so. I mean, you’re her dorm mate, not me, so… argh!” he groans as you walk past him, sweeping. “You’re not helping!”

“Helping with what?” you ask innocently, not paying him a second look. You hear him let out a sigh as you brush hay to the back of the stables. “You’re the one who wanted a favour.”

“Yeah, and I still need to tell you.”

“Literally no one’s stopping you, Bertholdt.” Another resigned sigh. “Okay. Okay. Ask me. I promise I won’t tease you for the next ten minutes.” Turning around, you rest your broom against the post between two stalls. A horse nudges at your face and you scratch the stallion’s chin as Bertholdt walks closer. His eyes inspect your own expression, searching for trickery, but you only grin.

Then, he drops his crossed arms and says, “Someone wants to ask you out next weekend for our visit to Trost.”

“Er, okay? Why didn’t they just ask me themselves?” Crossing your own arms, you lean against the post, the lantern hanging above your head and casting everything in a warm glow. It softens Bertholdt’s smile as he shrugs mischievously. “Who was it?”

“Reiner.”

“Reiner?” His name is punched out of you, sharp with shock, and your broom slides off the post, clattering to the floor between the two cadets as you stare at Bertholdt. 

“Mhm?”

“Reiner Braun.”

“Yep.”

“We know the same one, don’t we?”

“Blond, makes ass jokes, this tall?” he shoots back, raising a hand that comes just near his ear. You nod. “Yeah.”

“But he hates me.”

“What? No, he doesn’t. Why would you think that?” Bertholdt’s eyebrows knit together and you stare at him incredulously, not sure if he’s joking or not. Shaking your head, you let out a scoff and bend down to pick up your broom to continue your sweeping. Mind a swirl, you try to reconcile the Reiner, who has never said more to you than ‘pass the grease’ during ODM maintenance and ‘you have dirt on your chin’ after forest exercises, with the Reiner who had to ask Bertholdt to ask you out for him.

Sounds fake, but you digress.

“Okay,” you drawl, unable to help the disbelief from creeping into your voice. “This was a good attempt at a joke, but you need to try harder next time.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Why would I ever believe you?”

“Because I would never li—make something up like that,” he says, correcting himself, and you send him a strange look. “Just… when we get to Trost, you know that bakery that sells the stuffed cream buns. The one you mentioned before?”

“Yeah. Annie likes them,” you inform him pointedly, and Bertholdt’s mouth drops open to argue but he seems to think better of it this time.

“Yes, that one.” Fighting a furious blush on his cheeks, he continues, “If you’re there at noon, you’ll see I’m not lying.”

“And if I’m not there?”

“Reiner will be very sad for the rest of his life,” Bertholdt declares and you can’t help your serious expression from sliding off. “Will you please just consider it?”

Staring at your friend, you study his expression. It’s completely genuine, open, eyes wide and you feel a part of you melting at how adorable he is. For such a tall guy, he’s so goddamn gentle it blows your mind he’s a fighter. You can’t see him hurting even so much as a fly.

It’s for that reason you relent. Because Bertholdt’s never gone out of his way to scheme your downfall. He doesn’t have that in him. “Fine,” you say after a moment. “Fine, I’ll consider it.”

.

When Reiner steps back into the port city, he can’t help but think what he always thinks when he gets off a battlefield. Four years, and every thought is the same. Routine, almost. Or maybe, a habit to keep something alive.

And he almost takes comfort in it. That you would’ve loved it here. In Marley—Liberio, or otherwise. There are so many kinds of sweets, pastries, so many sights to see—the water stretches on for miles and miles, and you could’ve tried seafood. Maybe you would’ve liked it.

You never tried seafood. He promised. He promised—

Fucking hell. 

He steps out of the barracks, insides twisting into a tight knot as the sun blinds him. Lifting a hand, he squints and blinks, trying to get used to the brightness as people pass him by. Galliard’s voice trails after him like a ghost, and he scowls to himself, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He feels like he hasn’t slept a wink, and his body aches in places so deep he can’t rub it out.

“I saw you through her memories. You acted like the tough, reliable type. Not at all like yourself. And you were with that girl. Who was she to you, anyway, Reiner? Because my brother would have never cozied up with the enemy.”

Cozied up with the enemy. It’s as much as implying fraternization as anything and Reiner had barely chained back the words that would’ve torn both him and Galliard to shreds.

Don’t you fucking dare reduce her to just some promise I broke ever again. It stopped meaning something to me years ago.

Shaking his head free of Galliard’s voice, an image of you flashes through his mind to replace it and the urge to send a fist into his own face lances down his arm, but he barely restrains himself from doing so. Instead, he tightens his hand until his nails dig into his palm.

You’re always the one thing he can’t shake, nor does he think he wants to. 

Hollow, his feet drag his battered body towards the harbour. 

As he walks along the water, he hear some of the fishermen whistle and sing their shanties. It takes him a moment to recognize they’re all singing the same song, and he’s thrown back to when he came to the port the first time he was to go off to Paradis, how he committed the shanties to memory so he could take something with him to what was supposed to be an Island of Devils.

It makes his entire body ache, the uplifting tune filling his body up until he can’t possibly breathe. The way the sailors all sing together, smiling at each other—the camaraderie.

“Soon may the Wellerman come, to bring us sugar and tea and rum, one day when the toungin’ is done, we’ll take our leave and go…”

He misses that the most.

.

The sun is hanging in the centre of the sky as you glance from your plate to your surroundings. The fountain is full of life, people milling around the edges, tossing coins in and making wishes, and you hide a smile behind your hand when you watch a group of kids trying to flick their coins to the top most basin of the structure. The tiny plink-plink is barely heard, but either way, their groans of disappointment are far more amusing.

