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#dumbasses pining
mediumgayitalian · 1 month
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part three
———
The first step should, in all likelihood, be the easiest.
(“I’m not sure this is something you can really plan,” Annabeth had suggested gently, “as much as my mother would disown me to hear it. I mean, everything I did with Percy kind of just…happened.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure the five years of pining misery and fighting off several other people — one of whom was literally me — was a real walk in the park for you.”
“…Plan on.”)
It is not the easiest.
“You’re telling me the flowers…say things.”
If Nico reaches back into the farthest recesses of his memory, as in things that are shoved somewhere between his sister’s soft sobs the one time he got sicker than he’d ever been and has ever been since and the time he’d walked in on Alecto skinny dipping in the Phlegothon, he can vaguely remember a lengthy rant from his stepmother on something called the language of flowers. He had, at that time, assumed she was simply trying to convince him that everything had voices again, and ignored her.
“Yes,” says Miranda from Demeter Cabin patiently. “Every flower has an assigned meaning. More than one, usually. You can say very rude things with flowers.”
Nico perks up, intrigued. “How do you say ‘you’re a fucking c—”
“Okay,” Jason interrupts, plastering a strained smile on his face and slapping a hand over Nico’s mouth. Nico bites him, hard, and the smile becomes even more strained. “We are actually looking for much nicer things to say with flowers. Kind things. Appreciative things. Feelings, you know. Nico?”
He lifts his hand, looking at him in warning as if Nico is going to be quelled by his Stare of Judgement, of all things. Nico stares back at him until he starts to look appropriately cowed, satisfyingly afraid of the horror that lives inside Nico’s eyes, except he — doesn’t.
He doesn’t look scared at all, actually, which is — which.
Nico takes all thoughts pertaining to the issue and shoves them away.
“I need,” he says haltingly, looking back at Miranda. She looks at him encouragingly.
She doesn’t look afraid of him, either, although she glances quickly down at the circle of grass he’s killed by virtue of standing on it and says, politely, “If you could maybe stop that, I would appreciate it.”
Nico swallows, stepping back. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” She swoops down, hands outstretched, murmuring something too soft for him to pick up. Under her gentle fingertips, the grass blooms slowly back to life, tiny strands uncurling and swelling with virility, stretching towards the sun. Even the dirt smells sweeter, like churned garden soil rather than graveyard dirt.
Something dark and bitter crawls up Nico’s throat — he will always need people to clean up after his messes. No matter how hard he tries. Miranda with the plants, Solace with every one of his endless injuries, Bianca with — everything. She cleaned up after him a lot.
She was only twenty-seven months older than him. He wonders how she would have liked being fourteen, and has to choke back the sob that tries to claw its way out of his trachea.
“Not a lot of people have flower language memorized,” Miranda says, dragging him roughly back to the present. Her large brown eyes are back to focused on him, so he forces himself into normalcy and stares back. “And it’s kind of vague, so I need something to start with. Who’s it for?”
“Classified.”
Nico considers, once again, opening up a chasm beneath his feet. His geokinesis is no bene so he’d probably take Jason and Miranda down with him, but. Necessary sacrifices, et cetera.
“Understandable,” Miranda responds without so much as a beat. Huh. Suddenly, he feels bad for considering her collateral. “Just this then: friend or foe?”
Nico looks at Jason. Jason looks back at him, like, dude, seriously. Nico scowls at him and his uselessness.
“Friend,” he says begrudingly. “…More.”
Miranda nods in understanding. “Ah. Will, then.”
Nevermind. Chasm it is.
“Man, I hoped you guys would finally do something,” Miranda continues, oblivious to the ground trembling slightly under her. (Jason, however, appears alarmed, so Nico summons a tiny skeleton hand to grab his ankle in revenge.) “I love Will to pieces, but there are only so many times I can hear him wax poetic about you before it starts to get embarrassing. When we were twelve you saved his life and he actually cried because he didn’t know how to form the words. Just weeping everywhere about your sword and your hair and how you look a little crazy when you smile in battle. Did you know there are, like, a million syllables for brown? I do. He thinks your eyes are a tie between moonstone and agate, in case you were wondering.”
“I have actually heard that,” Jason mumbles, as Nico’s brain whites out and leaves him, tragically alone, to suffer. “I thought he was just super into geology.”
“Oh, he is. He’s a little into everything. There’s a bi joke, for you.”
“Oh, ha, I get it.”
Is that his body, stranded somewhere below him? Hi, body. Good to see you. You look like hell. Feel free to summon your soul back into yourself at any time, that’d be great.
“I am generally bad at functioning,” he admits, once his essence has begrudgingly reattached itself to his cells and his blood stops ringing quite so loudly in his ears.
Miranda shrugs. “I think you’re pretty okay. Once Percy had to get five stitches on his lip because he was half asleep and mixed up his plate and pizza and bit clean through his plate. It only really needed four stitches, but Will laughed so hard he couldn’t focus right and tore the wound a tad before fixing it. By accident.”
Nico tries very hard not to picture that laughter, not to remember the first time he heard Will laugh, not the hundreds of times after; a loud sound, a musical sound, despite his insistence that he has no talents. Laughter like olive oil laughs in the pan, like wind laughs as it rushes through the poplar trees.
Jason nods sympathetically. “Mondays are hard.”
“Please,” Nico begs the both of them. The nerve he’d summoned after the encouragement of his friends is slowly leaking out of his eyeballs and soaking the ground. “I just need —”
He can’t finish that sentence, either. I need to give Will flowers so he knows I have….intentions, with him, is the most embarrassing sentence ever to be conjured by man, and if he has to say it aloud he knows his father will smite him out of pity, as is their deal. It must only be implied, and even then, he could get egged by any member of Cabin Eleven and turn into a breakfast buffet, his face is so godsdamn hot.
“Will, is, like, unbelievably dense,” Miranda says, taking pity on him. She waits for Nico to finish choking, patting him firmly on the back before continuing. “I guess that’s not fair. He can be quite observant, he just has worse self-esteem than you, even, no offense, so if you are trying to seduce him you’re going to have to be very obvious.”
The wheezing that she has just circumvented starts all over again. This time, Jason joins him. Miranda has no qualms or shame — fitting, since Nico has met her mother, who also has no shame about anything. Nico will never be able to forget that she is the goddess of fertility.
“Who the fuck said anything about seducing,” he manages, finally, lungs chilling somewhere on the grass.
Miranda ignores him. “I would usually say something simple like daisies, but they can be representative of friendship and he will for sure assume they are friendship flowers. Hyacinth can communicate a much deeper breadth of emotion, but, uh —” she glances at the Apollo cabin — “I would avoid Hyacinth.”
Nico sobers. Yeah. That would be wise.
“I think roses send a little too strong of a message for your purposes, so I’m thinking carnations. Pink ones.”
Recovering from the implications of the roses — he’s a little out of time, not stupid, he knows what they mean — he looks at her curiously. “What do pink carnations mean?”
She shrugs. “Love and affection, really. Sometimes gratitude, and in some poetry their colouring is compared to a pleased flush.”
Although he expected much more agony in this particular step of the journey (not that their wasn’t a good, healthy amount; can’t feel good feelings for too long if you’re Nico di Angelo, Cursèd, Son of Hades, Prince of the Underworld, Ghost King, Et Cetera, Et Cetera), pink carnations seem surprisingly…right. Love and affection, he can handle that, and if there’s one thing he always is, regarding Will, it’s grateful. Maybe the whole damn camp should be giving him pink carnations.
“Here.”
Sensing Nico’s hesitant acceptance, Miranda swoops down to the ground, digs around a second, shoots a quick prayer to her mother, and waits. A moment later, several blush-pink flowers shoot from the dirt, along with — Nico squints to read it — a book about the history of grain cereals. Miranda looks confused about one of those two things.
“I am constantly plagued by the Ancient Greek Theoi and their various whims,” Nico explains.
“Your life confuses me,” Miranda responds. She hands him the book and the flowers. For once, Demeter’s gift seems to be the less volatile object of the two. “I’m going to go meditate about it.”
“Good call,” says Jason.
“Thank you,” Nico calls, belatedly, to her retreating back. He glances down at the flowers in his hand. “Jason,” he says, voice strained.
He sighs. “Oh, here we go.”
“Jason, I have to move.”
“You’re fine here,” Jason says patiently. He places a hand on Nico’s shoulder and begins to steer him towards the Big House. Nico, distraught, refrains from judo flipping him into a tree.
“I ruin everything I touch, Jason.”
“You helped out with the strawberries just fine last week.”
“Strawberries are not people, Jason.”
“The kids seem to like you. You let them keep weird skulls and rocks and shit they find in the woods, and they like that.”
“Children are not completely incomprehensible sons of the sun, Jason.”
“Will likes you. By his own admission. He thinks — and I’m quoting here — that you’re gorgeous, even when you’re glaring at him and rueing your own existence.”
Nico has nothing to say to that, because he still can’t quite believe that’s true. It’s — surreal. He had no arguments against it, because he knows, objectively, that Will was not lying, and he can see, with his eyeballs, that Will smiles every time they make eye contact, unless Nico did something stupid in which case Will is huffing and muttering about patients and demigods and how increased power is directly correlated with increased stupidity.
Mostly smiling, though.
At Nico. With love and affection and oh, gods, he is going to ruin things so bad.
“Look,” Jason says, stopping them in front of the porch. Nico takes the pause with equal parts relief and panic, turning to him with the flowers clutched to his chest. “You have — issues.”
Nico blinks, waiting for more sentence. Surely that cannot be all of it.
“…Yes,” he acquiesces, when no sentence is forthcoming. “I am an interloper in this timeline. I am an omen of death. I am —”
“Gods, you’re dramatic.”
