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#whipping implied
whumpinthepot · 9 months
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@figuwhump day 5
“Don’t look at me like that, neither of us want to be here today, Love”
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nartothelar · 8 months
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yeehaw
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kyuyua · 7 months
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I still love the fact that the entire Ironstrange community decided that Stephen fell in love with Tony after viewing 14000605 possible timelines bc he watched him die for everyone on Titan, watched him sacrifice himself for people he just met and essentially for the entire universe, watched him fall over and over and over again just to stand up and keep fighting because he had to. He’s seen every decision Tony could ever make, has seen every sacrifice-play he’s made, every victory and defeat, and decided ‘this one.’
Like, Stephen’s seen this man at his worst and at his best, probably knows him better than anyone else ever could, and he fell so in love with him. I will go down with this ship.
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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months
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Keith is acting suspicious.
Lance is sure of it. Beyond his usual shiftiness, his awkwardness, his tendency towards privacy. Lance knows his boyfriend, and he knows him well, and as such he knows enough to realise that his boyfriend is acting fuckin’ dubious.
Lance is going to snoop. (Yeah, yeah, ethical schmethical. Snooping fosters distrust in relationships and makes things tense blah blah blah. Lance recognises that. He also grew up with fucking Hunk Garrett and His Entire Family, so he also recognises that snooping is simply the best way to gather information. Fair’s fair.)
He waits until his boyfriend’s snores start to kick up, making the bedroom sound like an illegal motorized lawnmower race, and then carefully starts scooching out of his arms.
It takes a while — Keith likes to hold him. (Lance has to take a moment to calm himself down after the thought, lest he start to giggle giddily to himself, reminded that Keith loves him so much that at his most unguarded, his first instinct is to crush Lance in his arms. It’s exhilarating.) But slowly and steadily he manages to slide out of the arms around his waist, filling the newly hollow space with a pillow, and tumbles to the floor. He takes a moment, crossing his legs and sitting next to the bed, to look up at Keith, at the ratty mess of his bedhead and wide open snoring mouth and the tank top skewed across his torso, the hickeys Lance left all across his chest and collarbones peeking out.
“You are such a shit,” he whispers fondly. “I love you so bad it makes me want to, like, bite you or something. You make me weird.”
He watches Keith’s chest rise and fall until his legs fall asleep, wherein he flops onto the hardwood, wiggling his legs through the pins and needles and screeching silently into his arm (worst feeling in the WORLD) until his legs no longer feel like they’re on fire, and then he inches himself towards the right corner of the room like an inchworm.
(It’s three in the morning. No one is awake to judge him to give him shit or laugh at him or anything. He can do what he likes.)
He pulls himself up to his knees when he finally makes it to the corner, loosening his shoulders in preparation. The room is dark, so it’ll be a challenge, but this is not the first time he’s done this. Hell, it isn’t even the fiftieth. He’s a nosy person. He could do this in his sleep, probably, so in the dark is no problem.
As slowly as he can manage, to make sure it’s silent, he pries off the metal grate covering of the air vent, setting it down gently beside him. Laying down on his stomach again to get a better angle, he reaches down into the wide tube, following the curve of the cool metal, arm buried up to his shoulder, until he’s reached as far as he physically can. He carefully starts brushing his hands along the air vent, searching, feeling. It shouldn’t be too far down since his arms are way longer than Keith’s (Lance enjoys calling him T-Rex, which Keith hates and literally everyone else who knows them loves. It’s great).
Finally, his fingers brush on something small, compact, sturdy, and soft. He wraps his fist around it and slowly drags it out of the vent, keeping it in his fist as he crawls out of the bedroom and down the hall, somersaulting into the kitchen. He heads over to the fridge, figuring that if he uses the fridge light and Keith walks in, he can just pretend he’s getting a snack or something, shoving the thing he found into his pants. Keith’ll be too out of it to question it, anyway.
Laughing quietly and evilly to himself as he pulls open the fridge door, he brings his closed fist up to the light, examining the treasure he found. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, to take in what’s in front of him.
He gasps sharply when he processes, and the treasure slips out of his hands, clattering loudly to the floor.
He freezes immediately, listening for the telltale signs of his boyfriend snorting awake, noticing Lance’s side of the bed is empty, then the sound of his footsteps as he comes to look for him.
But, fortunately, there’s nothing. The only thing Lance hears are Keith’s continued snores.
Rapidly, Lance scoops up the box and brings it back to the light. It’s unmistakable — there’s only one thing that houses in a small hinged velvet box. It explains the shiftiness over the last few weeks, too, the nervousness that Keith has been disgusting as mysterious intrigue.
Keith is going to propose. Keith is going to propose!
Smiling so widely his face hurts, Lance flicks open the box, bringing his face closer to carefully inspect the ring inside.
It’s difficult to see in the dull blue light of the fridge, but Lance starts to cry when he sees it, because he recognises this ring. This is Keith’s dad’s ring; old, heavy gold, classic princess cut diamond, simple and polished and elegant. This is the ring Keith often wears around his neck, although he rarely has as of late, for now obvious reasons. This is the ring Keith has carried with him for almost two decades. This is, without a doubt, Keith’s most prized Earthly possession, and his intent is to gift it to Lance, as a promise of his love and trust and faithfulness.
Lance has to sit down so he doesn’t pass out. He grabs a dishtowel on the way to the floor, pressing it to his face to muffle his absolutely wailing sobs, the most ugly crying he’s literally ever done in his life.
He’s so glad he snooped. If he had this reaction when Keith finally summoned the balls to ask him, his engagement photos would be so embarrassing.
He paused mid-sniffle.
Actually.
A little embarrassed of himself, he slides up his phone, holding the ring box up to his tear-swollen and smiling face to snap a picture. He looks like a mess, but it’s important to him to have a physical memory of the moment he first learned Keith planned to marry him. He’s sure he’ll cry more over it the next time he’s feeling sappy and emotional.
He doesn’t realise how long he sits, fridge wide open, back to the cabinet doors of the kitchen island, staring in awe at the ring, until his watch starts to beep.
“Fuck,” he curses, scrambling to his feet. It’s six o’clock. Keith’ll be up in fifteen minutes to go on his morning run, Lance has literally been mooning over his ring for two and a half hours.
He runs back to the bedroom, barely remembering at the last second time muffle his footsteps, shoving the ring back into the vent and pressing the grate back onto the hole. Keith stirs slightly at the noise, so Lance abandons any thought of whether or not the ring box is positioned back exactly where he found it and fuckin’ dives for the bed, reburying himself in his boyfriend’s arms and hoping he can pass it off as just having shifted around in his sleep or something. Apparently he squirms and kicks a lot (which is a lie that Keith perpetuates to take attention away from the severity of his snores), so it should be fine. Probably.