It helps pass the time at least, while you waste away your afternoon waiting for someone you’re not even sure will come. Dressed in a white blouse tucked into a long dark purple skirt that covers your pants, you cross one leg over the other as you wait.

You don’t even know why you’re here. Bertholdt had all but avoided your questions for the past week, and Annie didn’t budge, although, it’s harder for the blonde to slip. Being bunkmates helps, but not that much.

You keep people-watching, glancing up at the sky occasionally to see if any birds pass over, your bread untouched. Glancing up and down the street, you rest your chin glumly on the palm of your hand, elbow resting on the table. 

No pretty blond head in sight. 

Groaning, you lift your head when one of the waiters approaches, asking if you wanted anything more. You shake your head, a warmth spreading over your face and watching him go when a shadow falls over your table. 

“Oh, you got something to eat already.” 

Head jerking to the voice, you look up in surprise at whoever’s blocking your sunlight. Standing upright, your chair clatters against cobblestone as you clear your throat.

“You’re actually here,” you blurt out to both of their surprise and Reiner rocks back on his heels, running a hand through his short hair. His eyebrows struggle to meet his hairline and he smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry I’m late. Uh, sit down. I just… got lost.” You sink back into your chair and he takes the seat down across from yours nervously. He’s dressed in a pale green button up and darker slacks, but for once, he’s not scowling at you and you offer a slight smile. “How… how are you?”

“I’m okay. Slow morning.” He nods. You glance at your plate and nudge it towards him awkwardly. “I got it for you. It’s my favourite. I dunno what Bertl told you about me, or… why I’m even here, honestly.”

He picks up the bun tentatively, and you look down at your boots as he takes a bite, too nervous to watch his reaction.

What if he hates sweet things? What if he can’t drink cow milk? Don’t you remember? What if it makes him shit his pants—

“Oh, wow. I need to come to this place more often,” Reiner mumbles, taking another huge bite and your gaze flits to his face as he chews. His eyes are focused solely on the bun in a way that reminds you a lot like Sasha, and the corner of your mouth pulls into a pleased hint of a smile. “This is heaven…”

“You like it?” 

A noise escapes the blond and eyes jerk to meets yours as if he just remembered you were there and you tear your eyes away, clasping your hands together on the table. You close your eyes. Can the embarrassment just swallow you up already?

Reiner clears his throat, taking the cup of water left out for him after a quick point and your nod. He drains it to buy them both time, and your thumbs rub together. If you just walk away now, would it be too bad? You could probably find Annie or Jean pretty easily. Bertholdt’s probably just exploring the city with… if you had to hazard a guess, maybe Armin? They both like the architecture—stuff like that.

Honestly, you have no idea.

Porcelain rests against wood as Reiner nods. “I do. I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth.”

“Er, yeah. Since I was a kid. We didn’t have much, uh, variety, so stuff like this was kinda a delicacy. I grew up at this orphanage where we worked the fields.” You shift in your seat as Reiner continues to eat, and you sigh silently to yourself. Why did you give up an afternoon looking at paint supplies with Jean for an awkward date like this?

Wait, this is a date right? That’s what Bertholdt said. Ask you out. Those were his words, right?

“Where are you from?”

“Just inside Wall Maria, so when Shiganshina was breached, we had more time to move inward,” you explain briefly. “But we mostly ate what we grew for crops. I mean, it’s not like we could buy cream buns every day, you know?” Reiner nodded silently, and you give him an uneasy smile, feeling the need to elaborate. “Ever since we joined the corps, they send me money for birthdays and stuff. I don’t know.” You clear your throat. “Anyway, I just thought you might like the bun.”

“Even though you think I hate you?”

“Wha—“ A strangled noise comes out of your mouth. “Who told you that?”

“Why would you think that, anyway?”

“Because all you do is glare at me,” you say pointedly. Crossing your arms over your chest, you shoot him a narrowed look. “And scowl. And you generally avoid being anywhere near me. I mean, do I stink to you or something, Braun, because I have news for you—“

“I don’t hate you. I actually really like you,” he tells you bluntly, cutting your rant in half, and your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Reiner looks down at the empty plate, crossing his own arms and leaning forward on them. 

“Y-you like me?” you stammer and his cheeks redden.

“I mean, if Annie likes someone, I’m inclined to believe that they’re worth my time.”

Frowning, your shoulders slump. Gears turning, your expression scrunches up as you think aloud. “But, you asked Bertholdt to ask me out for you. Unless this is a dumb dare—wait.” You sit upright, twisting around to see if any of the other boys are milling around the plaza. Scanning for brown hair, or grey hair, or even blond hair, your cheeks begin to burn at the idea that someone’s watching you embarrass yourself but a hand on your elbow brings your gaze reeling back to Reiner.

A smile curls his lips impishly, but his eyes are resolute, calmer. Even still, he looks like he’s trying to fight a small panic rising up inside him, just like you are as he tells you to relax.

“This isn’t a dare,” he says. “I’m not that cruel.”

“I’ve seen you do worse to Titan dummies.”

“Exactly. I just wanted to get to know you better. Bertholdt offered to help me out since you guys are already friends, and I thought what the hell.”

You turn that explanation over in your head tentatively and a part of you recognizes it makes sense. Despite your hesitation, you know you only said yes because it was Bertholdt who asked you.

Otherwise, how inclined were you to say yes if it had been Reiner stalking up to you and asking you to hang out in Trost? How likely would it have been that you would be sitting here instead of walking along the stalls with Sasha and Connie?

“I’m kinda ashamed I don’t know you that well,” Reiner continues, fighting off tones you can’t decipher laced in his voice. Your brow furrows. “But I want to fix that, if you’d let me.” 

