"Come back to bed." Pleaded Lance, his voice a little groggy as he rubbed sleep from his eyes, trying to adjust to the sharp light of the hallway where the man he just spent the night with was now standing.
The man stood frozen, his back turned. He didn't mean to awake Lance, because that made this next part all the more difficult. "I can't." Was all he muttered, quietly, unmoving.
Looking into the same disappointed eyes over and over again gets old.
"Yes, you can." The response came quick from Lance as he scrambled out of bed, putting on the pair of shorts that were last night frantically thrown onto the floor. "You do this every time. Just drop the bag, Keith."
A small huff of air was exhaled between them both, already knowing how this was going to end. The script seemed to never changed, despite many, many pathetic attempts.
Deciding to turn around and face the inevitable, Keith finally looked at Lance, and there they were: big, blue, desperate eyes staring right at him like they were about to be stripped of everything they held close.
Which, really, wasn't far from the truth.
"They need me-" Keith wanted to reason, though with no success as Lance was swift to cut him off.
"No, I need you." The desperation was not only evident in his eyes, but his voice raising ever so slightly higher than usual was just as much of a tell. "I need you, Keith."
Once again, the darker haired man sighed. Every single time this happened, a small fraction of Keith's resolve was broken. But apparently that resolve was huge, because after countless times, it was still holding up strong. "I'll be back in a few days."
A blatant lie.
Lance debated whether Keith was unaware of how poorly he lied, or if he was fully aware and just didn't care. Both options hurt all the same. Another consideration was that maybe all the time spent in space and jumping through wormholes had warped Keith's perception of time, though that sounded improbable.
Either way, Keith kept promising Lance lies.
When Krolia or Kolivan called, that was the end of whater blissful moment Lance was able to steal from Keith before he was deployed back across the universe for months at a time. Sure, Lance was mindful of the fact that time worked differently wherever Keith went, and cleaning up centuries of intergalactic war took time. But he had a reasonable excuse for being upset.
He was lonely.
The other paladins had formed their own paths in life, leaving the battle behind, and focusing on their futures. But after Allura's sacrifice, Lance felt lost. He lacked his previous sense of adventure, and his will to meet new people turned into fear of abandonment.
When Keith reappeared into his life after a year, Lance finally felt like he had something to live for again. Someone who understood, was there for him. Though it wasn't long before his fear became a reality once again.
"Oh, spare me the bullshit, will you?"
That took Keith off guard. He hadn't heard Lance lash out at him since- he honestly couldn't recall. Their rival days were long gone, or so he thought.
"I can't keep doing this." Lance continued, whatever control of emotions he worked hard for was suddenly dwindling. "Do you take pleasure in messing with me?"
Back when the paladins had only just split, forming their own paths in life and finding balance after years of being on the front lines, Keith disappeared for over a year. A year of silence, until one day he returned and ran straight into Lance's arms.
Everyone was so thrilled to learn of the long awaited relationship finally blooming. Except, it never really did.
The two never exactly discussed what it was they had, leaving it as a hanging question over them that neither dared to bring up. Whatever it was, it was enough. At first.
But Keith said he didn't want to hurt Lance by giving him a relationship that he could not see himself committing to. Not while he was still at the blades disposal.
That didn't stop him from turning up at Lance's doorstep after months of being away, flashing a practiced smile that screamed 'I missed you, let me in.'
So every time, without fail, Lance did just that. Let Keith into his house, room, bed. Himself.
"No, Lance, it's not-"
"Then what is it like?"
It took everything in Keith to be patient, reasonable, understanding of how much pain he put Lance in every time he disappeared on him. But he always came back, that's what mattered. Wasn't it? "People need me." Keith's tone matched the others now; louder and becoming snappy. "I can't abandon my duties."
"You have no problem abandoning me."
"I don't have a duty to you."
The room suddenly fell into a deafening silence, leaving the two of them staring blankly at eachother. It seems neither of them were expecting those words to leave Keith's mouth.
At least Lance knew were he stood now.
A stupidly long moment passed before Keith finally found it in him to say something, anything, to try and save this. "Hold on, that's not what-"
"No, no. You're right." Once again, the attempt was interrupted. Though strangely, Lance's previous desperation was no longer heard. Instead, he took a deep breath, and looked at Keith with a newfound calmness. "You don't owe me shit."
That was unnerving.