“Wh—L’nce?” Keith mumbles, stirring from behind him. He inhales deeply, arms pulling away from Lance’s and stretching out above him. Lance’s heart pounds. He forces himself to stay relaxed, to avoid squeezing his eyes shut. He prays that Keith doesn’t notice how sweaty he is.
Keith leans over to press a lingering kiss to his neck, then chuckles. Lance can feel the imprint of his smile on his skin, and tamping down his own reflexive smile is literally the hardest thing he has ever had to do in his entire life.
“You’re warm as hell,” Keith murmurs, dragging his lips down his neck, across his shoulders. His hand comes to rest in his hip, curling into the hollow there. “Betcha you were squrimin’ around in y’re sleep last night, ya worm. Betcha I’ve got bruises on my shins.” His shoulders, pressed against Lance’s back, shake with his laughter, because he is a shithead who is so lucky that Lance loves him. He presses one final kiss to Lance’s skin and then rolls out of bed. Lance listens carefully as he gets dressed in his jogging clothes and runs a brush through his hair. He falls half asleep listening to the familiar sounds, rousing slightly again when Keith ducks back in to kiss Lance’s head one last time before heading out.
Lance smiles as he falls asleep for real, after the sound of the front door opening and closing.
He’s gonna clown that dumbass so goddamn badly.
———
Lance has a love-hate relationship with pranks. On one hand, the one and only time he was sent into an asthma attack so bad he had to go to the hospital was after he and Hunk wrapped every single thing in Veronica’s room with aluminum foil while she was away on a trip, and upon seeing her reaction laughed so hard his lungs basically collapsed. He still can’t think of that without laughing. On the other hand, he’s had more than enough cruel pranks shoved his way, and never in his life wants anyone to feel humiliated because of something he did.
He can’t not prank Keith, though. He’s literally beat Keith to his own proposal. A prank is in order.
Usually, he’d call Hunk for something like that. They’ve been partners in crimes for most of their lives, after all. Pidge too, honestly. He knows they’d both get a kick out of this whole situation as well.
But…even if those dunderheads were capable of keeping their mouths shut, which they’re not, Lance kind of wants to…well, he wants to keep his proposal to himself. He likes being in on it. He likes being to only one in on it, actually. Honestly, the only thing he wants to do is brag to Keith that he knows, which defeats the whole purpose.
He straightens abruptly. A smirk spreads across his face.
He has an idea.
———
The first step is recon. He needs access to the ring, regularly and long-term, but all will be for naught if Keith realises it’s missing. He needs to know if Keith stashed the ring when he decided to propose and avoided thinking about it, or if he checks on it frequently and stresses himself out about when he’s finally going to go through with it. Both are very Keith options. In fact Lance wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow managed both at the same time, as impossible as that seems.
To get around the issue, Lance goes Spy Barbie. He waits until Keith goes out for his weekly coffee date with Shiro and Adam and then digs through his makeup kit, setting aside what he needs and sitting next to the air vent grate. He spends a good amount of time polishing the metal, making sure it’s as fresh and untouched as it was when it was first put in its package, and then he uses a wide end brush to apply a thin layer of highlighter to the white metal. He takes great care to ensure that no colour is visible, only a slight sheen if one were to look closely. And Keith doesn’t have any reason to look closely, and since Lance knows the universe loves him, he won’t.
The next step is waiting. Lance acts completely normally when Keith gets home, if a little giddy. Keith most certainly notices Lance’s giggles and affection and the way he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself, but he doesn’t seem to mind or question it. Lance does sometimes get like this, after all.
He scored a hot as hell boyfriend. He’s allowed to be a little awed sometimes. He doesn’t feel weird about it.
He does, however, mellow out in the next few days. Keith takes him to a car show, which is fucking wicked, and somehow manages to get himself and Lance behind the wheels of two 200 horsepower Mustangs for them to race, which is so exhilarating that Lance doesn’t have words for it. He just yells and jumps around about it a lot. He doesn’t actually manage to find words for a couple hours after he totally smokes Keith’s ass, but whatever. It’s cool. Keith tried his best and everything, Lance is sure.
A week later, when Keith is out on his coffee date again, Lance gets to work. He cuts a large square of parchment paper and covers it with clear packing tape, careful not to touch the sticky side, overlapping strips so they make one giant tape sheet.
Once the parchment sheet is covered, he peels off the tape, and as planned it comes off in one large sheet, slightly bigger than the air vent grate. Again careful to steer clear of the sticky part, he places the tape sheet sticky side down onto the grate, pressing down hard and rubbing to smooth it out completely flat. Once he’s sure it’s totally stuck down, he picks at one corner until it’s loose, then slowly and meticulously peels the whole sheet back. He holds the tape, now showcasing the concealer-print of the grate, up to the light, examining it with the utmost scrutiny.
Not one single fingerprint in sight. Keith has not touched the grate at all, hasn’t dug into his secret hiding spot. He is taking the refusing to think about it route, then.
Lance smirks. He reaches down and scoops up the ring, placing the grate back where it belongs and skipping out to the living room, humming jovially to himself.
Excellent.
———
The first picture Lance snaps, while biting his lip so hard to keep back his laughter it bleeds, is once again in the dead of night, two weeks after Lance first discovered the ring. Keith is sprawled out on his back this time, arms and legs askew, sheets tangled somewhere around his legs. Lance shifts so they’re both facing the same direction, then holds up his phone camera, trying to figure out how to artfully position himself for utmost devastation upon discovery. He decides eventually on a classic.
He heads over to the dresser to pick out his cutest pajamas, settling on the red spaghetti strap top with lace and short-shorts, debating on accessorizing and deciding at the last minute not to bother except for lip gloss, which is always appropriate. He climbs into bed next to Keith, gently laying his head on his chest and maneuvering one arm to wrap around Lance’s hips. The other he leaves flopped on top of the pillows. He leaves Keith’s mouth wide open because it’s funny, and goes the extra mile to mess up Keith’s hair worse than it already is, because that’s funnier. Finally he flicks open the ring case with his left hand and holds it to his face, grinning widely, and uses his right to snap a picture of the two of them. Once he’s satisfied with it, he untangles himself from the bed again, puts the ring away, presses a sticky lip gloss kiss to Keith’s cheek for funsies, and crawls back into bed for real. His sleep is sound as a baby’s.
———
The next photo doesn’t actually happen for another month. Lance fears overdoing it, and also kind of fears getting caught with the ring, so he leaves it in its hiding spot until the opportunity for another cheeky photo presents itself.
The opportunity in question arrives when Keith announces that he has arranged to drive down to the secluded beach that Lance took him too early in their relationship to spend the day. At first Lance thinks he’s proposing for real, and to check he waits until Keith has the car all packed up and ready to go and then pretends to run inside to go to the washroom. Instead he ducks into their room and tears into the air vent, grasping around until his fingers close around the box.
He scoffs to himself. Wimp.