Dazedly, you repeat, “Fix… that?”

He nods and you simply stare at him, trying to get your mouth to work. It’s like he stole all the words from your mouth and time seems to slow as your lips part.

Absently, you realize his hand is still touching your elbow, fingers firm but not tight, and you swallow, studying his expression. Golden light plays on his face, sharpening the shadows of his nose and cheeks and lips, and yet everything about him seems to soften. Normally, you see him as hard rigid lines, like the shape of armour, and there is always an imposing aura around him that has become more muted now that he’s sitting beside you.

And you believe it. That he doesn’t hate you.

Maybe he really, really doesn’t, and you’d be an idiot if you don’t take up the offer.

So you stand up abruptly, and pull your arm out of his grip before slipping your hand into his.

“Fine,” you annouce, pulling him up. His eyes widen and you lead him away from the café with a small grin to yourself. A new plan begins to formulate in your mind as they step into the welcoming sun. Reiner’s long strides catch up to yours and he falls into step beside you. His stare burns into your cheek and you only tighten your grip on his hand as you lift your chin haughtily at him. “What do you say to a game of twenty questions?”

His eyebrows shoot up, but then a smug smile pulls at his mouth and he squeezes your hand back. “Sounds perfect, creampie. I promise, I’ll be perfectly honest.”

“Creampie?” you repeat dumbly, eyebrows shooting up and a horrible burning licking at your heart. Reiner gives you a vulgar smile and you let go of his hand, shaking your head and smacking his arm before looking down at the ground. Half of you wishes the ground would open up and swallow you whole—the other half thinks you’ll die of embarrassment before that. “How do you even know what that is?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You straighten up, spine straight as an arrow. Flustered, you stutter, “That’s none of your business.”

He tilts his head back and laughs. “Guess that was your first question, then, huh? Bold start. Surprised me, too, creampie, so that gets you bonus points.”

“What? Wait—no! That doesn’t count!”

.

Walking past the hospital every day, it feels almost ritual to look past the gates and into the courtyard. Sometimes there are patients milling around, doing their daily physical activity, or nurses and other workers walking through to get a break from all the depressing shit that must be going on in there, and Reiner always, always, wonders if he should be in there with the rest of them.

It’s why he turns his head on reflex now, peering through iron-wrought gates. No one’s inside except for a pair walking through the path and he stops for a moment, watching. 

One of them is most definitely a woman, a hat covering her head and a long coat the shade of plums. A white Eldian armband is stark against the shade of her clothes. Meanwhile the other looks like he’s been dragged through hell. With one leg, he hobbles along with his crutch, black hair streaming past his shoulders, and he’s ragged, white shirt kind of messy from where Reiner stands. The Eldian armband is wrapped tight along his bicep. But he stands straight-back, shoulders set, the gait of a soldier. Pride keeps him up, not strength.

He’s too far away to hear them speak, and they stick to the shadows of the hospital, but after a short moment, the woman wraps an arm around the one not desperately holding onto the crutch, leaning in closer towards the man as if he has the most riveting thing to say.

For a moment, it is not a woman in a purple jacket and a veteran with one leg but two cadets walking the streets of Trost, sunlight shining down on them warmly. The blond boy leans to listen to the girl beside him, smiling until he thought his cheeks would fall off.

“This is your last question, Reiner. Make it count.”

“Hm… alright, if you could do anything in the world, anything at all, what would you do? No Titans, no soldiers. Let’s say there was no war at all and you had unlimited resources, yadda, yadda, yadda…”

“Oh? Hm… I’d want to live where there’s a lot of water. Like a lake or something. I’d get to try all these foods I’ve never thought of before, and I’d, uh… I don’t know what I’d do for money. I guess I’d figure it out somehow.”

“Chopping down wood sounds fun.”

“Yeah, right! I’d rather chop my fingers off. Hm… Maybe I could raise some kids, like I was raised. Give them a home.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“I dunno. I like being responsible for things. It makes me feel like I’m needed, I guess. I don’t want a kid to grow up lonely like I did.”

“That… that sounds nice.”

“You could visit, you know. As long as you chop the firewood.”

Reiner blinks, and the two are gone. Not a hint of them are in sight, and a soft breath slips out between his lips. He must’ve been seeing things.

Shaking his head to himself, he turns away.

.

The past year and a half has been turbulent since you became friends with Reiner, but for some reason, you don’t think you would change the thing. 

Not even when Connie would come at ghastly hours in the morning because “CAN YOU PLEASE TELL REINER TO STOP SNORING? We would but we’re too afraid of being crushed by the weight of his entire body. Thank you! You’re the best, seriously.”

Or when they’re studying and Reiner makes one too many jokes about how he could fuck a Titan, despite Bertholdt’s resigned sighs and you throwing a book at him, and it only gets you, “Keep acting like that and I’ll take a bite out of your juicy ass next, creampie,” and a heat that kisses at your face.

Not even after reclaiming Trost and losing yourself in his arms.

You feel something inside you shatter as the smell of ash tickles at your nose. Walking past the combat medics base they set up for the parameter of the recovery effort, you don’t even look up at any of your friends still left as you walk past. Your entire body burns from the aftermath of Trost, and you wonder if you’ll be able to even get up in the morning as you limp over to a secluded alleyway and lean against the stone.

You don’t know if you’ve ever fought for that long or hard in your life, and you can’t feel your legs anymore as you sink to the floor.

Too many bodies. There are too many bodies.

“Hey.”

Looking up, you pull your mask down when Reiner stands before you. Tearing the fabric off your neck, you draw your knees up and rest your arms on top of them, the mask hanging off your fingers limply. A strange relieving wave washes over you to know he’s still here, even surrounded by so much death.