Nico agonizes.
“You will be fine, Nico, please, I don’t even know what the hang-up is. He said he likes you, there is literally not a single soul in this camp unaware about how much he likes you. Right?”
The rickety screen door of the infirmary bangs open, slamming against the frame, startling them both so hard they cause a slight earthquake.
“Oh, you got them, you got them!”
The overworked and overstressed whirlwind known as William Andrew Solace bursts out of the infirmary, tripping over his own shoes and nearly landing on his face had Jason not caught him.
“Woah, dude,” he says, steady hand on his waist. Nico reacts to that totally normally and Jason’s shadow does not at all try to swallow him. “What’s wrong?”
Will barely responds. “Nico, you are the best, I owe you forever —”
Stumbling out of Jason’s hold, he lunges over to Nico, plucking the flowers out of his hand and spinning right back to the infirmary. In total bewilderment, Nico and Jason follow him, watching as he tosses the bouquet in the air, hands glowing golden, and mutters a quick hymn. The flowers begin to droop, then wrinkle, then fully shrivel up, totally dead as they land back in his hands.
“What the fuck,” Jason whispers.
“Sun-dried is better, but I don’t have time,” Will frets. “Son of sun will have to do. Ha. You, and you, over here.” He points to the nurses desk with the yellowed stems, no trace of a question in his voice. The two of them scramble to comply, ducking under the half-door and standing awkwardly behind the counter as Will clears it off.
“That stupid prank — remind me to kill Cecil tomorrow, Nico, if you don’t mind — has three whole cabins covered in skin welts. I don’t have enough beds for them all, and they need to be quarantined, anyway. I haven’t had time to go get more ingredients in between cabins, let alone time to make more ointment.” Two massive stone mortars slam the counter, making both of them jump, followed by pestles with blunt heads roughly the size of Nico’s fist. “Pulverize the petals as fine as you can.” He splits the dead bouquet in half, handing them each six flowers each. “Petals only, no stems or seeds. I’ll be back in twenty minutes to gather it. Oh, and Nico —”
He pauses for a moment, taking a breath. Hesitantly, Nico reaches out and places a gentle hand on his wrist. Instantly, the worried line between his eyes melts away, and he smiles; tired but radiant.
“I owe you one,” he says softly. “You always know just what I need. I’ve been using rose, ‘cause that’s what we have, even though pink carnations is better, but we ran out an hour ago and I’ve been freaking out cause I —”
“Solace,” Nico interrupts. He squeezes gently. “Breathe.”
He does. Inhale, hold, exhale, breath tickling the hairs in Nico’s arm, causing goosebumps to bristle all over his skin. (The grateful smile pointed towards him at full power has nothing to do with that. Obviously.)
“I’m good. Just — thank you, Nico. You knew exactly what I needed.”
A loud groan sounds from somewhere to the east, in the vague direction of Cabin Ten, and Will rushes off without another word, medical bag stuffed to bursting. There’s a thump, and a quick, “I’m good!” and then the sound of running in flip-flops. Nico ducks his head to hide a smile, turning to the dried flowers.
“Well,” says Jason after a moment. “You tried.”
Nico shrugs. He starts plucking the petals off and dumping them in the mortar, Jason quick to follow his example.
“I’ll just have to try harder next time.”
———
part five
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drysaladandketchup · 1 month
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for the "things you said" writing meme -- matthew/leon, 12 :)
Thank you for the request <3 I realised very quickly I have no idea what constitutes a 'mini' fic. I struggle to write 'mini' anything lol. Hopefully this still satisfies :)
12. things you said when you thought i was asleep
It takes all of Matthew's willpower not to reach over and smash his phone just to shut up the alarm. All that saves his wallet and an awkward trip to the Apple store is the split-second realisation that the shrieking in his ear isn't his usual alarm.
It's a ringtone. Not his own, either.
He pries his eyes open to find the world through the window is still dark. One of the balcony doors is still ajar, letting in a cool night breeze. He's lying on his side in his own bed, the end of the all-star weekend memorialized by several aches and bruises.
His hips and ass are a little sore too, but that's unrelated. Technically.
The ringing stops. Someone huffs behind him.
Someone. Yeah, no, Matthew knows who it is. They may have met up at the bar once the media was done swarming, but Matthew was far from drunk. Painfully sober, in fact. If he's being honest with himself, he was hoping things would turn out this way.
One more time. One more moment. Because it's been a long time since they were them. Longer still since the sex was just sex, since hate became want. Matthew is strong in a lot of ways, but not against this.
"Davo." Leon's voice is low, and still gruff from sleep when he answers his phone. He sits up on his side of the bed, trying not to disturb Matthew, pulling the covers back up over Matthew's shoulder like he thinks he'll freeze to death in this balmy Florida winter.
Usually Matthew's a heavy sleeper. But never when Leon's around. He makes it impossible for Matthew to completely relax, to let time slip by. Leon's just too big of a presence, almost too much to bear. It was more important that everything linger, to bask in the strange comfort of their relationship, whatever it was. They had so little time. Even less, now.
"I know it's late. No, no, I'm not at the hotel. I'm... I'm with Tkachuk."
Leon says his last name like it's wrong, like it's rotting on his tongue.
When he corrects himself, says, "Matthew", it's better, lighter. Like it's ambrosia.
Matthew remembers when Leon Draisaitl saying his name wouldn't have meant a damn thing to him. When that simple act didn't fill him with fondness.
In the silence, Matthew can hear McDavid talking on the other end, but can't quite make out what he's saying. Matthew tucks up under the duvet, breathing quiet and even, trying to focus instead on the distant sound of waves and the ticking clock on his wall.
Ticking. Always ticking. Time bleeds out when they're together.
He doesn't even remember falling asleep last night, but he wishes he hadn't now. He wishes he'd stayed awake longer, just to... just too see him. To look Leon in the eye, to talk about everything and nothing until dawn, to feel big, too-warm hands on his body more and more and more. He wants to make sure he'll remember how Leon feels, sounds, tastes.
"Connor," Leon says, a warning, followed by a sigh. "I know. I know, okay? It was stupid, but..."
Maybe it was. Matthew has a good thing here in Florida. Better than ever. He was happy to leave Alberta behind and start over. So why did leaving make him feel like a coward?
Because leaving was about Calgary, and the Flames. About his career and his future. It wasn't about Leon. Leon was the wrench in the gears; the one thing he didn't expect to have to say goodbye to, the kind of hurt he never could have accounted for.
"I needed to see him." Leon sounds helpless. He's not the only one.
The only time he's heard Leon so lost was after his team was knocked out of the playoffs last season. The Oilers meant nothing--Matthew was pretty fucking glad considering they'd beat out the Flames--but he never wanted to hear Leon like that again.
He definitely never wanted to be the cause of it. Not like this.
Leon is still mumbling into his phone. "Yeah, I'm fine. He's... we're good. He's happy."
A hand settles on Matthew's head. Fingers play with his curls, nails scratch his scalp. A thumb presses just behind Matthew's ear, stroking the soft skin where only hours before Leon had put his lips, whispering sweetness and filth in equal measure.
It takes everything for Matthew not to groan, to whimper and surrender, roll over and climb on top of Leon and take all over again. Beg him to take something--everything--from Matthew.
"I don't know," Leon says then.
It's easy to guess what McDavid asked.
He's happy. But are you?
"I can't even tell him I still love him."
Still. Matthew didn't even know there was a before, let alone a still. Leon never said anything. Fuck, if Matthew wasn't busy trying to remember how to breathe, he'd roll over and punch him.
Then again, what did Matthew ever say? They never talked about it. Never let those closet hook-ups and slipping out back doors and little drinks and dinners and overnights excused as practical necessity be anything more than that. A bunch of chirps and half-truths and aborted discussions because it was all becoming too much. There was too much uncertainty. Too many ways it could go wrong.
It did go wrong. It became something. It became real.
Maybe that would have changed something. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything at all. It doesn't matter now. Matthew left, and neither of them said a word about things like love, because it was easier to hope it would shrivel and die with distance and time.
"I know I'm being stupid." Leon pauses when McDavid interrupts, then huffs. "No, I am. Fuck, I really thought I'd get over it. Maybe I will. Eventually."
Don't you fucking dare, you piece of shit, Matthew wants to scream.
"Not sure I can, though." Leon swallows so loud Matthew can hear it. Then quieter, like he's not sure he's even allowed to admit it, he says, "I don't really want to."
He's still playing with Matthew's hair, occasionally dragging a finger over his bare shoulder or down his back, tracing imaginary lines across Matthew's flesh. Like he's something to be memorized and cherished.
They're both so fucking stupid. Matthew bites his lip and tries not to choke on the lump in his throat. Could be his heart, climbing right up and out of his mouth. He clings to the sheets with shaking hands.
"I'm not going to fuck up what he's got here," Leon says tiredly, voice thick with tension and pathetic resignation.
Leon's not here to drag him back. He wouldn't do that. So why is he here? Just to torture them both? Being with him doesn't feel like torture. It feels like winning. It feels like defiance and decadence and too much and not enough. It feels like what could have been and what could still be.
He didn't find Leon at that bar and bring him home out of pity, or nostalgia, one last fuck for old times sake. It was... it just was. Not an ending. Not some final goodbye. Proof maybe there could still be something. Getting over it was never an option, Matthew knew that well before he stepped onto the ice as a Panther and found himself staring Leon down all over again.
Matthew's vision is blurring. His eyes sting, warm and wet. There's blood pounding in his ears, and a hand clutching his heart, a vice around his lungs. He hardly remembers how to breathe.
He doesn't catch the rest of Leon's conversation, except something about meeting Connor back at the hotel tomorrow. Meaning he's staying the night, at least. He's staying.