He quickly shoves the box into his fanny pack (fanny packs are COOL and CONVENIENT and Lance will not hear a word of controversy on the subject, they are absolutely nothing like Keith’s dweeb utility belt) and sprints back to the car. When Keith asks him why he’s smirking, Lance manages to convince him that he’s just excited for the beach.
Lance should have been an actor, honestly.
He mostly forgets about the ring while they’re there. He has enough sense to keep it in the car instead of on the beach so it doesn’t get stolen, unlikely as it is, and just enjoys the day with his boyfriend. He convinces Keith to go jet skiing with him and cackles to himself as he purposely sends Keith flying off the back of it. He screeches at the top of his lungs later when Keith scoops him up from his nap and literally chucks him into the ice cold water. The two of them make really garbage sculptures of their friends in the sand to amuse themselves. They gather ugly seashells and send pictures to their friends asking them if they’ve been turned into mollusks, since there is a resemblance. The whole day was a blast. Lance firmly slots it in his top ten days of all time.
When they go for a long walk to watch the sunset, Lance snaps a picture with the ring and a very teasing grin the second Keith has his back turned. He will bring up how this was a perfect moment to propose, and he will pat Keith’s head condescendingly about it. He can’t wait.
———
The third photo is another dead-of-night-situation. Lance knows it’s repetitive, but it’s easy and it’s funny and Lance can’t resist.
To change things up a bit, he decides not to be in the photo, and also to see just how much he can get away with.
Keith is on his side, this time, one hand tucked under the pillow, one hand held loose and open on top of it. He’s been tired, lately, and when Lance says he fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow, he is not exaggerating. In fact Lance is reasonably certain he passed out in the way down. He is KOed. He’s unconscious. He is absolutely dogged out.
The timing is perfect.
Carefully, aware of the consequences should Lance make a mistake, he removes the ring from its box. He realizes abruptly that it’s the first time he’s ever done that, despite his ridiculous quest, and he finds that he can’t quite let go of the ring just yet. The metal feels cool and smooth on his finger tips; worn, even. It’s shinier than it used to be, which means Keith has probably had it professionally retouched. Resized too, probably, although Lance can’t quite bring himself to check. The diamond catches the minimal light in the room and refracts into rainbows that fall softly on Keith’s lax face, highlighting his sharp jawline, his softly squished cheek, his relaxed brow. He looks so dorky when he sleeps, completely free of the furrow of concentration that usually resides in between his eyebrows, his resting frown. His mouth is always wide open when he’s out, and the echoing of his snores is so comically loud and ridiculous but absolutely something that Lance can’t live without. He has them recorded, actually, for the rare nights they’re not home together, on the rare night Lance has to sleep alone.
Smiling softly to himself, Lance places the ring in Keith’s open palm. He rests his hand on top of Keith’s for a moment, just because he can, just to relish in the scratch of Keith’s callouses on his skin, before pulling back and steadying his phone to snap a picture. He catches it right as Keith inhales heavily, right as his nose scrunches up.
It’s goofy as hell. It’s perfect.
———
The fourth picture is the riskiest, Lance thinks. He’s taken to carrying the ring around with him everywhere, almost as if he is the one planning to propose, just in case he has a moment when Keith’s back is turned. (There really aren’t that many. Keith faces him a lot. He likes to hold Lance hand and kiss his face, neither of which you can do from behind. Lance fucking loves his boyfriend so much.)
They’re at a Thing. Lance’s parents are celebrating their fortieth anniversary, and obviously Lance is bringing Keith, and since Keith is his mother’s favourite he is encouraged to bring his family as well, which means Shiro and Adam are coming, and if Hunk and Pidge weren’t invited then someone would cry and nothing would be right in the world, and of course Veronica is bringing Allura, and Coran comes because Lance’s dad thinks he’s the funniest man to walk the Earth. And of course all Lance’s relatives are there.
The point is that it’s a full house. A couple full houses, actually, since their neighbours are also involved. It’s a lot of people in one place.
As is protocol in crowded places, Keith is essentially glued to Lance’s side. Lance is quite happy with this arrangement, because he gets to show his boyfriend off like the hot piece of ass he is, especially to his rude ass great aunties and uncles who always had something to say about Lance and his single-ness when he was still rocking braces. So.
One thing about Keith, though, is that everyone who meets him is doomed to fall in love with him forever and ever, or so Lance has noticed. His niece and nephew are no exception, and immediately upon catching sight of their uncle — Keith, that is, Lance may as well be dead meat when Tio Keith is available, which, rude — they descend upon him not unlike a vulture may descend upon a recently deceased armadillo. Or whatever. Lance didn’t grow up in the desert, he doesn’t know what happens there.
Occupied as he is, one child hanging off each arm, Keith cannot keep his vice grip on Lance’s hand. Occupied as he is, two children talking at him in a mix of Spanish and English so rapid that Lance himself cannot keep up, which is saying something because his nickname for many years was and aptly so Motormouth, Keith cannot have his full attention on Lance. In fact, even, his back is delightfully turned.
Lance doesn’t hesitate. He flicks open the ring box and snaps a picture. His grin is nothing short of gleeful and he is entirely unapologetic.
When he turns back around, ring box stuffed back into his pocket, he realizes Nadia is staring at him with wide eyes.
“You, shush,” Lance says, and then switches to Spanish so Keith, who is still learning, will miss it, “or I’ll choose a random child to be my flower girl. I swear.”
She glares at him. “This is why Tio Keith is my favourite,” she mutters, because she is a snot who acts as if Lance does not and has not for her whole life taken her on all sorts of cool awesome amazing trips and bought her cool awesome amazing presents. Who was it who bought them recorders when they were seven to terrorize Luis with? Lance. Who was it to take them to a live rocket taking off the summer they turned nine? Lance.
“You’re a brat,” he informs her.
She sticks her tongue out at him, snickering. “Side genes.”
Lance unfortunately has nothing to say to that and also refuses to be roasted by an eleven year old, so he yanks Keith away as penance and takes him to a corner somewhere to make out. He feels very smug about it.
———
The fifth time doesn’t happen.
The fifth time is a clusterfuck.
The fifth time, it’s night again, and Lance honestly doesn’t even plan on taking another picture. He’s just next to the vent, lying on his belly, legs kicking in the air as he inspects the ring for the billionth time. He’s so excited. He can’t wait to wear this on his finger. He can’t wait for Keith to put it there. He’s can’t wait to be Keith’s husband, is the crux of it all. It’s like groundhog day except with literal euphoria. Lance is the luckiest man literally alive, and Keith hasn’t even hinted towards a plan to pop the question yet.
“You are the nosiest motherfucker in the planet, you shithead.”
Lance yelps, startling so bad he almost brains himself on the floor and nearly drops the ring. He manages to catch himself with the grace of God and also probably luck, or neither of those things, but either way Lance heart nearly pounds out of his chest.
“You scared me, you butthead!”