“Hi,” you murmur. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” he agrees simply, leaning in beside you and sliding down. Their knees knock into one another as he tugs his own mask down. Sweat glistens along his skin and his sleeves are rolled up as he clears his throat. “I’m glad you made it out.”

You smile faintly at him but it flickers out before it can find a place on your face. Looking at your hands, you imagine the rough skin of calluses forming on your palms still and you wish you could rip your gloves off but every part of you is too exhausted to move now. Softly, you tell him, “I’m glad you made it out, too. There are a few of us I haven’t really caught sight of. I know Eren’s squad is dead. I—“ you stop yourself. No way Reiner is interested in the fact that you had taken their deaths in stride because you had to in the moment and now you don’t think you can feel at all— “but… Marco. I haven’t seen him in days. Jean hasn’t seen him either.”

“M-Marco?” Reiner whispers and your eyes lift to look at him. “You haven’t found him yet?” Gaze widening at the colour draining from Reiner’s face, your stomach flips and a dread fills your entire being as you sit upright, your legs sliding down, your arms falling to the ground to prop yourself up. Lungs tightening, your lips part as if to form his name but no sound comes out.

You know what his silence means. His silence is death spelt out in glaring red letters—the same shade as blood. 

But Marco?

Why Marco? A caustic voice screams inside you and your nails dig into the cobblestone as Reiner turns his face away, jaw clenching. Trying to breathe, the air stalls in your throat and your gut clenches as your gaze drifts to the street full of combat medics and doctors, other soldiers who still walk. What—what do you mean Marco isn’t one of them? You want to grab Reiner by the jacket, shake him until he makes sense, but instead you search for freckles behind every mask, stumbling to your feet. Marco never did anything wrong. He was supposed to join the MPs. He was our… our leader. He never did anything wrong.

He never did anything wrong. Never. Never. Not Marco. It can’t be. The thought tumbles through your head as you push yourself to your feet but your knees nearly give in on the first step and you stumble to the other side of the alleyway with a harsh noise. Shoulder crashing into the stone, your eyes squeeze tight and hot tears pour down your face as you clench your teeth, trying to chain back the sob that’s working through your body. Head hanging, your mouth pries open as an ugly moan comes out of you, so deep inside you that you want to crumble.

Days seem to pile onto your shoulders until you think your bones will break and your fingers curl into tight fists as you try to stop the tears from falling, but they keep coming, tracing your nose, pushing everywhere and everything is so hot. Shit, you can’t even breathe—

Hands take your shoulders and you let out a ferocious scream, thrashing yourself out of your grip but fingers only slide to your biceps, pulling you away from the wall as your boots slip against the cobblestone and then hands are on your wrists, pushing away your blind fists.

“Let me go! He’s dead, isn’t he?” you scream as he lets go of you for just a second to wrap his arms around you and you let out a shuddering breath as he crushes you in his embrace. “Reiner! Tell me! Marco’s dead!”

“Yes! Yes, he is!”

His words spear through your skull, sending electricity down your spine and your entire body goes limp as he collapses to his knees, you with him. Your arms at your side, your eyes blink open and you feel fresh tears fall down your face as he cups the back of your head, holding you to him and as something wet seeps into your shoulder, it’s as if you are set on fire.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

 On their own accord, your arms come up under his and fingers hook onto his shoulders. Chest to chest, you swear your heart beats in a mournful beat with his, and his entire body collapses against yours. Eyes closing, you press yourself closer, hoping that the heat of his body will chase away the cold that’s rapidly spreading through your body.

Reiner’s arm around your waist tightens. You swallow hard against his shoulder.

“Please forgive me,” he whispers against your neck, wet cheek pressing against your jaw, and your chest stutters as you try to remember how to breathe.

“Reiner…”

You barely breathe his name. It only makes him curl tighter against you.

.

Liberio is colder at night than he remembers. He has to pull the blankets up to his chin, and still, he shivers.

Rolling onto his side, he can nearly imagine you staring back beside him, smiling, hand reaching to touch his face, and his eyes flutter shut when your fingers seem to pass through his cheek.

In his mind, you’re wearing the white blouse and long purple skirt again, long riding boots covering dark pants, innocent smile on your face as you wait for him in the noon sunlight. 

By then, he had known there weren’t any devils on Paradis, but he’d never seen an angel until he saw you cast in gold.

#fic: homebound #reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner braun x you #reiner braun imagine #reiner braun fic #reiner x reader #reiner x you #aot #aot x reader #aot x you #attack on titan #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan x you #attack on titan fanfiction #snk #snk x reader #snk x you #shingeki no kyojin #my writing

[turtle-steverogers]

steve getting caught in the rain on the way home from work and barging through the front door bangs dripping and cheeks pink and bucky looking up from his spot on the sofa with alpine and thinking i’m fucked

so it's like 1 am and this was going to be something chaotic and smutty but it ended up being a view of steve's pain from the eyes of bucky

oop anway:

In From the Cold

-

From Stevie: Left my key at home. Can you let me in?

Bucky gets the text right before there’s a knock at the front door, and he presses to his feet, shifting Alpine off his lap. It takes a moment to undo all the latches and locks, and by the time he does, Steve has knocked again-- sharper. Frantic. Bucky frowns and opens the door.

“Shit, Steve,” he says, and steps to the side to let Steve in past him.

He’s soaked, straight through to his skin. His hair is plastered to his forehead, clumped and stiff with sleet. His nose and cheeks are bright against his otherwise pale skin, and his lips are a tad blue.

He’s shaking. Hard.

It’s then that Bucky realizes that sleet is coming down outside, the sky blanketed a gloomy grey. The storm had been on the radar, but somehow he’d forgotten about it. Steve, it seemed, had forgotten as well when he’d left for his meeting that morning.