"Baby-"
"Baby?" Lance mocked in a dry laugh. That was the first time ever he's heard any form of endearment, but instead of it filling him with excitement, it filled him with anger. "Please, don't go switching up on me now."
Keith had no other choice but to admit defeat, sighing heavily and dropping his gaze. On one hand, he was fed up of explaining himself. He gave his word to his mother that when needed, he would be there. His responsibility would forever be to help the people. He felt he owed that much as the former paladin of the black lion.
However, he also knew that Lance deserved stability.
Keith was anything but stable.
"I'll be back." He spoke bluntly, saying the same thing as always. For some reason though, this time it wasn't as convincing.
His bag was secured onto his shoulders, and he turned around to face the door. For a moment, he considered saying something more, but Lance beat him to it.
"You're running away." Lance's tone was accusatory, certain.
Almost flinching at the harsh words, Keith couldn't find it in himself to turn around. Not until he was already out the front door. But when his feet landed on the concrete outside, he decided that he wasn't beneath defending himself one last time.
Except he didn't get the chance.
"Maybe you should just stay away." Lance added, and with that the door was shut in Keith's face.
Will seems to scan him, eyes darting over his face, until he says, “Sure, go for it.”
Mike swallows, works the words in his mouth, and then finally asks, “Did you ever, y’know. Did you ever have a thing for me?” He makes a valiant attempt to sound casual. It just comes out slightly strained.
He risks a glance over.
Will looks like all the blood drained from his face. His lips part silently. Finally, he says, voice cracking, “What?”
Mike leapt off the edge of a cliff and is dangling suspended in the air. He hears wind and blood rushing in his ears.
He laughs. “I— I was just wondering. Stupid question, sorry. Obviously— obviously not.”
“Mike,” Will says, disbelieving. Like he’s praying this is a joke. “You— you know I did.”
Free fall.
Will's eyes desperately search his, and Mike is lost. “What?” he breathes. “Will, that’s not— what do you mean? What are you talking about? I don’t—” He breaks off, and says, weakly, “Will, if I knew, I would’ve…”
His mouth snaps shut and he swallows hard. Looks away, furious tears prickling his eyes.
“Mike, you would’ve what?” Will’s voice trembles. Does he fear this is a joke?
Mike wants so badly to spare himself this — it’s his own fault for fucking asking, why did he ask when he knew whatever answer would be past tense anyway? — but he can’t refuse Will.
He turns to look at him, meeting his glossy eyes. “I would’ve thrown myself at you,” he says brokenly. “Jesus, Will, I—” He curls over his knees, hugging them to his chest.
The stretch of silence drags on, long enough that when Will finally whispers his name, Mike instantly blurts out, “Forget it. It doesn’t m— it doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m sorry.”
“Would you still?”
The question hits him like a bullet. He turns, slowly. “What?” Careful. Like reaching out to a dog that’s sitting pretty for once, knowing you’ll probably still get bit.
“If I felt that way now, would you still?”
“Will… don’t joke.” He doesn’t think he’s joking. He has to say it anyway. His eyes scan Will’s face for some hint that this is a dream, a nightmare, something to wake up from.
is this ship popular because it’s legitimately compelling or is it popular because it’s the easiest to decontextualize and write college roommate AUs about?
this post broke containment and is getting ‘let people have fun and enjoy things’ comments, so i want to clarify that i hate fun and want to personally bludgeon everyone who has ever written a college roommate AU with a hammer
guysssss it’s seachtain na gaeilge( irish language week !!!!) and my friend translate “You took my heart I(i was sleeping)” by @lameparties on AO3 INTO GAEILGE !!!! go give her some support pls pls pls 😭
thóg tú mo chroí (bhí mé i mo chodladh) (6728 words) by madamecarpediem
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Characters: Will Byers, Mike Wheeler
Additional Tags: Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Forced Proximity, Power Outage, Huddling For Warmth, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Will Byers, Internalized Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Season/Series 04, Idiots in Love, Will Byers Needs a Hug, Mutual Pining, Childhood Friends, Angst, Happy Ending, Will Byers Loves Mike Wheeler, Mike Wheeler Loves Will Byers, Friends to Lovers, Mike Wheeler is Bad at Feelings, Conflict, Will Byers's Painting, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Summary:
Tá an geimhreadh i Hawkins anois, agus níl Mícheál agus Liam ag labhairt níos mó. Agus é ina chónaí i dteach Mícheáil, déanann Liam iarracht a bheith dofheicthe, ag caitheamh an chuid is mó dá chuid ama san íoslach.