Keith chuckles. His voice is low and raspy from sleep, vowels still rounded from the accent that only comes out when he’s mad or drunk or tired. Lance’s belly swoops. Keith grabs Lance’s ankle and tugs, dragging him over to him, pulling him upright when he’s close enough. Lance goes into him fully, curling up into him, head tucked under his chin. Keith’s hands come to rest on top of his, sliding the ring box from him.
“How long have you known, you snoop?”
“Six months,” Lance answers. “In my defense, you were acting suspicious as all hell.”
Keith kisses his head. “Fair.”
“I need to know everything about everything or I’ll die. You know this.”
Keith snorts. He takes Lance’s left hand and smooths it flat, spreading out his fingers. “Yeah. Ruined my plans, though.”
“Oh, please. You and I both know there were no plans involved. You walked by a shop advertising ring retouching and walked in before you even thought about it.”
Keith says nothing. Lance grins and presses on.
“I bet you cried the whole time, too.”
“Shut up. I’m gonna keep the ring.”
Lance kisses him on the chest, the closest place he can reach, through his sleep shirt. “No, you’re not.”
“Mhm.” Keith plucks the ring out of the box with one hand, setting it on the ground beside them and grabbing Lance’s hand with his other. “You’re right. I’m not.”
He doesn’t move for a while, except to stroke his thumb over the palm of Lance’s hand, over and over again. Lance likes the feeling. He’s always likes the feeling of Keith’s hands in him.
“I know this isn’t a fancy dinner or sunset on the beach or with your whole family present,” he murmurs. “But I’m tired of waiting, if you don’t mind me jumping the gun.”
Lance smiles widely. A tear leaks out of his eye, dripping down his face and onto Keith’s hand.
“I don’t.”
“Good.” Keith holds the ring just above Lance’s finger, poised, ready to slide it on but waiting for permission. “Lance Sanchez, will you marry me?”
“Keith Gyeong, I would want nothing more.”
Unhesitant at last, Keith slides his father’s ring onto Lance’s finger, centring it so the diamond shines brightly in the middle. It fits perfectly.
The tears stream down Lance’s face, and he can’t for the life of him pretend that they’re not, not that he’d bother. He buries his face in his fiancé’s neck and feels Keith’s own tears soaking his hair.
“I took a bunch of sneaky pictures of me holding the ring in front of you,” Lance admits.
Keith laughs. “Of course you did.”
“I carried the ring around for months.”
“Checks out.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Lance.”
“I can’t wait to marry you.”
Keith hums, tilting his head up and kissing him properly, entwining their hands so they can both feel the ring press against skin. “No more waiting for you, sweetheart.”
———
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adwox · 9 months
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rainy days
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redfurrycat · 9 months
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[At IceMav's]
Bob, Jake, Javy, Mickey and Reuben telling Mav about their favourite medical TV-show while Bradley and Nat handle the dessert.
Reuben: I got hooked up with Grey's Anatomy since the beginning. Can't get enough of the staff sleeping with each other.
Mickey: No way, man! The Good Doctor is the best show. I love Dr. Murphy! He's the best!!!
Javy: Not bad, dude, but I freaking love House M.D. There's no better one-liners than House's.
[Javy and Mickey high-fiving.]
Bob: I used to watch every Dr Quinn Medicine Woman rerun with my mum.
Mav: Good one, Bob. It's Ice's favourite too! You should come here on Wednesday, he loves to watch his favourite episodes.
Reuben: What about you, Jake?
[Javy snorts because HE KNOWS.]
Jake, dreamily distracted: ER. For one character only... Greene.
Mav, spitting out his beer through his nose: ARE YOU KIDDIN' ME?!
Jake: Nope. There's no sexiest doctor than good ol' Dr. Mark Greene.
The other men but Javy: What? What's going on? Show us Mav!
[On Mav's phone:]
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Mickey: DUUUUUUDE. YOU'RE SO PREDICTABLE SOMETIMES.
[They all tease Jake who's as cool as a cucumber. He's not ashamed! The guy IS good-looking and reminds him a little of...]
Bradley: Why you guys laughing? What did we miss?
Jake: Bradshaw! As I live and breathe. Did you bring me back my cheesecake?
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befuddled-calico-whump · 11 months
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Is It Enough? (Tower: Day 99)
for Angstpril, Day 19: Breaking Down
cw: imprisonment, beating, strangulation, vague noncon implications
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"See to it he never does this again."
The command, spat at the guards, was the last thing Alexei heard before they threw him back into his cell, ears still ringing from the punch he'd taken. The door locked, and for a while it was quiet. In the cell, in the hall. Quiet everywhere but in his head.
The dread building inside him was so potent he was sure he'd be sick, and try as he might, he couldn't direct his thoughts away from it.
Cold blue of a clear sky—
(What are they going to do?)
Flaking rust, crumbled iron—
(What are they going to do to me?)
Clear, cheer, deer, fear, gear, hear—
(What are they going to do to me?)
He'd been stupid. He wasn't going to pretend otherwise. The city council had been invited on a tour of the prison, something about securing funding, or acquiring votes for a new bill. Wade had told Lex about it beforehand as he hosed him down, forced a comb through his hair, a toothbrush into his mouth.
"Even the mayor will be there. Be good, or else."
They'd unchained him from the wall and had him stand in the doorway, flanked by two guards. The warden had thought he was helpless. Half-starved and wearing power dampeners and missing his fucking arms. His mistake.
When one of the council members had reached out to touch him, like a child on a double dare, Lex had fought past the dampeners, focusing until he thought his very blood would boil, and set her expensive silk blazer on fire.
 And now he was about to find out exactly what 'or else' meant.
The cell door opened before long, guard after guard pouring into the small space. Lex knew what was coming; he curled into a ball and ignored them, waiting for the blows to start flying. And when they inevitably did, he tried to find a poem, or even a rhyme to cling to, make it all more bearable, but every boot in the gut only served to scatter his thoughts, and in the end, he was resolved to simply waiting for it to end.
The beating was the worst one he'd taken since coming here, leaving his body shuddering, blood oozing from his lips, breath coming in short wheezes—he'd felt several ribs crack during the assault.
The voices above him were fuzzy. He didn't care. He didn't need to know what the guards were going on about—
"But is it enough?"
That pulled his attention, shoving him into a cold-blooded clarity, words sharp enough to cut into his skull.
"What do you mean, 'is it enough'? Look at him."
"They get beaten all the fucking time. Lopez said—"
"What do you suggest? We're not supposed to do permanent damage."
"That's what the healer's for."
The conversation was quickly turning to argument, and the words were bleeding together. He could only catch scraps.
"...strung up." (Shut up)
"Nothing to tie on…" (Bygone)
"...in the break room." (Doom, plume)
An arm curled around his torso, pressure on newly-cracked ribs, and he bit back a whimper as more hands latched onto him and lifted his body. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, but it hurt to move. He could only hang there limply as they carried him out of the cell and down the hall. Going where? Why? (Cry, pie, lie, die.)