“Yeah,” Steve says, taking off his jacket. His movements are stiff and Bucky reaches out a hand, taking the soaked jacket from him before he can hang it on its hook. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Go ahead and take off the rest of your clothes. I’ll throw them in the wash. Do you want a bath?”

Steve swallows, a shudder running visibly through him and Bucky doesn’t need a psych degree to guess what’s going on. Between the wet and the cold, this is hardly Steve’s preferred state to be in. There’s a vacancy in his eyes that makes Bucky’s blood run cold.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yes. Please.”

-

Bucky’s blood runs cold as a cough wracks Steve’s body, and he instinctively listens for a rattle in his lungs. The cough is not dry, though. Silver linings.

His hair is plastered to his forehead, and Bucky curses, reaching out to usher Steve inside. His clothes are soaked and sticking to his frame, hugging him in a way that seems to accentuate his size. Make him look even smaller. He coughs again.

“Jesus, you got a death wish?” Bucky hisses, hands working to unbutton Steve’s shirt-- get the wet fabric off, because it’s going to make him sick and Steve just got over his last fucking cold.

Steve bats his hand away, leveling him with a glare.

“No, shut up,” he says, and the harshness is dampened by the chattering of his teeth. He unbuttons his own shirt and tosses it aside, the bruises on his collarbone from a work mishap earlier that week stark and purple. Bucky wants to reach out and soothe his fingers over them-- kiss them away.

Instead, he goes to his closet and pulls out a clean shirt and some boxer shorts that will be too big on Steve, but at least they’re warm.

“I thought you were seeing your ma,” Bucky says, handing Steve the clothes. Steve strips naked right there in their hallway. He’s unabashed and it makes the lithe lines of his body all the more beautiful.

“I was,” Steve says. It’s clipped and Bucky’s gut twinges. Sarah had gotten sick a week or so ago-- an awful, wracking cough. Bucky had hoped, fucking prayed that it wasn’t the worst. But Sarah worked in a TB ward, and life didn’t seem so kind to the Rogers family. “They wouldn’t let me in.”

“Shit,” Bucky says.

Steve is dressed now, Bucky’s boxers barely clinging to his hips. He sits down on Bucky’s bed, and Bucky sits, too.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he’s holding himself so tightly that Bucky’s afraid he might snap.

-

Steve holds himself tightly as he sits on the edge of the tub, his eyes on the rising water level, but mind clearly elsewhere. Bucky watches him for a moment as he returns from the laundry room-- watches his chest heave and hands tremble.

He is naked where he sits, and the way he hunches in on himself makes him look smaller. Bucky’s chest aches and he desperately wishes he could reach out and break the spell-- break the hold Steve’s mind seems to have on him right now. But he knows a thing or two about triggers, and he may not know what happened when Steve crashed that plane-- not details anyhow-- but he knows damn well that Steve still isn’t healed from that particular wound. It will likely follow him to his real grave. The pain. The fear. The damning finality of it.

-

And it seems like a final damnation. One not so beautiful as the perdition that was Steve taking Bucky into his body. But a much starker one. As unforgiving as a son losing his mother can be when he’s already lost his father. Steve says he hadn’t cared much when Joseph finally died-- his own faults pulling him under the current. But there’s a shame there that he can’t seem to quell. Regret that runs in the tightness of his eyes, smoldering and masked by a harshness that doesn’t fit the gentleness that is the skin of Steve Rogers. The soul and bones that are so hurt by a world keen on hurting them.

There’s a grief that wants to rise in Bucky’s own chest. Sarah doesn’t deserve this-- he wishes he could change it. Make it untrue. Make it better.

But he can deal with his own shit later. Right now, Steve is hurting and Bucky needs to coax him out of his shell. Lance some of that pain.

His hair is still dripping from the storm outside and Bucky reaches out, brushes his fingers through the sopping strands. Steve looks at him, eyes hollow and shining-- a strange dichotomy.

“Let me run you a bath?”

-

Steve sinks into the bath water, eyes closed as his chest hitches and stutters. He sinks down until the water covers his chest, stops at his chin. And it would be an endearing sight if he didn’t look so damn troubled.

Bucky hesitates.

“Do you want me here? Or would you rather be alone.”

Please God, he thinks. Please let me in. Let me stay. Let me shoulder some of your pain.

Steve’s jaw shifts, then clenches. He battles with himself, caught between the draw of comfort and his own internal walls telling him to close the gates.

Bucky waits.

“Can you wash my hair?” Steve eventually asks.

Bucky smiles. “Of course, pal.”

-

Bucky takes off his shirt so it won’t get wet and kneels by the edge of the tub. Steve leans back to wet his hair. It seems like instinct more than anything. His hair was already pretty damn wet. Bucky picks up the shampoo-- half empty and a little crusted around the cap-- and squirts some out onto his palm.

Lathering it up, he leans closer.

“Ready?”

“Mhm.”

“Close your eyes, sweetheart.”

Steve closes his eyes and Bucky begins to work the shampoo into his hair, pressing his fingers into his scalp, around his temples. Tension seems to ebb out of Steve in increments and Bucky is hopeful for a moment that he’s leaching out some of the shock.

And he must have taken away the numbness, because then Steve is sobbing, and Bucky is cursing softly as he strips out of the rest of his clothes, climbing into the tub behind Steve. He rinses his hair, and doesn’t bother with soft nothings. Because it isn’t okay. And Steve doesn’t deserve dismissal like that.

Instead, he pulls him close and buries his nose in his hair.

-

With practiced hands, Bucky works his coconut shampoo into Steve’s hair. It’s his favorite even if he won’t admit it and never buys it for himself. That’s alright, though. Bucky doesn’t mind sharing.