Ansin téann an chumhacht amach - agus má tá rud amháin ann a chuireann faitíos air níos mó ná aghaidh a thabhairt ar Mhícheál, is é sin an fuacht.
nó
Seacht n-oíche ina gcaithfidh Mícheál agus Liam codladh sa leaba chéanna, fiú mura bhfuil siad chomh dlúthchairdiúl sin níos mó.
its valentines day... sukuna's gotten bigger... and you're going crazy
୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆ ivyaps . happy (early) valentines day, i hope u like this mehwhwhhw... wrote this for @fatkuna you inspire me everyday
masterlist
You were starting to lose your patience.
When you first met Sukuna at a frat party in your senior year of college, he was already impossible to miss. Not small by any measure—tattooed arms thick as your thighs, shoulders broad enough to block out the room, chest and back carved like he’d been built for battle.
But five years later, sitting across from him like this, you swear it shouldn’t be possible—he’s bigger.
Everything about him has grown heavier and denser. The ink seems darker against his stretched skin, covering muscle that was pronounced before.
You hate to admit it, but it’s driving you insane.
Your stomach twists at the thought of what awaits you at the end of your special night.
Of all 365 days in the year, February 14th was the only one where Sukuna truly went all out.
He wasn’t neglectful the rest of the time. Sure, Sukuna planned dates and got you “just because” flowers. He knew you’d never been one for extravagance, so he was more than happy to comply with quiet nights staying in.
This year, Sukuna proved—once again—what a good boyfriend he could actually be.
You’d been talking about the new restaurant downtown for months now. Ever since right before Halloween, you’d rambled about the menu, the dishes you heard were so good, and prices that were so reasonable, it killed you that reservations were basically impossible to snag.
And yet here you are, Valentine’s Day, seated in what had to be half the restaurant’s main floor—the entire section closed off for just the two of you.
You were in awe.
The tables around yours sat empty, with a single massive bouquet of deep crimson roses at the center of yours.
It had been a total surprise.
Earlier that evening he’d simply told you to get ready. He had hinted to wear the red set he likes with something lacy on top.
When you stepped outside, there he was—already on his ruby red scooter. One thick leg swung over each side, thighs spreading wide to balance the machine, broad back and shoulders blocking most of the streetlight behind him.
“Get on,” he said.
You slid behind him, arms wrapping around his waist. Your hands barely met around his middle. The scooter dipped slightly under the combined weight, then steadied as he kicked off.
When he finally parked outside the restaurant, he helped you off with a big hand around your waist.
“Happy Valentines, baby,” he said, wheeling his scooter up the accessibility ramp behind you.
Dinner started perfectly after that. You knew exactly what you wanted—a dish your friend had recommended when she got off of the waiting list last month. You’d been dreaming of the menu for months after all.
Sukuna on the other hand, seemed to be quite indecisive.
He leaned back in his scooter, his thick fingers wrapped around the handle to hold up his upper body. His eyes scanned the menu slowly.
When the waiter came by, you politely ordered your appetizer, main course, and dessert, along with an espresso martini.
Sukuna needed more time. Every few seconds, he’d grunt low in his throat, flip a page, then grunt again. The waiter hovered politely, notepad in hand, but Sukuna just kept staring.
You raised an eyebrow. “Kuna, is everything okay?”
His eyes slowly peel up from the menu, his tattooed face meeting yours. But he doesn’t say anything. Not to you at least.
He pulls himself back up from his strange scooter position? and closes the menu with a soft snap.
“Bring everything,” he says.
The waiter blinks. “Sir?”
“Everything on the menu,” he slides the menu back to the waiter with his fat knuckles, your eyes wide in horror. “Get her whatever she wants, and me everything on the menu.”
You stare at him, heat creeping up your neck. “Kuna, baby, I—”
He cuts you off with a lazy shrug. “Woman, I’m hungry and I want the WHOLE menu.”
The waiter recovers from his shock and eases the situation. “Yes, sir. We’ll start with appetizers and keep the dishes coming as they’re ready.”
“Don’t keep me waiting,” he barks out as the waiter rushes off.
"The whole menu?” you start, concerned. “That's... insane. There's like twenty dishes."
Sukuna's smirk deepened. “I didn’t get this big for nothing.”