Movement stopped, a switch was flicked on, and Lex squinted as bright light flooded his vision. He could hear garbled words from a TV, music coming faintly from a radio, the slight squeak of boots on the floor.
Break room.
"Stand him up!" one of the guards called. Lex blinked away the spots in his vision, letting his eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights. As he did, he saw that the guard's number had dwindled down to three.
"I don't know if he can—"
"Well he'll remember to really fucking fast."
Hands held him up on either side, and something was looped around his throat, pulled tight against flesh and knotted. (Spotted, clotted, dotted, no no no—)
He was vaguely aware of the other end of the thing around his neck being tossed high, over a metal ceiling beam, and caught, yanked.
Lex's body jerked as it cinched on his throat, and he choked, trying to take in air, finding he couldn't unless he stood perfectly straight, and even then it was only barely. All his body wanted to do was curl in on itself, and his ribs throbbed as he tried to hold position, closing his eyes against the harsh lights. 
"Fucking hell man, this is gonna kill him."
"He passes out, you let him down. Hand me the whip."
"You sure we're allowed to touch it? Rentals—"
"Rentals won't give a shit as long as we return it clean."
A whistling sound pierced the air, followed by a sharp slap across his back. Lex arched forward reflexively, cutting off his own air with the movement.
"Dude. That was weak as shit, let me try."
Lex braced himself, but it wasn't enough. The whip cracked as it hit the air this time, striking him on the shoulders. Another was right on its heels, lighting a line of fire that ran parallel to his spine.
With every blow, it was getting harder to hold himself up, to keep breathing. It was only the fear that kept him awake, that animal terror that struck him when he couldn't reach the air.
A strike cut across several marks at once, and Lex cried out, his knees buckling.
"Maybe we should stop—"
"He's fine."
He managed to get to his feet, gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks. Wasn't it enough? How could this not be enough?
The next lash pulled a scream from him, cut off rapidly as he stumbled and the rope closed his throat. He didn't even have the energy to hold back a strangled sob. How could this not be fucking enough?
Another strike, and he lost his footing, the pressure on his windpipe crushing, legs shaking and useless and failing.
"For God's sake."
The rope suddenly went slack, and he crumpled, gasping, unable to choke down the whimpers that came crawling up his throat.
"Jeez, David. Buzzkill much?"
"I'm not losing my fucking job for your entertainment."
The linoleum floor was cool on his face, and Lex clung to the feeling, trying to focus on anything other than how much it all hurt.
"He literally tried to kill Senator Collins. He should count himself lucky right now."
"Lucky? He's practically dying at your feet."
"Yeah, we're supposed to ensure this never happens again. Gotta make sure he never forgets." Lex heard fabric shuffling above him, the faint click of metal on metal.
"Fucking hell, dude,"
"No one's making you stay and watch."
"He's already had the shit beat outta him."
Another sob escaped Lex. They were done now, right? Fuck, he'd hoped they were done, they had to be done—
"But is it enough?"
•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•
@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing
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frazzledazzlin · 1 year
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post-fic fanart for this fic by flamingredanon lets GO i was yelling when i saw the tag "up to the reader to decide what happens" SO!! I DID DECIDE!! THIS!!
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jjsanguine · 1 year
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Boom: I've liked you since we met Mr Uea 💐
Uea: uhh
King, eavesdropping: 😥
Uea: sorry, I have a boyfriend
King, internally: 🥰 I'm his boyfriend 🥰
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thumb3l1n4 · 1 year
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The thing I love most about PayuRain and PrapaiSky double dating is being able to see how much Rain's first impression of Prapai changed.
At first he was wary (Prapai suddenly introduced himself out of nowhere during a race, when Payu wasn't around), then Rain started to think favorably of him for no good real reason at all (Rain's logic: Prapai is Payu's best friend >> Payu is a respectable young man >> Prapai must be the same) just to finally understand how shameless Prapai actually is, on episode 12.
I LOVED seeing Rain shutting Prapai up with zero chills given, in the Special Episode. Everyone and their aunties might make fun of Rain for being a genuinely clueless guy all around, but I wholeheartedly approve of Prapai becoming the butt of Rain's jokes, since (to me) Prapai's courting gave off pretty pathetic vibes at times (well, he was quite desperate to get Sky's attention and love)... I adore that out of everyone, it's Rain that would not let Prapai live this down 😆
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storeboughtbrand · 2 years
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TOP GUN COUNTRY AU! PT.2: COUNTRY BOOGALOO
PREV || NEXT
*The class of 86’ got to witness young Mav’s toss-ability at the O Club, so it’s only fair that, as their successors, the baby pilots get to see it too at the Hard Deck."
Let’s just say Slider did NOT make a good first impression on his new nieces and nephews 😅.
It started as a typical night of drinking at the Hard Deck. It’s been about a week or so since the Uranium Mission, and the kids are hanging around the pool tables. Every pilot called back to TOP GUN is still there as the higher-ups haven’t decided what to do with them yet.
(And they are afraid to bring up the topic to Admiral Kazansky again after he sent that 2 star-admiral running away from his office with his tail tucked between his legs and looking one second away from shitting himself. *it was not Cyclone and Warlock)
So, for now, the baby pilots are enjoying their leave by drinking some good-ass beer and enjoying each other’s company.
They all are a fond sight around the base for everyone who works there. It’s rare for someone on staff to see Captain Mitchell walking around and not be accompanied by one to two of his students trailing behind him like ducklings. Warlock almost burst out laughing once when a visiting Admiral had to do a double take when he saw a giant moving mass of 12 Naval Pilots on the Tarmac and then saw the tiny 5’7 figure of Maverick somewhere in the middle before disappearing from view because he’s shorter than most of them. It was all thanks to a well placed elbow nudge in the side from Beau that saved his career.
So yeah, just a funky lil old pilot and his 12 adopted naval pilots.
While the Daggers are chatting, a tall man (6’2) walks in wearing aviator sunglasses and a leather G-1 Jacket. He’s wearing a lot of patches, but it’s hard to determine what each of them is.
The jacket catches Bob’s eyes, and he points out the guy to the rest of the squad, who turns to look at him. They all watch as he looks around the room and before his eyes land on  Maverick who’s sitting at the bar, chatting with Penny. He starts walking towards Mav slowly, looking like he’s trying to sneak up on Mav. Fanboy, with narrowed eyes, quietly says the guy looks like a lion stalking its prey. Now, normally, a comment like that would get a laugh out of some of the pilots, but they’ve all got a bit too much alcohol in their systems. Instead, they all tense, and now everyone is watching this guy like a hawk.
The kids watch as the guy lunges at their Mavdad from behind and gets him in a bear hug. Then he drags Mav off the stool, who lets out a startled cry, and suddenly, the entire squadron is on their feet.
But they all relax but don't stop watching when the man starts spinning him around in a circle, laughing.