He feels Steve’s skin warm up-- rinses his hair with rhythmic and soothing touches, skittering his hands down Steve’s shoulders and across his chest as he goes, aiming to ground him. But Steve is not speaking and he is still shaking.

“Steve?” Bucky prompts gently.

Steve looks at him, gaze darting to his eyes, then his cheek, fixating there. A shudder rolls through him and he goes impossibly more pale.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, alarmed, and then Steve’s chest is heaving as his breaths start to speed up. “Shit.”

Bucky strips off his clothes, and climbs into the tub with Steve, keeping a hand on him as he sinks into the water.

“Can I hold you?” he asks, and Steve manages a nod. He’s going to hyperventilate if they don’t get a hold of this now. Bucky pulls Steve back against his chest and buries his nose in his hair. “Breathe with me. Just feel me, Steve. Just feel me and breathe.”

Steve does.

-

Steve is worn out by the time they’re settling in bed, and Bucky shifts him so his head is on his chest. They’re quiet for a long time, watching the sun set, shadows moving across the ceiling.

“I’m scared,” Steve says, his voice hoarse from crying.

Bucky tenses. “I know.”

“I don’t want to lose her.”

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

There isn’t anything for it. Bucky wants to promise that he won’t leave. That he’ll be there, but Steve knows that and reiterating it will only exacerbate the pain of those who can’t be there for him.

“I’m so tired,” Steve whimpers.

-

“I’m so fucking tired of this,” Steve says as he comes down, voice tight and teeth chattering. At least he’s breathing on his own now.

Then rest, Bucky wants to say. Come in from the cold. Let us help. Let people help.

“I know,” he says instead. “I know, honey. But you did so good just now.”

Steve shrugs. “Can we get out?”

“Sure thing.”

They dry off together, and settle into bed, naked still and wrapped up in each other. Steve settles on his chest, head tucked under Bucky’s chin. An age old position-- Steve will always fit right in Bucky’s arms.

-

Steve falls asleep with his hand clinging to Bucky’s. He usually looks more peaceful when he is resting, but now his mouth is turned down-- the lines of his face seem to deepen. He looks much older than he actually is, but Bucky has always sort of thought that. Steve, he thinks, has had to grow up too fast.

There’s a moment where Steve seems to drift awake, eyes opening then shutting again. He makes a soft noise and shifts closer to Bucky.

Bucky holds him and prays he feels held.

-

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve says. It was worth a shot.

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Can I do anything?”

Steve swallows, arms tightening around Bucky’s middle. “Just hold me?”

“Of course,” Bucky says, and he hitches Steve closer, kisses the top of his head.

“This helps,” Steve whispers, and Bucky holds his breath. “You holding me. It feels safe.”

“I’m so glad,” Bucky says. His throat feels tight and he ducks his head to kiss Steve’s temple. It settles something in him, knowing Steve feels safe in his arms. “I’ll always hold you.”

-

thanks for reading, chiefs!

#this is largely unedited because it is late so sorry for any mistakes #stucky #stucky fic #steve rogers #bucky barnes #i have so many wips i should be working on instead oops #anyway cass this was wonderful thank you

[just-my-fandom]

Reader being the one to fight Matt and they reunite!!

Request 2: Hi. So uh, can I request a Voltron story? Where the reader used to date Matt Holt, but after he disappeared reader changed from the nerdy quiet girl she was to like a badass, and starts dating Keith. Thank you. Have a great day.

Request 3: any thing Voltron where reader gets hurt!!!

Summary: Now that Matt is back, he can’t help but feel that his (ex) girlfriends teammate is taking her away from him. Reader has to break to Matt that she has moved on after his disappearance and is now with the paladin of the black lion.

Date started; February 2, 2021

Date posted; March 1, 2021 (Jezus)

Warning(s); Cursing, fighting, blood, jealousy, angst.

Was not proof read.

Matt and reader have a past. This story is a Keith x Reader.

A/N: We’re slowly but surely getting things posted. Life’s been a bish lately so I haven’t been motivated to write. I had absolutely no idea how to end this, so it just cuts off.

Tagged; @boiled-onionrings

“What is this?” Your eyes narrow in thought. Narrow at the footsteps that close in behind you. Widen when you turn, and a man is swinging his blade straight at your head.

Your body is quick to push back, into the control panel so it flickered and powered off, your hands pushing off in an attempt to roll to the side.

Your hand pulls your bay-yard from your belt, twisting in time for your weapon to collide with your opponents, both grunting at the impact.

The figure shoves forward so you fall onto your back, gasping as your bay-yard slides feet from your reach, pushing to sit up and reach for your weapon.

The quick swipe of the males blade causes you to hiss and clutch your shoulder, lifting your foot high enough to kick him backwards, into the control panel like he had done to you prior.

You reach out and lift your bay-yard, slinging your arm out so it hit your opponent in the jaw, knocking his mask off and over his shoulder.

You lift your head, jaw clenched and weapon drawn, eyes widening as your lips part in a gasp, when you meet the gaze of your opponent,

“Matt?” You squeak, dropping your bay-yard so it clattered on the metal floor and quickly retracted into its holder, free hand pressed hard to where your fingers slowly held blood,

“Y/N,” Matt breathes, his body pushing to stand up from where he fell to his knees, arms pulling you tightly into his chest so you hissed a second time, his hands holding your arms as he leans back, examining your injury,

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” He exhales, your head shaking as tears burned your eyes from behind your helmet,

“Oh my god,” You heave, bloodied hands pulling your helmet off so he could fully look at your face, “Oh, god, you’re alive,”

“I’m alive,” Matt nods, hands caressing your head so he could lean his forehead to knock against yours, your eyes pinching shut before you lean back, opening your eyes.