When Leon hangs up the phone, Matthew finally comes up for air. He relaxes his shoulders, listening to the soft thump as Leon taps his phone against his forehead over and over. Then it clatters on the side table. Leon sighs, sniffs, and sinks back under the covers. He tucks right up against Matthew's back, still burning like a furnace, soft muscle and skin brushing Matthew's spine in all the right ways.
He throws an arm around Matthew and finds one of his hands, worming his fingers through the gaps to hold it. His palm is sweaty, not that it matters at all to Matthew. He can't help squeezing Leon's hand a little, but if Leon notices, he doesn't say a word.
Not until he's wrapped tight around Matthew, near suffocating, like any part of them that isn't touching is a sin.
"Love you," Leon mumbles, barely more than a whisper, pressing his lips right to the base of Matthew's neck. Matthew's body can't seem to decide whether to shiver or melt under the heat.
Leon says it like it's inevitable. Painful. Pitiful.
What he's saying is, I'm sorry I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I'm sorry I don't know how to say it now. I'm sorry it's too late, it's the wrong place, the wrong time.
Like he doesn't think Matthew could ever understand. And that's the worst part of it all. They're still not on the same page. Tearing down what they never built.
If Leon's only brave enough to say it when Matthew's asleep, then Matthew will just have to be brave enough to say it in the light of day. He doesn't run, and he won't now that he knows he doesn't have to.
He stares into the night outside his window, listening to Leon breathe, feeling his heart beat through Matthew's chest like that's where it longs to be.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe they can stop chasing time long enough to make the most of what they have. To make up for what they've wasted. And whatever happens after, well, maybe they can stop being afraid of that, too.
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autisticlancemcclain · 11 months
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“Woo-oof, Mullet. How has training every second of every day made you worse, somehow?”
Keith clinches his jaw, forcing himself to keep his attention on the gladiator in front of him, and ignore the taunting to his left.
He doesn’t understand what Lance’s problem is. A couple months ago, he was putting a soft hand on Keith’s shoulder and saying he trusts the Black Lion’s judgement, sticking with Keith even when he makes dumbass decisions, and now he’s back to that stupid — rivalry? Again?
What’s his fucking angle?
“I’m still doing better than you,” Keith grits out, because the high road is for losers. Unfortunately the jab doesn’t have the intended effect, and Lance only smirks.
“Not for long.”
Faster than Keith can fully process, Lance fucking back handsprings out of his gladiator’s range, widely avoiding its attack, and then he flips forward, using the momentum to hit the gladiator full force in the chest. As the gladiator stumbles, Lance wraps his legs around its shoulders and almost throws his own body to the ground, sending the gladiator’s head to the floor at frightening speeds. It cracks on impact, Lance scrambling a couple feet away, and then a low hum fills the room as a robotic voice announces: “Level 24 complete, Red Paladin. Congratulations. You are in the lead.”
Lance turns and smirks in Keith’s direction. He doesn’t even say anything, but the smugness drips off him in waves.
There’s absolutely nothing Keith can do to stop himself from what he does next. His fuse is short, he knows that, and Lance has fucking burnt it to a crisp. He feels something implode in his stomach, and he sees red.
He lunges for the gladiator, using his training staff to vault off the mat and throw himself right at the gladiator’s chest, just like Lance did. He twists his body, trying to wrap his legs around his shoulders and bend his back to get the right momentum.
There’s no noise, no crack or snap, but Keith feels something give in his lower back, and he drops to the ground , trying and failing to bite back a pained shout. The gladiator, obviously undeterred, raises its staff above Keith’s head, whipping it down so quickly it whistles. Keith throws himself out of the way, which hurts so badly his vision actually whites out a little.
“End training sequence! End it! Stop!” shouts a panicked voice. The robot voice confirms the instruction, and Keith hears the whooshing sound of the gladiator dematerialising, then footsteps hurrying towards him.
“Holy shit, Keith, are you okay?” Lance leans over him, brown eyes wide in concern, hand resting gently on his arm.
Keith scowls. He pulls his arm away and pulls himself up and out of Lance’s reach.
Well, he tries to. The second he tries to sit up the same agonizing pain from before radiates from his back, and barely manages to muffle his groan.
“Jesus, Keith, don’t move —”
“I’m fine,” Keith interrupts gruffly. He grits his teeth and drags himself upright, ignoring the way the pain makes his ears ring. “Leave me alone.”
Keith’s movement makes Lance’s hand shoot out on reflex, but he stops himself right before he makes contact. He meets Keith’s gaze, glaring heavily.
“Don’t be a dumbass. Let me help you.”
Keith bites back the urge to tell him what he thinks of his help, because he knows that’s a step too far, even though he really wants to take it. Some part of him, something mean and angry that he can barely keep a hold on, wants to hurt Lance’s feelings as much as Lance’s weird mixed signals have been hurting him, lately. Worse.
Keith has more control than that. He will have more control than that.
“I’m fine,” he insists again. “Training’s over. You won. Go brag to Hunk, or something.”
Lance does nothing for a moment, then he sighs, getting to his feet and walking away.
Keith’s heart sinks, even though he doesn’t want Lance’s help and he’s perfectly capable of handling himself. It’s good that Lance is leaving him alone. Keith doesn’t fuckin’ need him. He’s handled himself since he was twelve goddamn years old, thanks ever so, and that’s not going to change now.
Only Lance doesn’t walk out the training room door. Instead he walks over to where he’s discarded his jacket, digging through the pockets for a moment before pulling out something long and thin, rounded on the edges and an off-white colour. He shoots it at Keith, and before he can speak up to ask Lance what the hell he’s doing, a blue laser shoots from the white thing.
A scanner.
Lance runs it over Keith’s back and torso, then mutters something angrily to himself, too quiet for Keith to hear, and tucks the scanner on his jeans pocket, walking back over to Keith.
“You threw out your back, stupid,” he informs him. “That shit’s not going away. Let’s go. Can you stand?”
Keith wants to argue, but finds that he’s…exhausted. All the pain hits him at once and he barely stops himself from sagging forward so as to not hurt his back any further.
“Probably.”
Lance helps him anyway, putting one of Keith’s arms around his broad shoulders before slowly helping him stand.
It hurts like hell, and Keith lets him know it.
“Mother of fucking God that smarts like a cactus spike up the shitter fucking hell —”
“I am trying so hard,” Lance starts, voice shaking, “to be serious and helpful, dude, but I am going to lose my mind if you keep going. Please cuss like a normal person and not a cowboy that just got kicked in the nuts by a horse.”
“Hurts about the fuckin’ same,” Keith shoots back, but tries to reign it in anyway.
Lance helps him out of the training room, guiding him down the hallways until they finally make it to their rooms.
“Few more steps,” Lance says encouragingly. Any teasing attitude evaporated somewhere between when Keith hit the floor and when Lance helped him up. “You can do it, Samurai.”
They finally make it to Keith’s door, and he slaps his free hand to the lockpad and stumbles to his bed.
“Lie on your stomach,” Lance advises.
Keith furrows his brow. “Isn’t lying on your stomach bad? Aren’t you supposed to lie on your back when you hurt it?”
“Well, it’ll be pretty hard for me to massage the pain out of your muscles of you’re lying on them, dork-brain.”
Keith pauses. “Huh.”
Lance rolls his eyes. “Will you just shut up and do as I say, Commander?”
“Um, no,” Keith says. For whatever reasons his heartbeat has increased, and his palms are sweaty through his gloves. “I’m just going to sleep it off. You can go now.”
Lance crosses his arm. That stubborn look enters his face, the same one he gets when he knows he’s right and he doesn’t care who agrees.
Keith has never, not even one time, won an argument with him when he gets that expression.
“Bed. Now,” he orders. “Ditch the shirt. I’ll be back in five minutes, and if you’re not doing as I say I’m going to knock you out and shove you in a healing pod.” Without waiting for a response, he turns around, marching out the door and somehow making it slam behind him, even though the doors are literally automatic and Keith has never once seen them slam before.
Keith glances at his bed. He glances at his lockpad.
It’s not like Lance can strongarm his way through Altean lock security, right?
Keith takes one step towards the door. His back twinges, and he winces.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
He chucks off his shirt, wincing as the movement makes his back twist, and gingerly lays down on his stomach. He shifts until he finds a position that hurts the least, pillow tucked under his head and over his arms.
Whatever. He’s doing this because he doesn’t want to sit in a stupid pod, not because Lance ordered him to.
As promised, his door opens again five minutes later, and Lance’s near-silent footsteps approach the bed.
“See?” he mutters. “Doesn’t kill you to listen to me.”
“I hate you.”
“Uh-huh.”
There’s a shuffling sound, then a creaking as the bed dips, and the next thing Keith knows, Lance has a leg on either side of Keith’s hips and he sits gently on Keith’s thighs, right beneath his ass.
Keith’s face flames. He shoves his face into his pillow and prays for death.
(No one has ever been this close to him in his life, probably. It’s weird.)
“My hands a freezing,” Lance says apologetically. “Might feel weird for a sec.”
Cold fingers trace gently down the curve of Keith’s spine, covered in what Keith assumes is some kind of medicinal lotion. He shivers, goosebumps erupting all over his bare flesh. The air suddenly feels suffocating.
“Where’s the pain?” Lance whispers.
Keith swallows. His throat is so dry that it takes him several attempts. “Lower back.”
The cool fingers slowly move to the backs of his hips, one on each side. Then, without warning, they dig into his flesh.
“Fucking — ow, Lance!”
“Baby.”
Keith glances back at him incredulously, face still burning. “In what world is now a good time for pet names?!”
Lance snorts, a small smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. “I’m not calling you a pet name. I’m insulting you. Baby.”
Keith’s jaw drops. “You —”
“Shut up and let me focus, Mullet.”