They all have the same thought running through their heads.
"Aight, cool, this guy must be a friend of Captain dad. I wonder how long it's been since they've seen each - OH MY GOD!” – and then proceed to go into smoke in the air panic mode as the unknown man fucking launches Mav HIGH into the air. Like this man almost touches the mug display on the ceiling.
The kids go into full-on – frothing at the mouth – protective mode and are already making their way over with Phoenix and Hangman leading the charge.  The guy catches Mav easily, and the kids breathe a sigh of relief. But then they see this guy is winding up for another pitch and are like – “I think the fuck NOT!”. They’ve got this MF’s ass in a radar lock.
No, this was no man.
This was a boogie - an ENEMY - and they’ve got tone.
The Guy and Mav turn to see the approaching Daggers, and the guy puts Mav down but keeps his hands on Mav’s hips. Mav lights up at the sight of his students and opens his mouth.
“Hey, guys! I’ve got someone I want you to me-”
But his kids don’t hear a word he is saying. They are all gone; they’ve gone completely raptor feral.
Phoenix is the first to land an attack. She jumps on the guy’s back and latches on to him like a spider monkey. She gets her forearm against the front of his neck and pulls hard; Penny says later that he sounded like a dying horse, even if Slider disagrees.
She gets the Boogie to let go of Mav’s hips, and Coyote quickly picks him up and cradles the old aviator in his arms while Bob and Fritz check him for injuries. With Mav safely out of harm’s way, the rest of the kids go in for the kill.
Hangman dives in for the tackle, grappling the man around his waist and pushing overboard out the front door of the Hard Deck. Rooster runs to the door and holds it open allowing the screaming trio out onto the sand, the rest of the kids follow closely behind screaming bloody murder.
Phoenix and Hangman try to wrestle the man down on the ground, but he isn’t giving up and fights back with all he’s got. He’s thrashing around, kicking up sand, and prying Phoenix off his back. She looks like she’s riding a raging mechanical bull. He’s not ready for the full force of a flying Rooster tackling him, and the Tree of a man goes down.
Then out of nowhere, a volley of pool noodles starts raining down on the Boogie.
Somehow, the other pilots had each found a pool noodle lying around and were now wielding them like baseball bats.
The Boogie gives up on trying to phoenix off him and brings his hands up to defend him. He’s able to rip Fanboy’s pool noodle out of his hands and whacking them back.
Fanboy runs off because he spots something out of the corner of his eye. When he comes running back into view, he’s holding a giant Eagle Floaty high above his head and screaming like Tarzan.
The Boogie’s eyes go wide, and he tries to escape harder, but it is hard for him when he keeps getting whacked in the head with a pool noodle.
They’ve got this guy on the ropes, and the guy is basically beaten into the ground.  He’s pinned down by the combined strength of Rooster, Hangman, and Phoenix. Fanboy stands over their downed foe, ready to deliver the final blow via plastic eagle.
“Lieutenants, stand down!”
And everyone freezes in mid-motion, the direct order from a commander officer unable to be ignored.
Phoenix still has the guy in a headlock. Hangman’s got his arms wrapped around the guys legs, holding him down.
Rooster’s half lying on top and half holding down the man’s torso.
Payback, Omaha, Halo, Harvard, and Yale all have paused mid-swing of their pool noodles.
Fanboy has the giant eagle float high above his head, ready to dive bomb straight into the man’s face.
At the entrance of the Hard Deck, stands Maverick, looking at all of them in shock. Behind him are Coyote, Fritz, and Bob who try to drag Mav back into the bar so they can fuss over him.
Hangman: Pops, go back inside; we’ve got this motherfucker handled.”
(-What! Who’re you calling a motherfucker-)
Maverick: While I do agree he is a fucker (-HEY-), he’s a fucker I would like intact and without a concussion.
Mav turns to look at the beaten man and says, “You okay, Slider?”
The Man glares at Mav - “Just fucking peachy, Pete.”
Mav winces at the use of his first name.
The rest of the pilots ready their noodles for another swing cause no one talks to their Mavdad like that!
Then Rooster just stops and stares at the guy. Mav called him Slider, which definitely sounds like a callsign. And it sounds familiar. Why does he feel like he should recognize that name?
…………..
“Oh Shit, Uncle Slider?!???”
And the rest was history.
———————-
Needlessly to say, Mav was apologizing for the rest of the night while holding an ice pack against the side of Slider’s head while he nursed a free beer, courtesy of Penny.
The baby pilots all apologize too, and to Mav, they sounded sincere, but Slider can see them all glaring at him over Mav’s shoulder, though Rooster’s is less heated. It doesn’t help his case when he glares right back. It also doesn’t help when he slides his arm around Mav’s waist and pulls him flush against his side.
Mav just snuggles into his friend’s side, completely unaware his kids are plotting out Slider’s death using hand gestures so his friend can see precisely how they’ll do it.
Mav does eventually explain what the tossing was able and Rooster’s all like, “Oh yeah! I forgot all about that.” Slider just throws his hands up in the background.
Slider is peeved that he got attacked by Mav’s adopted horde, but Mav gives him a …..proper apology…….if you catch my drift, later that night.
And that’s the story of Slider first met and almost died by the hands and pool noodles of his new nieces and nephews. Sufficient to say, the retired RIO was immediately placed squarely in the category of Favorite Uncle the Daggers like to fuck with. It’s done with love tho.
An artist's (Fritz's) rendition of the climactic battle:
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*Slider was not amused*
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le-sam · 5 months
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Willow is Amity's biggest hater and supporter
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autisticlancemcclain · 10 months
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Advisor Sivo has been around a long, long time.
Not quite as long as Voltron’s advisor, of course. In fact Sivo isn’t sure anyone else has had the unfortunate circumstance to live as technically long as the redheaded Altean has. He has still, however, lived many dozens of decaphoebes, and has undergone countless phases and ways of living throughout his life. He has known the entirety of being a child, the ins and outs of adolescence, the panic of growing into yourself as a young adult. He’s familiar with the strange, non-linear growth a person undergoes — not physically, as that varies from species to species, but the process of maturity is nearly universal. Sivo is familiar with the awkwardness, the uncertainty, the shyness.
He thinks he might know why the young Blade member is shrouded in the shadows of the ballroom, staring longingly at the partiers.
He approaches the young man, obviously so as to not startle him, and simply leans next to him for a few moments once he is near. The young man turns his eyes slightly to look at the advisor with curiosity, a wariness in his indigo eyes, but does not tilt his head.
“Hello,” Sivo greets after several minutes of uncertain but not uncomfortable silence. “My name is Sivo. I am the advisor to the Queen of Mlkaway.”
The young Blade inclines his head. “Keith,” he says. His voice is low, soft; someone who is not used to introducing himself, to speaking up.
Sivo’s lips quirk up. A loner, then.