“Just wait until Pidge sees you, and-and Shiro,”

“Wait, they’re with you?” Matt knits his brows together, as you glance down at the blood through your amor. It’ll be fine.

“Well, on their own mission,” You exhale, “Any chance you’ve heard of Voltron?”

“Of course I’ve heard of Voltron,”

“Well,” You repeat, smiling shyly as you look up at him, “We’re all Paladins,”

“No way,” Matt shakes his head, “That’s so cool!” He reaches forward to twirl you around, pausing when noticing you flinch at the movement of your shoulder.

“Come on,” Matt pulls back, hand at your arm, “Let me fix your shoulder,”

“Actually,” You lift your helmet off the floor, placing it over your head, “I have somewhere we can go,”

“HEY, look, Y/Ns back!” Hunk and Lance turn at the white lions appearance, the team of five moving forward as the lions jaw opened, your figure stepping out with a hand on your shoulder,

“Whoa, what happened to you?” Pidge asks, eyes narrowed as she moves up to you, but you smile, her brows pinching as footsteps sound behind you, her gaze looking over your shoulder and widening at Matt’s figure,

“Matt!” Pidge gasps, your smile softening as you step to the side, Shiro crossing his arms as he moves up to you,

“How’d you find him?” Shiro asks, calmly, your eyes flicking up to him.

“That so called secret base?” Shiro nods, “It was Matt’s. He returned as soon as I went in. Started fighting before we realized each other,”

“You did a good job,” Shiro smiles, and you nod, looking over at Pidge and Matt pulling out of their embrace, “Does he know?”

Shit. No. He doesn’t. He hasn’t even met Keith yet. “No,” You murmur, sighing as you turn, “I don’t know how to tell him,”

“That might be something you talk about in your own time,” Shiro raises his eyes from your shoulder to your eyes, watching you nod and brush past him, missing Matt’s worried glance.

“FOCUS, Keith!”

“I am focusing! You’re the one not focusing!”

“Now you’re just fucking with me,”

Matt stops at the doorway of the training deck. By now he had gotten a feel of where each room was located on the ship, which lead him to sneak off and search for you.

He watches silently as you slung your bay-yard at the red paladin- Keith, Matt thinks- leading Keith to jerk back and knock his own weapon to the metal, pushing you away from getting a hit on him.

It’s a quick tuck and roll as you duck away from Keith’s swing, your foot hooking around his leg to knock him on his back, your teammate grunting loudly at the impact his body made.

Knees pinned at his sides, your hands pin his shoulders down, lips pulling upward in a snort as Keith rolls his eyes, head dropping against the floor in defeat,

“You win,” Keith huffs, hands at your thighs as you raise your eyebrows, eyes flicking between his.

“Nice,” You grin, dropping one eyebrow, “Rematch?”

Matt frowns as Keith lifts his head, lips nearly against yours, “Absolutely not,”

“So you admit I’m better than you,” You lean back, sitting up so you were sitting on his legs, “I’ll take it,”

Keith narrows his eyes, gaze then shifting to the side, so you turned and your smile dropped.

“Matt,” You call, when the dirty blonde turns and exits the deck. You send a short glance down at Keith, pushing to stand up, “Matt, wait,”

Huffing at his refusal to turn around, you fasten your pace, “Matthew Holt, look at me!”

“Oh, so now you care?” Matt turns, sharply, arms crossed as he watches your brows furrow and footsteps stop.

“Matt, I always cared,” You breathe, shaking your head, “You’d been gone for years. I had to do what was right for me and move on. I should have told you when you first came back, but I didn’t know how,”

“So you two?” Matt’s eyes flick to the door of the training deck, and you nod, gazing down.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” You say, lifting your gaze, “As the paladin of the white lion, my main focus has always been saving earth. Im not the girl you once knew, who only read books and was afraid to talk to anyone outside my little circle. I’m a paladin now. I save people,”

You glance to the side, silently moving back to the training deck where Matt frowns, jaw clenching in defeat. He had lost you, years ago.

“ARE you two okay?”

Lance and Hunk skid to a stop into the abandoned ships control room, both breathing heavily through their helmets, “We’re fine,” Lance heaves, “But we need to get out of here, now!”

“Why?” Pidge rushes, “What happened?”

“It was-,” Hunk pauses, shock still in his system, “Monster- blue flash- I had rotten food goo,”

“Wait,” Lance stops his teammate, eyes narrowed in thought, “Where’s Keith and Y/N?”

YOUR eyes scan the empty hall. Galra bots float, lifeless, Keith and Kosmo floating beside you, “Hello?” Keith calls, Kosmo growling in defense,

“What are you?” The robotic voice of the remaining Galra bot causes you to pause, eyes squinting. The bot repeats his question, Keith raising his flashlight to the bots face,

“My name is Keith,” Keith starts, head barely tilting towards you, “This is Y/N. We are Paladins of Voltron. Paladins of the Black and White lions,”

“Wait,” You speak, “Yordum Bering Exus. Is that you?”

“Where are the rest of the Galra?” The bot asks, your head turning to look at Keith,

“They’re still on Planet Ryker. Why?”

“Planet Ryker,” The robot repeats, before it pushes forward, your eyes widening at the large monster behind it.

“Keith,” You alert, reaching to grab his arm so he tugged you into him, sharply, avoiding the sudden purple blast ray that the monster- Sentry- send, his shield coming up to block the second shot, shoving you and him both into the metal wall beside you.

You grunt out in pain at the impact, Keith pushing you to the side so you rammed into Kosmo, who quickly teleported next to Keith, Keith grabbing your hip protectively as you vanish.