Keith does.
But not because Lance tells him to.
Eventually he gets used to the hard kneading of Lance’s bony fingers. Every once in a while he winces as Lance digs into a particularly painful spot, and once he outright shouts in pain. Lance hurries out an apology, easing up a bit and moving to a different part.
“I suppose I should apologise,” he says after several minutes of silence, interrupting only by Keith’s various grunts of pain and relief alike.
“For being a dickhead?”
Lance laughs. Keith isn’t facing him, but he can picture his wry smile. “For goading you. I knew you were going to fuck up the takedown I did when you tried it, but I just thought you’d fall or something.” His voice gets solemn. “I didn’t think you’d get hurt for real. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m sorry.”
His hands have stilled, thumbs no longer pressing into the knotted muscles. Only his fingertips gently trace his skin.
His fingers aren’t cold anymore, but Keith still feels goosebumps come up again.
“I could’ve done that takedown thing,” he grumbles eventually. He’s full of shit and he knows it, but he’s sure as shit not about to admit that Lance is better at a hand-to-hand manoeuvre than he is.
Lance snorts. “Yeah, right. I’ve been in gymnastics and dance classes since I was two, bonehead. I’m bendy as hell. I’m good at contorting. I do it all the time when Hunk and Pidge haven’t slept in a while, and I need to make them think they’re hallucinating monsters from sleep deprivation. You have to be practiced at this sort of thing, Mullet.”
Keith opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “What have you been doing to Hunk and Pidge?”
Lance ignores him. “Anyways. I won’t goad you into something like that again, no matter how funny it would be to see you fall on your face.” He pats Keith’s hip twice, then shifts off the bed. “All done. Try sitting up. Does it still hurt?”
Carefully, Keith pulls himself into a sitting position, expecting the same white-hot pain he felt when he sat up in the training room. But there’s nothing.
He looks to Lance with wide eyes. “Holy shit.”
Lance preens. “I’ve got magic hands,” he brags.
“Thank you,” Keith says sincerely. He can’t quite help the small smile he shoots in Lance direction.
Strangely, a light blush burns across Lance’s cheeks. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Mullet. It’s not like you and your thick head were going to go into a pod, so.” Lance coughs, rocking back on his heels. He looks anywhere but Keith.
Suddenly, a vague memory pops up into Keith’s brain, of himself at around thirteen, venting to an amused Shiro about how one of the boys in his classes, Taylor, kept bugging him about test scores and insisting on some stupid competition.
“I don’t get it, Shiro!” he had said, frustrated frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. “I don’t want to compete! I don’t know what his stupid problem is!”
Shiro had smiled, ruffling Keith’s hair. “He’s pulling your pigtails, kiddo.”
Keith frowned. “I don’t have pigtails.”
“No, I mean —” Shiro had shook his head. “Nevermind. Just ignore him, he’s just getting a reaction out of you because he doesn’t know how else to talk to you.”
Adam had snorted before Keith could comment, reaching over and tugging on Shiro’s forelock without looking up from his marking. “Familiar with the pigtail-pulling strategy, aren’t you, babe?”
Keith hadn’t understood it then, why Shiro’s face had gone bright red or why Adam had laughed louder as Shiro got more flustered. He just remembers being disgusted by their blatant gross flirting, and forgetting about the confusing words entirely.
It hits him now, though, looking at Lance’s red face, thinking about every time he’s driven Keith insane and smirked when he finally lost it, gone against Keith’s orders just to be contrary, literally tugged on Keith’s hair just to piss him off, but why he always sits next to Keith at meals and reassures Keith when he’s sure he’s not fit to lead the team.
Why he offered to rub his hands up and down Keith’s back for a half hour instead of sticking him in a pod.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. He looks at Lance with wide, unbelieving eyes.
Lance glances back at him, and his expression only makes the Cuban more red, somehow.
“I promised I’d help Coran with something,” he blurts. He points vaguely at the door, stumbling backwards. “Right now, actually. Um, bye. Don’t hurt yourself again, dumbass.”
He’s out the door before Keith can stop him, so fast there’s practically a cloud of dust where he used to be, like a cartoon.
Keith sits down heavily on his bed, still staring unblinkingly in front of him. He thinks of the way he rises to Lance’s challenges, every single time. How he always pushes himself harder when Lance is watching, like he has to make sure Lance knows how good he is. How he, too, always seeks Lance out and sits next to him during team meetings or even movie nights. How he almost always assigns them as partners on missions.
How he shivered when Lance’s cool fingers touched his skin.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, a smile fighting its way onto his face. He yanks gently on his own hair.
Butterflies erupt in his stomach.
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sodding map. [g.w. x reader]
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summary: yes, the map showed him a lot; it just didn't show him what he wanted to see.
wc: 0.4k
a/n: plot bunny plot bunny plot bunny and pining george being so worked up over not being able to see u all the time
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George Weasley loved to discover; he loved finding out new things hidden between nooks and crannies, he loved seeing little cracks that weren't there previously. Godric, he loved feeling new textures, loved hearing new sounds, tasting new things.
He was quite lucky to have snagged the Marauder's Map away from Filch's office. Having solemnly sworn that he (and Fred) was up to no good, he spent a good few months of his time in Hogwarts familiarising himself with the layout of Hogwarts. 
Every secret passage on the grounds had been walked by him. He'd memorised the curvature of the tunnels, how the gravel felt and sizzled satisfyingly under his feet, how a family of rodents would congregate in a corner to tap-dance and engage in miniscule mousey bacchanalia.
There was one thing, however, that the map couldn't show him, and it irritated him into his next life.
It couldn't reveal to him the way your eyes crinkle when you laughed. The map couldn't magically conjure up the image of you with your eyebrows furrowed as you concentrated on chopping up your ingredients in Potions class (rather unsuccessfully, he added, as a few had gone flying out the window from the sheer pressure of the knife's dull blade).
Every night, he cursed at the map, despite its jarring greatness.
Curse its limitations!
Wherefore be a magical map if its own magic had its limits? 
Merlin, the tempting thought of setting it ablaze had crossed his mind from time to time. Mind you, he most likely would have done it a long time ago had it not been for Fred accio-ing it out of his frustrated hands. ("For Godric's sake, you twat, pull yourself together! It's not like you don't see her face every day!")
And so, George found himself sprawled out in the courtyard, snow piling on his body as his eyes studied the "Y/N" waltzing around on the map. He could have sworn he heard the sound of the parchment's crinkling distort into something that resembled somewhat of a taunting giggle. He stared at your name scribbled on it. 
And he stared.
And he stared.
Maybe, he thought, if he stared long enough, your face would finally show up on the map instead of  letters, scriptures and the names of students he had no regard for.
With one final frustrated sigh, he managed his mischief and folded the spare bit of parchment.
"Harry's better off with this."
George soon found himself trudging through the snow, grumbling moodily under his breath, and was now on his way to give away the magical map that only painfully reminded him of the distance between him and you.
Sodding map.
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higuchisora · 22 days
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The idea of characters from other stories winding up in SVSSS has been stuck in my head for a while but I'm not gonna write abt it lmao so here's what's been rattling around in the ole noggin:
Toph:
Toph would be a genuine menace
Specifically on poor Liu Qingge, who hasn't the slightest clue how he wound up with yet another student
Earthbending should not be possible here. Earthbending is NOT possible here.
Toph invents earthbending here.
In fact, she only gets stronger. Because the cultivation aspects of the world means she's got even more qi and knows more about how to use it beyond earthbending.
She can now use qi itself to "see" (sensing others' qi, using it to sense movement, etc.) Not just earthbending
Lqg wants nothing to do with any more disciples. Especially not ones as annoying as yang yixuan
He gets a gremlin even more annoying than yang yixuan
He lies awake at night, regretting saving her life that one time on a hunt and kickstarting her path of being a Problem
Specifically, he saves her life one night while she's out trying to remaster earthbending, inspiring her to become a cultivator
She runs away from her noble family and their arranged marriage and stifling life that they've planned out for her and heads straight to Cang Qiong's Bai Zhan peak the first chance she gets
Refuses to take no for an answer, thus growing to become lqg's #1 menace
He both blesses and curses the day she was born
Lqg would sooner die than admit she's basically his other baby sister/daughter figure
Will outright refuse to fly on her sword When asked how she'll get around, the earth goddamn MOVES UNDER HER FEET and she causes several earthquake/mole monster sightings with these shenanigans
Is banned from this move
Begins to tunnel underground instead
She could arguably fly on her sword just fine, sensing the qi around her to navigate and shit, but it's harder and definitely uncomfortable and brings back bad memories of that one time in the volcano with Aang and Sokka
Luo Binghe wants her dead
She probably never gets strong enough to 1v1 him and win but she's definitely strong enough to become a genuine challenge
Especially when she reinvents metalbending
Rides for her shizun ong
Would probably fight lbh for lqg's honor after the SQQ corpse situation (he did not ask her to do this)
Aang:
The angel of Qing Jing peak fr
Or that monastery but we don't hear enough about them tbh
Has legitimately no idea how he got here, maybe too scared to question it actually
Like, did he really fuck up and end up getting ripped out of the avatar cycle orrrr????
Decides some things are better left unknown
The only struggle he really has is not being bald anymore
Honestly???? Might still shave his head and just stick to a wig
Would inevitably get caught or ALMOST caught and eventually gets used to growing it out (would probably become the inventor of extensions or wig glue though lmao)
Would make the spoiled qing jing disciples better just by being around them tbh
Star student probably, would be a menace in a cute way
One of the few men allowed on Xian Shu (for visits/messages)
Would probably befriend demons ngl
Loves flying on his sword
Prefers his staff though, and eventually figures out how to make/get someone to make one for him
No one knows how he does the air scooter. They are scared.