“The rest of the Blades are dancing and making merry,” Sivo points out, although he knows he does not need to. His statement is more about the unspoken — why aren’t you?
The young Blade — Keith — has no problem picking up on it. Some amusement bleeds into his eyes at Sivo’s nosiness. “I’m not much of a dancer.” Keith’s sentence is short — not clipped, not dismissive, but not exactly open, either. He will not be continuing the conversation on his own, and he may not have the patience for endless questions.
Sivo exhales, leaning back and deciding to read the man’s silence, to simply watch with him. He observes him out of his peripherals — something the Blade most definitely notices and allows — noticing the way he taps his foot rapidly, as if he’s waiting for something. A slight smile has remains on his face, as well, as if he can’t quite force the usual blankness a Blade would have when their mask is off. He looks back at Sivo every so often, but mostly his gaze is trained out to the ballroom; watching, observing, smiling.
Sivo squints. He had originally assumed that Keith was simply too awkward or shy to join in the celebration, like Sivo once was himself, but now the advisor is not so sure. Keith’s posture is not hunched, like someone who is uncomfortable. In fact he looks relaxed, pleased. He’s watching wistfully, almost, gazing into the crowd, but there is no desire to join, really. How strange. Sivo leans closer, trying to trace the man’s eyes. Whom is he watching, then, if he’s not simply watching the crowd? Whom has this young man singled out?
Keith must notice his struggle, because he chuckles slightly to himself. He tilts his head in Sivo’s direction, gesturing for him to lean close, follow his pointing finger. Before he can say anything, a loud, high-pitched laugh rings through the crowd, cutting over the music and dancing and chatting, and Keith’s smile gets wider.
“That’s the Red Paladin of Voltron,” Keith says, softer even than before; not quieter but saccharine, almost. Besotted.
Oh.
“I see,” says Sivo, not even bothering to hide his smile. “A Paladin. Quite the…choice, for people to admire.”
Keith pulls back a bit, but his smile doesn’t fade. His eyes follow the Paladin, tracing the vibrant way he moves, twirling from partner to partner at every song change, dress spinning about dizzyingly; slender brown hands tapping along to the beat of every song and mouth smiling blindingly wide at every person he sees.
The Red Paladin is the star of the evening, drawing stares and sighs from every party goer, mutters of envy from every unfortunate soul who does not get a chance to wrap him in their arms. The Paladin makes quite the effort to spread the wealth, however, never dancing with anyone twice except perhaps his friends; regularly spinning the Blue Paladin around, dresses swishing, lifting and throwing the squawking but laughing Green Paladin in the air, startling a deep laugh out of the Black Paladin with a sudden dip, twirling under the arm of the Yellow Paladin. No, the Red Paladin makes endless time for his friends. Everyone else is blessed with his smile, but only just enough of his time to make them desperate for more than they will ever get.
Truly the belle of the ball.
“I know,” Keith says, eyes still glued to the Red Paladin’s vibrancy.
Sivo hums. “Are you going to ask him to dance?” He tries to keep the doubt out of his voice, but he’s not sure he manages.
The Blade does not seem to take offense, however, and only ducks his head, playing with a ring on his finger. “I don’t need to.”
“…Ah,” Sivo says, as if he understands, even though he most certainly does not. As far as he’s noticed, the Red Paladin has yet to ask someone to dance, most people having deigned to ask him, almost clambering over each other for the opportunity.
But Keith offers no more explanation. The rest of Sivo’s questions, although sporadic, are answered only with vague hums or shakes of Keith’s head, so he stops bothering. He simply leans back against the wall, mirroring the Blade’s crossed arms, and enjoys his company. This is why Sivo became an advisor, after all. The chance to meet and spend time with new people, however briefly, has always entranced him. Each interaction changes him in some way.
“Alright,” announces a voice over the speakers, lively music fading into something softer, more intimate. “The night is coming to a close. This will be our last song. Grab your final partners and spin then around one last time, everyone. I’ll play a good one.”
“It was good meeting you, Advisor Sivo,” Keith says, pushing off the wall.
Sivo blinks at him. “Oh, and you as well. Be careful, dear boy.”
Keith nods once, then hurries off, cutting through the crowd as politely but firmly as he can. At first, Sivo assumes Keith is trying to exit the ballroom before the last song to avoid the crowd, but very quickly he realizes that’s not the case, as Keith pushes further and further to the centre of it. He snakes by spinning people in dresses, ducks under elbows, slides away from waving arms. He’s taller than most of the gathered crowd, and the only one dressed in armour, so he’s easy to track, making a beeline to the Red Paladin.
Sivo huffs to himself. He can admire the effort, but he is not the only one clambering to be the last to dance with the Red Paladin. Several others are pushing their ways through, glasses of sparking fruit wine — a clear favourite of the man’s — clutched in their hands, almost as offerings. Keith has barely made a dent at the edge of the crowd, he’s never even going to catch the other man’s attention —
“Keith!”
The call cuts over the music, loud and clear and elated, making several couples and groups look around in confusion. Sivo can’t quite see who’s making the noise over all the people, so he stands on a chair, straining to see over the crowd.
“Keith, Keith, you made it!”
Finally, the cause of the commotion is made clear — the Red Paladin, one hand clutching the hem of his dress so he can run, the other waving frantically in the air, practically sprinting across the dance floor, crowd parting for him easily. At the other end of the crowd stands Keith, no longer pushing through the throng of people but standing firmly in one place, fond grin lighting up his face and squishing his cheeks, arms spread slightly. Sivo rushes forward to hear better.
Finally the Red Paladin is near him, but he does not slow down even slightly, sprinting full speed at the young Blade and colliding into him, arms clutched around his neck. Keith, clearly anticipating the jump, doesn’t even flinch, grabbing the Red Paladin’s waist tightly and pulling him close, swinging them around to offset the momentum. He buries his head into his neck, squeezing tighter, and his shoulders slump as he lets out a loud sigh of relief.
“Hey, Lance,” he sighs, smile evident in his words.
The Red Paladin — Lance — laughs again, loud and high pitching and bright, kicking his feet out in excitement. He presses dozens of kisses to Keith’s hair, his temple, his cheek.
“You made it! You made it!” He laughs again, almost in disbelief. “I can’t believe you made it!”
Keith pulls back slightly, not going anywhere but enough that he can lean down again and press his lips to Lance’s, gently, reverently. “I promised, didn’t it?”
Lance smiles so wide you can see all his teeth, so wide his brown eyes are nearly shut, so wide the joy practically drips off him.
“You did promise.”
“And you promised you’d save the last dance for me.”
Lance taps his finger to his chin teasingly, as if he’s trying to recall said oath. “Did I?”
Keith laughs, pressing his forehead to the Red Paladin’s. “Mhm. We made a deal, remember?” He starts to hum, over the music — which someone has lowered so that all curious eyes can watch the show, as oblivious as they are to their audience — “You can dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight.”