“Keith, Y/N and I were in communication before we got disconnected,” Pidge explains to Lance, hearing Matt in her earpiece ask in a panic,

“You lost contact with them?”

“Keith and Y/N can hold their own together,” Allura breathes, “We need to figure out what that thing is,”

You reappear in the control room, gasps wheezed in fear before you push away from Keith, eyes wide, “What the hell was that?”

“What?” Pidge rushes, “What did you guys see?”

“Some- monster!” You heave, hearing Matt’s voice glitch in your earpiece as it gained connection,

“Oh thank God,”

“The base you sent this fleet to plunder, was it Warlord ranveigs?” Keith rushes, flying up to Lahn.

“Yes. It was,” Lahn answers, shortly, Allura glancing at you in alert.

“Keith, what’s going on?”

“The creature on this ship is a superweapon designed to destroy the Galra, and only Galra,” Keith starts,

“Warlord Ranveig would never create such a thing,” Lahn hisses, Keith shaking his head.

“Ranveig found the creature in the Quantum Abyss and experimented on it with Lotors Quintessence,”

“How do you know so much on this, Keith?” You ask, floating up between Pidge and Allura.

“Krolia and I let it lose so we could escape Ranveigs base,” Keith sighs, eyes fluttering shut, “This is all my fault,”

You shake your head, ignoring the glare Lahn sends your teammate, “Pidge, can you set a protocol that could self destruct this place? We need to get rid of the ship, and that monster,”

“Once I set it we’ll only have two minutes to leave the ship,” Pidge rushes, fingers pressing buttons, before she turns, waving a gloved hand, “Go. Go!”

You turn, jaw clenching at Sentrys appearance at the side door, “All Galra must perish,”

You yelp as the monster lunges forward, darting to the side before flying up with your jet pack, rushing for the door. Your front slams into the now shut door, fist curling to punch the metal before you look over, realizing Keith, too, had been trapped.

“Guys!” You shout, eyes wide in terror as you face Sentry, pulling out your bay-yard as he flew forward, you and Keith dodging in different directions so Sentry slammed into the doors front.

You hiss as Sentrys tail wraps around your body, pinning your arms at your sides, your gasp cut short as his tail flicks, hard, sending you into the metal wall feet away.

Your vision swims black, growing blurry as your lungs gasp for air, the sudden pain in your ribs causing you unable to move. Keith looks over as Sentry roared, rushing to you, Keith’s body protectively shielding yours as his shield protects himself, shoving you both into the wall a second time.

“Stay awake, Y/N!” Keith demands, rushes, arm at your lower back keeping you from floating away from him. His bay-yard shifts into a large gun, blasting at the monster before he turns and aims, shooting a hole into the locked door.

“Go!” Keith demands to his team, jet pack activating as he rushes forward,

“What happened to Y/N?!” Lance rushes, looking back at the distant explosion, where his eyes widen at the fire rising.

With a heatwave, the team of seven are thrown into space, the black lion quick to catch you and Keith so Keith landed on his feet, looking out his front visor where the white lion floated in front of his own.

“Let’s get her to the castle,” Keith demands, looking down at where your hand pressed to your rib, blood at your lips, “Stay with me, okay?”

You whimper, head tilting back before it leans to the side, dropping onto his shoulder.

“WHAT happened?” Matt and Shiro move forward towards their friend, Keith moving past them with you in his arms,

“The thing we had to destroy, attacked us, twice,” Keith hisses, teeth bared as he bends down to stand you on your feet inside the healing pod, stepping back in time for it to zap shut,

“She only seemed to be in danger around you,” Matt seethes, Keith looking over his shoulder to glare at the dirty blonde,

“What was that?”

“Do I need to dumb it out for you?” Matt steps up, ignoring Shiros call, “You’re the reason she got hurt. You’re the reason she left me!”

“Y/N left you because you ran off into space,” Keith snarls, Shiro and Pidge both jumping between the two so Keith stepped back, jaw clenched.

“Now is not the time to be fighting,” Shiro orders, Pidge nodding then shaking her head as she points to your unconscious, healing figure,

“Y/N needs you both right now, as much as you might hate it. So shut up and be here for her when she wakes up,”

Matt’s eyes shift from Pidge to Keith, Keith firmly crossing his arms over his armored chest before facing the healing pod.

Matt watches as Keith’s eyes drift to his bloodied gloves, glare faltering before looking back up to you.

Pidge exhales a heavy breath and follows Shiro, reluctantly, out of the med-bay, Matt crossing his own arms and scanning his eyes across your face.

“I’m sorry I came out rude,” He starts, Keith barely side glancing him, “It just, sucks. Coming back from being in space prison to find out your girlfriend moved on,”

“Y/Ns a lot different now than she used to be,” Keith reminds, “When I first met her I was an asshole and she was quiet. We didn’t click right away. But I found a meaning to my team and she’s apart of my team. It just- happened,”

“She’s definitely different,” Matt chuckles, Keith raising an eyebrow, “When I ran into her, I didn’t know she could fight like that,”

“She didn’t learn from me, that’s for sure,” Keith smirks, which instantly falls as the heal pod beeps, opening so Keith’s arms shot out to catch your leaning figure,

“That was quick,” Matt mutters, Keith shooting him a glance before you lift your head, brows pinched in discomfort,

“What happened?” Your eyes shift from Matt to Keith, who’s muscles visibly relaxed to see you up and moving. Matt noticed.

“We’ll tell you about it later,” Matt steps up, smiling lightly, “I’ll let the others know you’re okay,” Matt’s eyes meet Keith’s, his nod short before he steps back and out the door.

Maybe, just maybe, Matt forgave him.

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