No one asks about the tattoos either.
Or how he's controlling all these fucking elements.
He doesn't have an avatar state anymore, but that doesn't seem to stop him from being wildly more dangerous than anyone expected
Possibly unlocks permanent cultivation-blocking? Like sealing off your core
Demons don't take note
Until he learns how to do the same for demonic cores
Exorcist Aang
Possibly becomes a rogue/wandering cultivator
Wandering rogue exorcist Aang????
He's either a god descended upon the earth or a heavenly demon in disguise, according to critics
He thinks it's all silly
Until he meditates too hard and communes with a god or something who tells him they may or may not have bargained to snatch his corner of the avatars soul for a reason
Uh oh
Sokka:
Does not know how he managed to get spiritual energy or cultivate
Actively chooses not to think too much about it
The head disciple of An Ding 😭
Absolutely salty about it
Shang Qinghua is endlessly grateful though
Does not know what to make of the long hair thing; probably tries to keep his hair in a half-pony still, as an ode to the water tribe
I've seen some fics where Qiong Ding is headcannoned as the bureaucratic peak; in this case, he might be able to sweet talk his way in if fate and Yue Qingyuan is kind enough
Either way he's grateful he gets to do sword stuff again
Especially now that he can FLY on them?!
He hasn't completely forgotten his skills, so he's got a whole different style no one's seen before and it's Weirdly Good Actually
He finally works his cultivation up enough to get his personal sword
Then he finally gets to summon his and he cries
It's space sword
No one knows what the fuck to make of this weird ass sword but he doesn't care, it's his and he loves it
Known as the best ever manager of An Ding peak
Katara:
Would have one (1) argument with her brother and march up to Xian Shu
Frequent visitor of Qing Jing and Qian Cao
Mu Qingfang mourns every day that she didn't choose the medicine peak
Katara maintains that she's too ready to beat some ass to ever be a full doctor and vow to do no harm
Never quite learns to be comfy with a sword but can still handle her own
During the demon invasion on Cang Qiong (assuming she's there at the time), she bloodbends Hualing right off the mountain
The demons do NOT stick around
The cultivators are too scared to ask her what the fuck that was but they're nicer to her than before
The xian shu peak gains a fearsome reputation of possibly teaching blood magic
No One gets how she does the waterbending stuff. Outsiders assume it's some Xian Shu ancient secret technique. Or she's related to Mobei Jun. Real members know Kataras just Like This.
Keeps the hair loopies. No matter what people say.
Wears a blue necklace similar to her mother's heirloom; a gift from her shizun probably
Genuinely enjoys the sisterhood on Xian Shu. It reminds her of the better days of her home, before the southern raiders came back
Zuko:
Could've chosen from several peaks, but chooses Bai Zhan
Something about the bamboo on Qing Jing reminds him of his uncle though, so he likes to visit. But not for too long. It hurts.
Isn't really bothered by the long hair thing; while cutting hair isn't forbidden in the fire nation, long hair is common practice, especially for nobles
Keeps the standard topknot until Toph calls it ugly
And then he remembers toph cannot see his topknot
Starts doing ponytails anyway
Also a star student of Bai Zhan, especially after he busts out the firebending forms
Yet another nuisance for poor lqg
He and Toph are the only two that can keep up with each other
Known as the Twin Stars of Bai Zhan
Aka the Twin Headaches of Liu Qingge
Has a small red birthmark near his eye, on the side that used to be burned
The fact that there isn't a massive burn is mildly uncomfortable to him at first. Doesn't feel like himself
Again, No One knows how all these kids with weird qi abilities are coming from
They're beginning to suspect they're all part demon
Neither he nor Toph ever defeat the demon heritage allegations
Especially not with the way they fight. And allegedly have a Past that no one else knows about
Would also fight Binghe for his Shizuns honor
Weirdly chill for Bai Zhan actually
Has probably made leaps and bounds from his avatar hunting days already
Most expect him to have gone to a quieter peak, it's baffling
Until he beats the shit outta somebody
And then goes back to being gentle and chill and forgiving
He wonders if uncle Iroh is watching over him here too
He can only hope his uncle is still proud of him, wherever he might be
Lqg isn't his uncle, but he's still a kind presence that Zuko looks up to a little, even if the guy is a little too punchy
Thus takes it upon himself to ride or die for him
One of the few dual wielders around
His curved blades are also a source of curiosity for the others
But he's good with them so no one complains
In a bingliushen situation, Zuko, Toph, and YYX are feral protective gremlins that somehow make things better AND worse for the development of the bingliushen courtship process lmao
I'll probably make more at some point but that's all for now. If someone wants to make a fic of these PLEASE let me know, link me I'm desperate
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sentientsky · 4 months
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totally forgot about gay french music for a sec. very crowley-coded stuff
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Pomme, « On Brûlera »
(ft. my sleep-deprived translation below the cut)
We’ll burn together
In Hell, my angel.
I’ve planned (could also be translated as foreseen, anticipated) our goodbyes
To the Earth, my angel.
And I want to leave with you (to Alpha Centauri?? 👀),
And I want to die in your arms.
I apologize to the gods
of my mother and her praises.
I know all the prayers,
All the wishes
For it to change.
But I want to leave with you,
And I want to die in your arms.
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milady-bugg · 2 years
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So, you know how Hair Grooming/Braiding being akin to wedding vows is a widely accepted trope in the realm of LOTR?? That! But for Witchers!!
Like, the first time Jaskier helps Geralt bathe and simply washes his hair? No big deal, that’s something that can be considered brotherly/friendly affection. The first time Jaskier Braids his hair afterwards???? The Bard is showing his Intent to Court?? And maybe Geralt… likes that idea. Very much so. But, of course, this is still Geralt and Jaskier, so they don’t Actually discuss anything. Geralt just assumes Jas initiated the Courtship, meanwhile Jaskier thinks Geralt initiated…
This can happen as Early or Late into their friendship as you’d like, but in my opinion, the Earlier the Funnier. I’m thinking well-within the first few months, when they’re still getting to know one another. Which makes Geralt’s first winter back at Kaer Mohren even funnier! When he left he was this Perpetually Pissy grump more liable to punch than to smile. And he goes out on The Path and returns a year later… Married. To a BARD, of all people. And he is Utterly smitten. And Jas isn’t much better, totally Besotted with his White Wolf.
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Ur billdip is so adorable, may I humbly request more? Thank you :)
Absolutely. I've been looking for an excuse to draw these dorks anyways hehe
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Just a guy and his weirdness loving triangle bf
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gianttol · 1 year
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oc idea where a sleepy girl is constantly pulling all nighters to get assignments done so when shes asleep shes out for the night. the borrower in the house gets too used to that fact and tries going for her coffee and sleepy girl wakes up
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queenrileyrose · 6 months
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Midnights Like This Part Ten: Harder to Hide Than I Thought
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Miniseries Premise: Riley Brooks leaves everything behind to move to Cordonia after accepting her dream job designing clothing for the upcoming royal wedding. Drowning her sorrows one night, she meets Leo. The pair form an unlikely friendship, having more in common than either expected. Their feelings evolve, but neither wants to ruin the friendship. Will they take a chance or be content to stay friends?
Catch Up Here
Chapter Summary: Riley meets someone. Leo attends an art show.
Book: The Royal Romance/Rules of Engagement
Pairings: Leo x Riley (OC), Liam x Marena (MC)
Rating: T
TW: Pining dumbasses
A/N: I am participating in @choicesflashfics using the prompt: “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you!”
Word Count: 2485
Music Inspo: I Wanna Be Yours—Artic Monkeys
Thank you to everyone who reads, likes, comments, and/or reblogs this. I appreciate it so much. ❤️
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“We are almost to the finish line, Aurora!” Ana announced. “We will be busier than ever in the days leading up to the wedding; I trust you are prepared?”
“I am,” Riley carefully slid Olivia’s gown onto a hanger. 
“Wonderful,” Ana slung her bag over one arm. “We have much to discuss, but it can wait. What’s left for today?”
“I’m going to hem Marena’s gown,” Riley slid the silk fabric onto a mannequin. “You might need a different tailor; I also had to fix some of the stitching on Duchess Olivia’s corset.”
“We will find someone else first thing tomorrow,” Ana agreed. “Thank you for your attention to detail.”
“That’s my job,” Riley smiled.
Since the discussion regarding Constantine, their relationship changed drastically. Ana treated her as a partner almost, listening to her ideas and trusting her judgment. 
“Oh!” Ana froze in her tracks and spun on her heel. “You are able to attend the show at the art gallery tonight, yes? I have dinner with a very important fashion house I can’t miss.”
Riley blinked a few times, sorting her thoughts. “Yes, I can make an appearance.”
“Wonderful,” Ana clapped her gloved hands together. “Have-“
The loud ding of the elevator doors cut Ana off mid-sentence. 
“Ms. De Luca?” the man’s dark hair gleamed in the overhead lights, his eyes friendly. “I have the finalized security details for you.”
He held out a flash drive. Ana palmed the drive, slipping it into her purse. “Of course. I’ll go over them first thing tomorrow.”
“Please let me know if you have any questions,” He smiled before turning slightly to address Riley. “I’m Damien Bouras, head of King Liam’s security.”
“Riley Brooks,” Realization dawned on Riley, and she held her hand out. Leo had mentioned Damien a few times. Rather than shake the hand she offered, Damien brought it to his lips. “Nice to meet you.”
“You as well,” Damien’s smile widened, and he patted Riley’s hand before releasing it. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”
Riley shot Damien a grateful smile. She needed to get ready for the gallery; she was hardly dressed for it in her black wide-legged trousers and green silk blouse.
“One moment,” Ana cut in, one eyebrow raised. “Mr. Bouras, do you have plans tonight?”