He leans back in his scooter as his chubby hands come down to smack his belly. The rolls on his body recoil in response, vibrating and mimicking what was like several waves in the ocean.
The first plates arrived moments later. A double of your starting dish.
“Eat,” Sukuna said simply, scarfing down the appetizer in two bites.
Course after course appeared. As you nibbled on the food in front of you, you watched Sukuna disgustingly swallow down every dish.
You flinch, watching his throat bob with every swallow, his fat fingers coming up to wipe the mess from his mouth, his eyes widening with every coming dish just as you’ve been getting full off of your one meal.
“Are you finishing that?” he asks, motioning towards your half eaten main course.
He had managed to eat most of the dishes they brought him already.
“Sukuna,” you say, your manicured fingers coming up to massage your temple. “You cannot be serious. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“Shut up,” he says, grubby hands reaching out to grab your plate.
He grabs the fork, shoving the food down his throat before swallowing.
Then, he groans in pain.
“Sukuna!” you exclaim in worry.
You glance around at the staff, you know they’re staring.
What is a girl like you doing with fatkuna on his ruby red scooter? If only they knew what he looked like in his prime.
Before you can say anything else, Sukuna rips his dress shirt off clean, revealing his tattooed torso, saggy man boobs, and endless stomach rolls.
“Sukuna, stop,” you hiss.
“Schuth up!” he commands with his mouth full, eating what is left on the plate.
“Sukuna, you always do this!”
The whole restaurant staff gasps.
“Stop complaining,” he says. “We… we… we havent’ had dessert yet.”
“Tonight was suppossed to be perfect, Kuna..”
You’re clearly disappointed. Your voice cracks just enough to make it obvious.
The waiter arrives on cue, balancing a tray of desserts. Fatkuna’s eyes light up despite the groan he lets out when he shifts.
He reaches for a molten chocolate cake first, and brings it to his mouth.
The moment he swallows, there is a distant, ominous crack.
The next thing you know, Sukuna is on the floor, lying on his side, chocolate cake smeared across his neck and chest.
The scooter gave way from under him.
His legs are flailing and the front wheel spins once, then stops.
The entire restaurant goes silent.
You stare at the wreckage, then at him—his roles spilling forward as he tries to sit up.
“Sukuna,” you say, sternly. “GET YOUR FAT ASS UP.”
He tries. He really does.
His big palms plant on the table, one plump leg trying to bend under him to hurl himself up, but his centre of gravity is all wrong. After a few futile rocks back and forth, he just… stills.
The staff are openly gaping now, their phones angled toward him discreetly.
“I can’t,” he says, defeated. “You’re going to have to roll me out of here.”
Whatthefuck.
You stand, chair shoved back. “Fine.”
You circle around, grab him under one arm—your manicured nails digging in just enough to make a point—and start pulling. He doesn’t budge at first, but you’re past patience. You plant your heels, lean your whole body weight, and heave.
Inch by inch, he slides out of the remains of his ruby red scooter. The tablecloth drags with him for a dramatic second before fluttering free.
Now he’s free on his other side, able to see the wreckage.
“NOOOOOOOO,” he yells out, his swollen arm reaching out as his hands do a grabbing motion. “MY RUBY RED SCOOTER.”
You kick his side. Even if it was hard, he wouldn’t have felt it through all his blubber. “Shut the fuck up.”
Before he can react, you hook your arms under his shoulders (as much as they’ll reach), plant your feet, and start dragging/rolling him toward the exit. The carpet bunches under him like a red carpet gone wrong. Every few feet he lets out a low “oof” or “easy, baby,” but you’re not listening.
The accessibility ramp outside is mercifully wide. You maneuver him onto it—gravity helps now—and give one final shove. He starts rolling slowly at first.
But, his body angles diagonally, getting him stuck between the two railing.
You’ve had enough. You kick him again—harder—but to no avail.
You place the bottom of your heel onto his back, and with all your strength, kick him.
He picks up speed down the slope like a boulder.
He hits the bottom with a thud, momentum carrying him straight into the street.
A sedan rounds the corner at that exact moment—headlights flaring.
Crunch.
Not the sickening thud you brace for. Instead, there’s a metallic thunk, a crunch of fiberglass, and the car lurches to a stop. The hood crumples inward in a perfect Sukuna-shaped dent. The driver’s door flies open; a stunned man stumbles out, staring at the immovable mass in the road.
Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. He lies there, breathing heavily, one chubby arm flung out.
The car? Totaled front end. Sukuna? Not a scratch.
You storm down the ramp, furious, cheeks burning from secondhand embarrassment.
“Sukuna, you piece of shit.”
He cracks one eye open, smirks up at you from the pavement. “So, can I get head when we get home?”
Your rage boils over.
You grab his wrist again—both hands this time—and start the long, undignified process of rolling him the rest of the way home.
Worst valentines day EVER.
thank you besties @motel6killer @whimsic @coralbae for helping fuel my fatkuna dreams
sharing some snippets of my recently completed klance/voltron httyd au :) below the cut is a scene from chapter 2!
Shiro went on to discuss the basics of weaponry when fighting on the field, be it against dragon’s or other Vikings. And when the question of whether to choose between a sword and a shield came up, the group was split by their answers.
Keith and Hunk chose shield.
Lance and Pidge chose sword.
“Alright. Perfect,” Shiro nodded before grinning. “I was afraid that wasn’t going to work out how I wanted to. Well, anyway. Let’s get started, shall we?”
Shiro cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulder’s before making his way over to the door that Hunk was poking at earlier.
“Uhh, Mr. Shiro, Sir?” Lance called. “What are you doing over there?”
“Cadet McClain, Chief Alfor’s Son, correct?” Shiro phrased it like a question, but Lance stood there, a bit confused at the look Shiro was giving him. He couldn't quite decipher it. “I didn’t recognize you at first." Lance knew immediately that was a lie... How did he know that? And what reason would he have to lie? "You don’t seem much of the dragon fighting type– and there’s nothing wrong with that, of course,” Shiro doubled back when he caught the look on Lance’s face. “But never mind that.”
Shiro’s hand dug in his pockets and pulled out a golden key. “I believe,” He inserted the key, and everyone began to back away. “In learning on the job.” He twisted, and the lock clicked.
Shiro immediately did a roll to the side just as the door burst open, and a growling Balmera roared, making Lance’s ears ring.
“Like Cadet Holt informed us, a Balmera has six shots!” Shiro called out, dodging a blast of teal lava barreling his way. Lance was momentarily distracted by the way it immediately began to freeze, glimmering and solidifying until it was as shiny and hard as crystal, like water frozen in time. Lance just barely managed to throw himself out of the way as the shot shattered like glass against the wall.
Shiro wiped a thin sheen of sweat from the heat it cast. “That’s enough for each of you, plus one. Nice job, Lance."
Everyone yelped and ran in opposite directions, splitting up as the Balmera turned to face them.
“Alright! I want everyone to pair up. One sword with one shield!” Shiro called.
Lance looked around frantically as the Balmera rushed toward him. Bright yellow eyes glared at him hungrily, its skin thick with spikes. It wasn’t the largest dragon, but it’s body was made up of sharp spikes and jagged claws and it could easily crush him with its weight if it wanted.
And it looked more than ready to do so as it rushed toward him, and Lance was going to die on his first day oh gods he was never going to live this down–
“Lance, duck!”
Lance didn’t have to look to know who it was, and he almost hated how he obeyed without question. He shoved himself up against the wall and fell to the ground. If he had any choice in the matter, he probably would’ve ran in the other direction instead. But something in him burned, a push in his mind that urged him to trust Keith, and wasn’t that just the most ironic thing?
Keith was there in the blink of an eye, back pressing against Lance's chest, his shield up at the ready. Lance didn’t have time to dwell on the way Keith’s hair felt against his neck as Keith was shoved further into him by the force of the blast, the wall pushing into Lance’s back. Keith’s head twisted to the side and into Lance’s neck to escape the blazing heat. The flush of his body against his own, warm and there, made him shiver despite the Balmera’s best attempts.
It ended almost as soon as it happened. And when Lance opened his eyes again, the shield had near icicles surrounding the edge of the round wood. It was frozen in place, Keith had to let it go from the sheer weight of the crystallized lava.
They were breathing heavily, and Lance registered Shiro’s compliment’s on their teamwork and Keith’s quick thinking, but he couldn’t get the fact that Keith had willingly put himself in harms way to save Lance. Their proximity sent an unprecedented wave of pleasure rushing down his body. He dutifully ignored it.
little lance watching the benitobowl performance and feeling so joyful and dancing and happy and proud and teary eyed and and and WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
jacobvanloon
kaledo-art