His singing voice is low and sweet, rough around the edges, joy making him confident and shameless. Lance squeezes him tighter, swaying as Keith continues to sing softly.
“You can smile every smile for the man you held your hand underneath the pale moonlight.”
Lance looks almost overwhelmed with joy, leaning up and interrupting Keith with a gentle kiss, cupping his face gently. Keith waits until he pulls away to continue, although he doesn’t let Lance go far.
“But don’t forget who’s taking you home,” he holds the last note, lifting their linked hands and encouraging Lance to spin under them, which he does with a laugh. He pulls him back tightly, back to his chest, this time, arms crossed over Lance’s torso, leaning over his shoulder and pressing a lingering kiss to his freckled cheek. “And in whose arms you’re going to be.”
Lance leans back into him, comfortable, and they sing the last line of the verse together.
“But darling, save the last dance for me.”
Lance kisses him again, long and searing, then pulls away, grabbing Keith’s arm and pulling him back to their friends, who are watching them with fond exasperation. Keith seems to have noticed where he is for the first time and flushes brightly, but he doesn’t look embarrassed. If anything the flush is pleased, almost, and directed at Lance, happy that Lance is giving him his total undivided attention, more than he’s done for any other suitor of the night.
They finally make it to their group, who all greet Keith enthusiastically, and then the final song resumes from the speakers. Keith and Lance turn to each other, again, and both of them sigh something like relief, plastering to each other so that there’s not a single spot where they’re not touching, barely swaying to the beat of the song, more hugging than dancing. Eventually the other couples and dancers look away, looking to their own friends and partners and pressing in close, following their example.
Sivo smiles gently to himself as the last dance wraps up and Keith and Lance don’t move, only interested in each other.
He’s been around a long time. He will be around a lot longer, he’s sure. He will no doubt witness thousands of couples, young and old and in between, all devoted to each other, all with love that could light up a sun.
But he can safely say the Red Paladin and his lover are the brightest he’s ever seen.
———
save the last dance for me
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itsleelove · 9 months
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Twenty-five (Takes place approximately seven years after A Dog//Masterlist)
CW: Mention of past minor whumpee, scars, shipped in a box, mentions of broken bones/whipping/shocks, dehumanization, mentions of being forced to fight in the past
#3691 strained to remain perfectly silent throughout shipping. Fear had him in a vicelike grip. Last time he had been shipped, he had been unboxed at Mistress Montgomery's house.
Mistress Montgomery... the woman who had singlehandedly made #3691's life a living hell for nearly seven years. Pets were supposed to fear returning to the facility for 'refurbishment', but when #3691 had been brought back, refurb had seemed like a vacation compared to even his initial training.
Now, he was on his way to an entirely new owner. In his mind, vacation was over. He feared going back to the pain he knew an owner could cause.
He knew this person had seen pictures of him— that made it hurt even worse when the unboxing happened. To see his new master wince at the sight of him. He knew he wasn't pretty. He knew he was damaged. He knew that was why he had been sold at such a low price.
"Can you get out of there?" The man had asked.
"Yes, master." And #3691 had forced cramped and exhausted limbs to push his body up out of the box. He knelt on the ground once he was out of the box, face to the ground with his palms flat on the floor. Respect.
"What's that about? Go ahead and sit up. Do you have a name?"
#3691 sat back on his heels, gaze respectfully diverted to the ground. "My name is whatever you choose, master. My designated number is #3691."
"Anything I want?"
"Yes, master."
"You had an owner before me, right? What did they call you?"
"My previous owner called me #3691, master."
"Hm." The man thought for a little while before continuing. "What about Aries? That's the Greek god of war, you know. It makes me think of someone fierce and brave. Do you like it?"
"If it pleases you, master." #3691 did not feel very fierce or very brave. He felt a bit feral, defensive perhaps, but not brave.
"Well then I think I'll call you Aries. #3691 just sounds a bit... cattle like, don't you think? I don't like it. My name's Basil, but you can keep calling me master." Basil patted Aries head, gently.
Gently.
Aries couldn't remember the last time someone gave him a gentle touch. For the past seven years it had all been whipping and broken bones and electric shocks. He let his eyes close a little at the touch.
"How did you get your scars, Aries..? Are they all from the same place?"
Aries' eyes snapped back open. "I... received my scars while carrying out my duty to my previous owner, master."
Basil's eyes widened. "You got all these protecting them and they still returned you??"
That wasn't quite what Aries had said, but he didn't dare correct Basil.
"Well... I don't think I could ever part with someone who was that loyal." Basil ruffled Aries' hair and he found himself able to relax again. "If you're as loyal to me as you were to them, you won't ever have to worry about me getting rid of you."
Aries really hoped that was true. He didn't even care if he had to compete in twice as many fights— if this new owner would use the kind words and gentle touches that he had used thus far, Aries never wanted to leave.
"Stand up, Aries, come with me, please." Basil stood, beckoning Aries to come with him.
Basil took Aries down a hallway and into a small room with a cot and a bell on the wall, linked to a string.
"I've had this room set aside for you." Basil started. "I heard that pets do better if they have their own small space to come to sometimes. I'll try and make it so you can spend at least an hour or so here in any given day. Neither I, nor any of my servants will ever come in here. Alright?"
"Yes, master. Thank you, master." That was truly thoughtful of him. No one else had ever attempted to consider what would make Aries comfortable or help him to adjust.
Basil took him a little further down the hall and opened another door. This next room was richly furnished with shelves, drawers, a four poster bed, and a bedside table. At the foot of the bed was a fluffy pillow, the size of a small mattress.
"This is my room." Basil smiled. "I want you to stay with me at night, so that will be for you." He gestured at the pillow.
"Thank you, master." Mistress Montgomery would have made him sleep on the floor. And it wouldn't have been carpeted. This looked too Aries like the most comfortable sleeping situation in the world. His gratitude was genuine.
"Only one more place that really bears being shown immediately." Basil led Aries to an open archway. "This is my library. I spend most of my time here. If I pull on that string there—" Basil pointed to a string on the wall. "That will ring the bell in your room so you know I'm calling for you."
"Yes, master. I understand."
Basil proceeded to sit on the sofa in the library. "Come sit, Aries."
Aries hurriedly took to kneeling at Basil's side. Basil gave him a bit of an odd look, but didn't say anything. He just patted his head again.
"Aries, I did have one more question for you."
"What is it, master?"
"How old are you? You look really young."
How old was he... He had been 15 when he was forced to sign the contract. Now, he was 22. But no one was supposed to know that. He was supposed to act as if he was 18 from the time he signed his life away to The Company.
"I am 25 years old, master."
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Swordtember 2023 Day 23 - "Vampire Hunter"
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This sword belongs to a well-traveled warrior who has sworn an oath to use the power of the sun to vanquish the creatures of the night. Monsters and dark creatures alike recoil at the sight of this whip-like blade.
Swordtember Master List
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