Riley held her breath. What was Ana up to?
“I was planning on having a drink and turning in early,” Damien smiled wryly. “May I ask why you’re wondering?”
“Riley is attending a show in my stead,” Ana frowned, her tone regretful. “I hate to think of her going alone.”
Riley suppressed a sigh. How did Ana know all her friends had plans? Liam and Marena were in Portavira, Olivia and Leo had meetings. Riley was going to go solo, but-
Had Ana just called her Riley? Not Aurora?
“It would be my pleasure,” Damien replied, Riley’s attention snapping back to the conversation. “If Riley doesn’t mind?”
“No,” Riley blurted. “I mean, I don’t mind.”
Riley took a deep breath. She felt so awkward, like she might say the wrong thing. She did say the wrong thing already. 
“Splendid,” Ana adjusted her handbag over one arm. “The tickets are on my desk.”
With a wave, Ana was gone, leaving Riley and Damien alone.
“Sorry,” Riley swallowed, her throat dry. “You don’t have to if you’d rather not. Ana can be pushy.”
Damien chuckled. Riley caught his eye, noting the unique blue and brown combination. She found herself thinking of Leo’s eyes, how they reminded her of the sea, clear and vast. 
Riley shook off the thought, surprised by it. She tried not to think about how she’d rather be with Leo right now, how it would be fun to attend an art show with him. 
“That all depends on what kind of show,” Damien winked. 
“Oh, art,” Riley explained. “An artist from New York.”
“That sounds infinitely better than my plans,” Damien pulled a card from his suit pocket. “Text me the details?”
Riley nodded, accepting the card. Damien seemed nice enough. Leo had told her good things about him. It would be fine.
Why was there a pit in her stomach? She almost felt guilty. Riley knew exactly why and dismissed the thought.
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Leo waved to the press before stepping through the ornate glass and gold doors. He cast a glance around the room, zeroing in on the champagne tray being passed. 
“It could be worse,” Leo grumbled under his breath as he beelined for a waiter. “I could be in Portavira, sleeping in a room with oil paintings of dogs.”
Leo suppressed a shudder. The dogs’ eyes seemed to follow you. He plucked a flute and took a long sip, glancing at the paintings that lined the walls, raising an eyebrow.
They were primarily nudes of men and women in various poses. There was something about the swirls of paint that surrounded the subjects that was familiar, though Leo couldn’t place it.
Leo wished he’d called Riley. Everything had happened so quickly. He wasn’t supposed to attend this event and knew she was meant to be working tonight.
“Prince Leo!” An enthusiastic voice tore his attention from the framed canvasses. “Thank you for coming!”
“Duchess Joelle,” Leo smiled, shifting his glass to the other hand and taking Joelle Theron’s warmly. “Of course. Liam wishes he could be here, but he was called away.”
“Yes, we spoke earlier,” Joelle replied. “He has promised to stop by next week.”
“It’s a good turnout,” Leo glanced around at the small crowd. “Thank you for your dedication to bringing art to the capital.”
“This was mostly Liam and Francesco, but I did play a part,” Joelle smiled slyly. “Once-”
Leo felt as though someone was behind him. He turned subtly, nodding along to whatever Joelle was talking about. 
No one was there. As he was about to return his attention to Joelle, he saw a very familiar figure.
Riley, in a soft pink silk dress. She was slipping her arms from a tan coat and handing it to the attendant. Leo was about to make his excuses and greet her when she laughed at something the man beside her said, placing her hand on his arm.
It took Leo a moment to realize the man was Damien. He frowned. He wasn’t aware they knew each other. They were here together? Were they on a date? 
Leo looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. 
“So this is very exciting,” Joelle was saying. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to the caterer.”
“Of course,” Leo managed a smile. “Congratulations again.”
Leo let out a rush of air, just as Riley strode to the first painting, mere feet away from him, Damien beside her. He sucked in a breath. Her gown was almost backless, a sash tied at the small of her back. Her dark hair was twisted into a loose chignon, tendrils resting on her neck. She looked gorgeous. 
Leo’s stomach clenched. He felt warm, and he wanted to hit Damien. Before he could stop himself, he called after her. “Riley?”
Riley spun around. How had she missed Leo when she arrived? She thought she’d seen him speaking to an older woman but couldn’t see his face. She was sure she imagined him.
“Hi, Leo,” Riley beamed, her bright smile calming Leo. “I didn’t know you would be here.”
“Liam was supposed to attend,” Leo admitted. “He got called away.”
“Right, Marena texted me,” Riley nodded. “It’s nice to see you.”
Before Leo could answer, Damien sauntered over, stopping beside Riley. “Hello, Leo.”
“Good to see you,” Leo shook Damien’s hand firmly. A little too firmly. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”
“We didn’t,” Riley launched into an explanation, Ana asking her to go in her stead, Damien showing up and agreeing to join her.
Leo felt a weight lift. It wasn’t a date. He wasn’t sure why he cared so much. Damien was a good man. Loyal. 
Riley was his friend. She couldn’t pick a better guy. It didn’t matter, though, because they were not on a date.
“Do you know anything about the artist?” Leo turned back to a painting that struck him earlier. “The art seems familiar.”
“It should,” Riley stepped closer to a large painting. “I have one of her pieces in my apartment.”
“Is it the painting over your fireplace?” Leo studied the large paintings hanging along the gallery walls.
Leo suddenly noticed the dim room; the chandelier beams obviously had been lowered to create a romantic ambiance. He stretched the side of his neck, his fingers tapping nervously against his leg.
“That’s the one,” Riley peered at an oil rendering of a couple. Their limbs were intertwined; you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began. Riley wasn’t a prude by any means, but Leo’s close proximity and the sultry atmosphere was causing her to feel overheated. “I read that she was exploring a new style.”
Leo stopped in front of a painting with three figures set against swirls of deep green and blue. “I can see that.”
Riley coughed to cover a laugh before taking a few steps to examine the next framed canvas. “Wow. This is gorgeous.”
Leo stopped beside her. Their fingers brushed, and Leo forced himself not to take her hand. Since the night they’d run into Katie weeks ago, there were lingering touches; his hand moved to the small of her back almost unconsciously.
Leo didn’t know what it meant, and he wasn’t ready to figure it out. 
Damien walked just behind them, studying the two as they spoke. He noticed how relaxed they both were, how at ease. There was an energy between them, a spark. Leo smiled a genuine smile around Riley.
“See how it’s all blurry except for them?” Riley pointed to the couple at the center of the painting. 
Leo studied the scene. The couple looked much like the others, but their surroundings, the other figures, the trees, sky, and flowers looked as though someone swirled water in the paint.
“That’s what love should be like,” Riley’s voice had the slightest note of sadness. “The world is hazy; the noise is drowned out. It’s you and them.”
Leo considered this. “I think you’re right.”
“You haven’t been here in a few years, right?” Riley asked as she gestured around the room. They’d spoken about the gallery here, that it was a newer addition. 
“Right,” Leo followed her to the next framed canvas. “The majority of the artistic events are in Castelsarreillan.”
“I’ve been meaning to visit,” Riley smiled warmly. “The scenery looks beautiful. Plus wine.”
“I can take you, if you want,” Leo swallowed hard as Riley leaned forward slightly to examine the painting. “We can make a day trip or something.”
“I’d like that,” Riley’s smoky voice sent heat straight to Leo’s stomach. He nodded at Riley, not too enthusiastically, as he tried to quiet his racing thoughts.
“It’s settled,” Leo flashed Riley a smile.
Damien decided to leave them to it. He’d been charmed by Riley, how down to earth she was. But the way his childhood friend was looking at her, and she at him, Damien didn’t have a chance.
Damien drew his phone from his pocket, frowning. “Apologies, I’ve been called back to the palace.”
Leo and Riley both spun around, concerned expressions on their faces. 
“Everything is fine,” Damien said quickly. “I have a task to finish. I thought it could wait, but it can’t.”
“That’s too bad,” Leo said, hiding his happiness. He liked Damien. But he wasn’t right for Riley. They were too different. 
“Thank you for coming in the first place,” Riley patted his arm. “I appreciate it.”
“It was my pleasure,” Damien squeezed Riley’s hand. “Until next time.”
Riley nodded and watched him go. Damien was nice, as a friend perhaps. She wasn’t sure why Ana had insisted on him escorting her, but she was probably trying to ensure Riley had company. She’d forgive her.
“I feel bad,” Riley frowned. “We kind of went off and didn’t include him in the conversation, didn’t we?”
Riley set a mental reminder to text Damien and apologize. 
Leo had forgotten Damien was even there.
“You have tunnel vision when it comes to art,” Leo soothed. “That’s all you see. We didn’t do it on purpose. He didn’t seem too interested.”
“He did tell me the only art he enjoyed was The Art of War,” Riley admitted. “Maybe he should spend time with Olivia.”
Leo chuckled. “I think they’d get along great.”
Leo led Riley to the next painting, his hand resting on the small of her back for a moment before dropping.
“What’s the artist’s name?” Leo asked.
Their eyes met, and Riley noted the light was hitting Leo’s eyes in such a way that the darker blue flecks popped. Were they always that blue? Even when they crossed her mind earlier, they’d seemed a softer color.
“Katherine Clark,” Riley mentally shook off her thoughts. 
Riley wasn’t sure if she imagined the tension she felt. Leo was so close to her, they kept brushing against each other's arms and hands. She could still feel his hand on her skin. She surreptitiously gazed at his lips, wondering what kissing him would feel like.
Riley darted her eyes back to the wall. She had to stop. He was her friend. More thoughts crowded her head; a particularly scary one refused to leave.
“Do you ever feel behind?” Riley blurted before she could stop herself, cheeks heating.
“Like how that guy is behind her?” Leo gestured to another painting. He almost said that was his favorite position, but decided against it. 
Riley laughed softly, and Leo felt it wash over him. She had a great laugh. 
“I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you!” Riley shook her head. “Like in life. I was going over one of my lists-”
“You have life lists?” Leo wasn’t surprised after hearing about Riley’s vision board. He didn’t have lists. The only thing he organized was his clothing.
“Yes,” Riley lifted her chin. “I do. I had a whole timeline: career, marriage, maybe kids. I’m not where I thought I’d be.”
Riley was supposed to be married with one child by now. She was meant to have her own fashion line and live in Paris. Nothing worked out the way she planned. 
“You love your job, and you’re happy,” Leo shrugged. “That’s what matters, right?”
Riley was struck by the thought that if everything went according to plans she made when she was twenty-one, she wouldn’t be here now. She wouldn’t have met Leo.
Leo was right. She loved her job, her new friends, and she was happy. She hoped he felt the same.
“Are you happy?” Riley challenged. 
Leo let the question marinate as they walked to the next painting. “I am.”
Riley beamed. “Good.”
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paperzombiie · 2 years
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Some Elazar doodles ft. his boyfriend Anker, whom he initially annoyed into friendship
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hellscupboards · 8 months
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girl dinner
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brigwife · 1 year
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"Things had seemed so much simpler then"
Um. Excuse me Niccoló but if my memory serves me correctly, things were not very simple at all. You were literally against the clock on a death mission in the most dangerous part of the world to save your friends who were in literal hell and successfully close the doors of death behind them. Now you're just chilling out at camp with your boyfriend eating maccies and watching star wars.
So I guess "simple" to you is synonymous with "Jason being alive", because truthfully, life without him is just just so impossibly unbearable for you.
Also when you contrast it with this I really start to laugh:
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You wake up from a dream where you were literally yearning to be held in your dead friend's arms, but then as soon as your actual boyfriend wants to comfort you, the walls go up and you feel awkward being vulnerable with him.
Niccoló my dear boy, your subconscious is trying to tell you something.
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“Hey, Lance.” A taunting laugh, smirk audible in his voice. “I got your lion back.”
He’s so smug he’s dripping with it, truly. If satisfaction was a person he would be the one and only Keith Gyeong, prodigy pilot extraordinaire.
He did, however, go out of his way to get Lance’s lion back for him. So.
“Thank you, Keith,” Lance says, injecting as much sincerity into his voice as he can muster. He’s well aware he’s still at a disadvantage here, and he knows Keith is his best shot for help (he would literally rather die than ask Shiro, Pidge would take twelve thousand photos and hoard them over his head for eternity, Hunk has a told-you-so problem, and he doesn’t know the Alteans well enough to take that particular L in front of them). “Now can you come and unchain me?”
Lance is expecting teasing. Duh. That’s the point of this whole rivalry spiel. He is not, however, expecting to be abandoned.
“What’s that? Uh, you’re cutting out, I can’t — I can’t hear you —”
Oh, Lance is going to kill him.
“Come on! I thought we bonded!”
Nothing. Not even static over the comms, which tells Lance that Keith has yet to fucking cut the connection, and is, in fact, being a horrible smug jerk.
A horrible smug jerk that is Lance’s only saving grace, unfortunately.
Man, fuck. Why is Lance expected to be friends with this jerk again?
“Keith?”
Still nothing.
“Buddy?”
Fuck, not even a muffled snigger.
“…My man?”
Is it desperate? Yes. Was the bonding dig also desperate? Yep. Is Lance digging himself into a deeper hole by the minute? Quite probably.
He does that regularly, though. He’ll get out eventually.
Hopefully.
Lance continues to nag a silent Keith through the comms, and then switches to cussing him out, in as many languages as he can (which is a lot. He doubts Keith has ever been called a fart-snorting garbage-guzzler in Gaelic, heh. Ass). He’s hoping to incense Keith enough to get him to fire back and prove that he’s been listening all along, but not too much that he turns around and refuses to help. It’s a delicate balance. Lance is usually very good at it. (Nothing on Earth is funnier than making your older siblings absolutely raging mad and then watching them continue to help you with whatever you ask for. It is, truly, an art form.)
But since Lance was forsaken by the gods the very second he was shot into space, Keith remains absolutely soundless.
And honestly? How dare he.
Muttering to himself, Lance tries to shift into a slightly more comfortable position. Eventually he manages to get his knees under him, chest to the floor, and curves his back to take the pressure off his wrists, which isn’t amazing but is better than before. It’s certainly not easy to do — this handcuff shit is hard. Lance always thought it would be way more fun.
“Well, damn, Sanchez. You sure you even want me to help you? You’re lookin’ pretty comfortable all stretched out.”
Lance yelps loudly, startling at Keith’s drawl. When the hell did he get here? Why didn’t Lance see him arrive in Red?
“Did you seriously use Pidge’s cloaking just to sneak up on me?” he demands.
Keith steps into Lance’s field of vision, smirking up a goddamn storm. He crouches right beside the pole Lance is chained to, reaching out a hand (dodging Lance’s attempt to bite his fingers off) and tilting up his chin.
“‘Course,” he admits, easy as pie. Then his smirk gets wider. “Think I was gonna pass up a chance to see ya all tied up and testy, pretty boy?”
Pretty boy.
Oh, no. Oh no, no, no.
“Fuck,” Lance says, aghast. “Fuck, fuck!”
The sudden expletives startles Keith, a little, and the smug expression drops from his face.
“What? What’s wrong?”
Lance face contorts in panic. “You’re hot! You’re not supposed to be hot! Fuck!”
This is Lance’s own goddamn fault, really, but he would like to take a brief moment to blame both higher powers and the internet at large for making him this way.
The thing is that Lance likes to bug people. He likes to push people’s buttons and run off before they can push his back. Usually, anyway, people don’t want to push his back; they just want to throw shit at him or roll their eyes and walk away.
But Keith?
Of course not. Heaven forbid Keith act like every other human being on the planet — er, well, alien in the universe. No, Keith has absolutely no trouble snapping right back to whatever Lance throws at him. Keith actually plays his game.
And fuck, does Lance love it.
That’s a huge problem. Massive. Lance doesn’t know what to do with someone who indulges him! That’s not the point! The point is for people to get annoyed and for Lance to win by default! He’s not supposed to be the one getting flustered!
“…What,” Keith says flatly. He blinks rapidly at Lance, confusion written all over his face.
There’s a splash of red spreading across his nose.
“Oh, fuck you!” Lance explodes — or, well, as much as he can while he’s still chained to a fucking pole. “Of course you have to be a fuckin’ — smug jackass! And of course you look good doing it! And of fucking course you’re a goddamn country boy!”
And the hole Lance has dug himself gets deeper.
Lance astounds himself, really. He should arrange to have his mouth glued shut.
“This is the worst! It’s one thing if you’re just some guy, but nooooo! Of course you have fucking — crooked incisors and a Southern drawl! Oh, you are the worst, you know that, Gyeong?”
“This is going in a rapidly different direction than I pictured,” Keith manages.
“Oh, picture me tied up and at your mercy a lot, do you?” Lance snaps back.
It’s a reflex, really. Lance says shit like that all the time, because he’s his own target audience. It never does anything but make people roll their eyes at him, and occasionally land him in detention. Hell, he barely even registered that he said it.
But, fascinatingly, the tiny smudge of red over Keith’s nose explodes into a raging blush, from the roots of his hair down his neck.
“There’s no possible way you know that,” Keith says hotly.
Lance’s jaw drops. “No way that I — I didn’t! I wasn’t — bitch, I was joking!”
Keith scowls, flush getting deeper. “Well, what about the shit you said before? You said I’m hot!”
“Yeah, because you fucking are! I’m not — I don’t daydream about you, at least! I don’t have a — a fucking thing for you, though?”
As he says it, Lance knows he’s lying. All of a sudden every single one of Hunk’s raised eyebrows whenever Lance ranted about Keith start to make a lot of sense.
“Bullshit!” Keith argues. “You always stare at me during training, and you pick random fights with me all the time, and yet you sit next to me all the time for no reason! You’re fuckin’ obsessed with me!”
“I —” Lance stops, jaw clicking shut. It is occurring to him, just now, that straight, non-crush-having people don’t generally obsess over one-sided rivalries for five years, and then do everything they can to make that rivalry a reality.
So. An oversight, perhaps.
“There’s a possibility,” Lance concedes, “that my subconscious, without my permission, has perhaps harboured some strange type of feelings for you.”
“Told you,” Keith says faintly. He looks just as lost as Lance does, though, so it significantly lowers the effect.
Lance is gagged. He is, for once in his life, at a complete loss for what to say. What does this even — who comes up with this kind of shit? Who does this? Lance is his own worst enemy, truly. Sorry, Zarkon, but take a seat.
“Lance, dude?” Hunk’s voice, faint and tinny from Lance’s discarded helmet, makes them both jump. “Do you still need rescuing?”
“Fuck, sorry,” Keith mutters, finally springing into action and deactivating the stupid cuffs. Lance scrambles back the second he’s free, rubbing his wrists and avoiding eye contact with Keith while also constantly sneaking glances aren’t him that aren’t at all sneaky because Keith catches him every time.
“So,” Keith says eventually.
Nope. Lance isn’t having this stupid conversation.
Lance throws a random rock at him.
“Hey!” Keith picks it back up and whips it at Lance immediately, only his aim isn’t as good as Lance’s, and also Lance is already diving to grab more rocks, so he misses. Lance starts pelting Keith with the armful of space rocks he’s gathered, each of them no bigger than an ice cube, all of them pinging harmlessly off Keith’s armour.
“Lance — will you — fucking cut that out!”
He lunges forward, shoving Lance to the ground and pinning Lance’s hands above his head. Lance bucks and squirms, trying several of the new maneuvers Shiro taught them to throw Keith off, but unfortunately Keith had also been present at the training in which they learned these manoeuvres and is therefore unaffected.
“I’ll let you up if you stop throwing shit at me.”
“No.”
“Guess you’re stuck, then.”
Lance tries for several more minutes to escape, but Keith remains firmly where he is, pinning Lance down. Lance is eventually forced to stop unless a new problem wants to pop its way up and make things more embarrassing and horrible.
Lance huffs. “Let me up. I promise not to throw more rocks at you.”
Keith squints suspiciously at him. “Are you lying to me?”
“Yes.”
“Well then — no, obviously?”
“C’mon, Keith.”
Lance does what he always does when he’s backed into a corner — he pulls out the brown doe eyes. He furrows his eyebrows, widening his eyes as big as he can and pouting.
“For fuck’s — oh, fine.”
Keith rolls off Lance, grumbling the whole time.
Lance blinks.
That — that worked? All he had to do was ask, barely, bat his eyelashes a little, and Keith just — listened to him?
“Oh my God, we are down bad for each other,” Lance breathes.
Keith looks ready to argue, but then stops himself, sighing.
“Yeah.”
“What are we going to — fuck, what are we going to do?”
Because Lance is not new to crushes. He’s had more of them than he can physically count. But never in his life has he wanted to judo flip someone as badly as he wanted to make out with them. That’s a new development.
“I dunno,” Keith says helplessly. He’s kind of — curled in on himself, face still red, as if he curls into a tight enough ball he can escape the situation. “You’re the plan guy! When you’re not being a dumbass, that is.”
Ignoring the jab, Lance takes a moment to ponder that. He is kind of the plan guy, isn’t he? It’s him who came up with all the Garrison escape plans he dragged Hunk into. It’s him who came up with the elevator shaft idea. Hell, he can quite possibly trace every one of his major life moments to a point where he said ‘hey, I wonder how I can make this work for me.’
Plan guy. Plan guy. He can be the plan guy. That’s all anything is, right? Making decisions and working out how to get there. He’s good at that.
But what decision does he want with Keith? What does he want with Keith, period?
“Step one,” Lance decides, “is that we should make out.”
Keith looks at him in surprise. “That’s step one?”
Lance nods firmly. “Yep. If we make out now, we can figure out all the weird tension shit. Maybe we don’t actually like each other. Maybe we’re just, like, bored.”
Keith looks doubtful, but he makes his way closer anyway.
“I guess so.”
“Yep.”
“So I just — kiss you?”
“Well, we don’t have all day, Mullet.”
Truly, Lance’s heart is pounding. He has no fucking clue how he’s managing to sound even remotely normal. He feels like he might implode.
Hesitantly, Keith reaches for Lance’s face, resting a palm on his cheek. His hand is warm, even through the gloves of their suits. Hot, really; nearly burning. He rests it there for a moment, absentmindedly — or maybe intentionally — rubbing his thumb across Lance’s cheekbone as his eyes trace nervously over Lance’s lips. He leans in close slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world, eyes fluttering shut as his lips get closer and closer to Lance’s. He gets close enough that Lance can see the startling length of his eyelashes, the tiny mole at the corner of his mouth, the chapped skin of his lips.
Lance doesn’t even know how to categorize the sound that comes out of his mouth when their lips finally touch. It’s — breathy; stuttering. Like all the air escapes out of his lungs the second his skin touches Keith’s.
Keith tilts his head a little, sliding their noses together, his free hand coming to rest at Lance’s hip. Lance’s hands move without his permission, sliding up the chest plate of Keith’s armour and over his shoulders, resting finally in his hair, fingers tangling around the thick black strands. He pulls on them slightly, and Keith gets the hint, opening his mouth and pushing closer.
Lance’s heartbeat slows from its jackrabbit pace. He stops focusing on anything except the warmth of Keith’s skin on his, the rhythm of their mouths moving together, the occasional sighs Keith makes at the back of his throat. He forgets where he is, what he’s doing; hell, he forgets his own damn name. The only thing he cares about is pressing closer to Keith, keeping them melded together.
“Well. Obviously you didn’t need saving.”
Lance’s eyes fly open and he shoves Keith backwards with a yelp.
“Hunk! What — where the fuck did you come from?!”
“Yellow is not a quiet machine,” Hunk says drily. “Like, seriously. The fact that you are just now reacting to my presence speaks wonders. I know you’ve liked Keith for a while now, dude, but there’s no way he’s that good of a kisser.”
“Oh my God,” Keith says faintly, and Lance can’t help but agree.
Goddamn. First he’s kissing Keith, now he’s agreeing with him. What’s next? They gonna co-lead Voltron together, or something?
“Let’s just go,” Lance squeaks, scrambling to his feet and desperately avoiding eye contact. He follows a very amused-looking Hunk back to his lion, enduring his painful amount of teasing with a bright red face and a truly herculean amount of self-control, if he’s being honest. The teasing from the rest of the team is almost worse, their ‘Loverboy Lance’ jokes briefly making him panic that everyone knows about the fact that he and fucking Keith Gyeong just made out, somehow, before he remembers that oh yeah, dumbass, you were just tied to a pole for flirting with the a scam artist.
Yeesh. How time fuckin’ flies.
The only consolation to the staggering amount of humiliation is that Keith keeps glancing at Lance, going red, and looking away. So obviously Lance isn’t the only one so affected, which is a relief.
Once everyone has finally gotten their fill of making fun of Lance, Shiro dismisses them, and Lance makes a beeline to his room. He rushes through his skincare routine as quickly as he can, refusing to let himself think about a single thing the entire time.
It doesn’t work. Every single time he catches sight of his own reflection, he’s reminded that his face just spent inordinate amounts of time pressed against Keith’s not even an hour ago. Keith is all he can think about.
Plan. Plan. What’s the plan? Is there a plan?
It is not a surprise when he hears a knock at his door.
“So,” Keith says when Lance opens it, rocking back in his heels. “What’s — uh, what’s step two?”
Lance smiles, allowing himself to feel the giddiness that’s bubbling up his throat, the parts of him that are yelling ‘Keith! Keith Gyeong! He sought me out! He wants to go further! With me!’
“Let’s figure that out together,” Lance says, pulling Keith into the room and shutting the door. “I’m thinking this is going to be more of a two-man operation.”
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thottybrucewayne · 5 months
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"Lesbianism isn't really about sex it about pining, and passionate glances" Lesbianism is about a stud spitting in your mouth and calling you a good boy, actually.
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boxboxlewis · 1 year
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"Hey, Georgie!" Alex trots across the paddock towards him, smiling.
George's stupid heart picks up a bit at how eager Alex sounds. He's always aware, our George, of who's putting the most enthusiasm into the friendship. Because all too often, it's him.
"Alex." George's voice is, he fancies, calm and measured. Not too greedy. He raises his hand for a fist bump.
Alex smirks, but he returns the gesture. He looks excited and a bit guilty, eyes sparkling they way they do whenever he's planning some idiotic, career-threatening hijinks. "Listen, mate—"
George cuts him off at the pass. He says warily, "No, sorry, I'm not prank-calling Valtteri again."
"It's not—"
"Or Daniel, or Max, or fucking—Christian Horner—"
"Calm your tits, Georgie, objection noted. No, I was thinking more..." Alex forms his index finger and thumb into a circle and holds eye contact as he pushes his other index finger rhythmically into and out of the circle, in the international symbol for sex and also I am emotionally twelve. "And maybe a bit of..." He makes his fingers into a V and holds them in front of his mouth and flickers his tongue through. "Maybe even some..." He uses his tongue and fist to mime a blowjob.
George, ridiculously, can feel a blush rising in his cheeks. There's nothing hot about Alex being a prat, obviously; George isn't that badly gone. It's just the memories, that's all, embarrassing and perfect and scalding, too white-hot to touch: Alex biting Lily's perfect little tits while George sucked Alex's dick and thought Look at me look at ME please please— Lily telling Alex Wow, babe, I think he like, really likes this, as George shuddered on Alex's cock, trying desperately not to come too soon. He clears his throat. "Blimey," he says, fighting for time. "Maybe don't do those motions out in public, Alex. There are photographers everywhere."
Alex just rolls his eyes. "Yeah, imagine the scandal. 'F1 driver makes vaguely lewd gesture.' Even our tabloids would have a hard time making much of that one, mate."
It's a fair point. "Well," George says weakly.
"All right," Alex says, slapping him on the shoulder. "I'm a sex-educated modern man, I know what that hesitation means. Enthusiastic consent or bust, right? Or rather—" He starts to laugh at his own incoming joke. "Or rather, enthusiastic consent or no bust." Appalling. George makes an exaggerated face of repulsion. Alex just laughs more, handsome face creasing, lines crinkling by the corners of his eyes. "You can have that one for free, Georgie-boy. And really, don't worry about the, er, invite. You're not into it: it's done."
"I don't—" George says. "I mean, I wouldn't say— It's not that I'm not, I just— You couldn't have texted?"
"Oh, well," Alex says. "You know me. Man of action. Lily and I had a chat last night, and then I saw you across the paddock and thought, better lock that handsome piece of man-meat down. But I'm a Red Bull alum, I can take a rejection." His voice is light, the way it always is when he talks about things that hurt him.
George ought to say no, obviously. It took him months to get over the last time: if you can even call what he is now "over." But if he says yes. If he says yes. He'll get to see Alex's face again, the face he makes when he's fucking Lily. What he looks like when he's intimate with someone he loves.
George smiles at Alex, not too soppily, heart firmly away from his sleeve, and says, "No, listen: I'm in."
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