#alnaari

[patientfocusly]

[Trace] Trace my muse’s scar purposefully // the thigh scar/mark or any on the lower back/abdomen bc...Intimacy 👁

@alnaari      prompt !      He feels no shame in splaying himself out, taking up most of the bed because a) it was a big bed, and b) Keith always managed to find a way to comfortably fit against him and in comparison to Shiro, took up much less space. His head is resting on Shiro’s stomach, cheek pressed to his ribs, seemingly unbothered by the slow rise and fall of his breaths. Shiro has a hand in Keith’s hair, tracing over and over again the hairline that travels behind his ear.

Keith’s own hands have been wandering along the lower half of Shiro’s body, the thin shorts he’d donned for bed not covering much. Somehow, the light streaming in through the window seems to catch and highlight all the different shades of Shiro’s body, bring to life the myriad of scars and tattered marks he’s accumulated over the years. Of course, it had been a joint effort between him and his clone --- a fact that Shiro still struggles with, years and years on. The marks are nothing Keith hasn’t seen before, but they always seemed to fascinate him, and Shiro’s more than comfortable letting him touch and wander, though he does wonder what he’s thinking.

A thumb brushes over the large patch of paler skin that takes up a lot of Shiro’s left upper thigh, the pigmentation having never quite returned to what it had been even though it’s been years since his clone had gotten the burn. Shiro couldn’t be sure of what had exactly happened, but it wasn’t hard to fill in the pieces with what Keith had told him about how he’d first found his clone . . . and the distinct hand shape of the mark tells its own story, so much so that Shiro can almost feel the heat, like his body remembers the day it had happened. Keith’s thumb traces around the scar, the calloused print registered slightly differently by new and old skin, other prints following delicately in its wake. It’s always surreal to see Keith soft in moments like these . . . or maybe it’s these moments that make him soft. Every now again, the appreciation he has for this man erupts inside Shiro, flooding his entire being with warmth and an urge to yank him close and kiss him within an inch of his life. 

He doesn’t want to interrupt Keith, though, so he stews quietly in this burning adoration, as Keith, none the wiser, trails his touch up to Shiro’s lower abdomen. There are a litany of scars across his torso, front and back, many which he knows are from the Arena, vague recollections of slashing swords and axes, close calls and mistakes that he’d never make again. There are also a couple of darker, small spots near where Keith’s head is from when Shiro had tried to cook bacon without a shirt on, and the splatters of hot oil had burned him. Another mistake he won’t be making twice but those marks would be gone by the end of the week. And as Keith’s finger eventually traces up to them, Shiro holds back a laugh, waiting for Keith to realise where the seemingly new marks had come from. ‘ Are these . . . ’ 

Shiro sniggers, and he’s been patient enough, letting Keith explore, so he gathers him up and drags him up, letting him lie pretty much on top of him. ‘ Yeah. Bacon oil scars. Pretty badass, huh ? ’

[victorlimadelta]

[ fix ] for your muse to treat mine’s injury // keith!

nonverbal | [ fix ] for your muse to treat mine’s injury

Keith comes back from extracting Shiro and everyone’s so focused on making sure Shiro doesn’t actually die this time that Keith’s face goes overlooked for a few days--but the injury is there. Not just visible, but brutal, a clean seared stripe up the right side of his face tapered to a point just below his eye. It’s raw and pink and shining, nowhere near healed, and Pidge can’t even think past the empathetic pain that runs across her jaw whenever she looks at it.

Problem is, Keith won’t focus on himself until he claws Shiro all the way back from Hell. It doesn’t stop Pidge from taking him aside and shoving a jar and a set of bandages at him. “honey and hydrocolloid dressings,” she explains. “it’ll reduce the risk of infection.” There’s nothing that can be done about the appearance, though, and the slightly unfocused look of his right eye worries her more than she can put to words.

[gunebirakilan]

Üzerinizdeki bakışlara bakın. Bakın ki, dost ile düşman olanı ayırın.

dalgınım.

Sf.74 Albayım Beni Nezahat ile Evlendir - İlhami Algör

[neosluna]

💏 a kiss from that meme if u want to as well but a kiss from him regardless!! 💏💏💏

A meme I didn’t do but Isa is always down to give Lea kisses >D.

          They had been just goofing around through the apartment, mostly just to get used to the space on a day where they didn’t have anything else they had to do. Isa wasn’t exactly going to complain about it.

          At one point, Lea tried to lift him and, much to Isa’s surprise, he was actually able to lift the enough that his feet were off the floor. But it didn’t last long, instead Lea tried to walk back toward the couch until his knees hit the back of it. He tried to turn to ‘throw’ Isa onto it, only for them both to topple over onto it.

          Lea was laughing, and Isa was shaking his head, and he looked at him with curiosity on what he might have been thinking. Isa raised a brow at him and he reached a hand out to pap Lea’s cheek. What a goofball, but at the same time Lea’s laughter was contagious, and a noise that Isa loved to hear.

         With a bit of a wiggle - since Lea was still holding onto him - Isa managed to turn in his arms and was now half laying on top of him. He smiled a bit, and as Lea tried to sit up properly since they were only half on the couch. Isa carefully kissed him in an affectionate manner, pressing into it.

          Lea of course, returned it, and Isa was more than happy to shift onto Lea’s lap, pressing his knees on either side of him for support. Isa shamelessly pressed more of his weight into him and, readily, tried to deepen the kiss. Lea was, thankfully, returning all of it. Isa was very pleased, and kept it going until he needed to stop to gather his breath. He couldn’t help touching him over and over, which Isa liked to believe Lea was relishing in.

[patientfocusly]

“Name it. I’d give it up for you.”

@alnaari      prompts !     The things is, Shiro knows this. Promises from Keith aren’t just words; he knows that whatever Keith says, he means. And Shiro knows he means this, because he’s already proven it. Time and time again.

Fingers gripped around the hilt of a dagger, the only thing embedding Keith to anything remotely gravitational while his other hand wrapped tightly around the wrist of someone who looked like Shiro and acted like Shiro and as far as Keith could know, was Shiro . . . prepared to give up everything rather than give up him.

Shiro hadn’t asked. The thing is, Shiro would never ask.

“You don’t have to give up anything for me.” Especially not your life. Hand reaches out, drags him close, fingers tuck away a lock of hair so Keith can’t hide behind it. ‘ I know we don’t exactly have the best track record, but our story doesn’t have to be one of sacrifice. I’d really like for it not to be. ’ He smiles, dipping his head to press his nose against Keith’s cheek, a half kiss ghosting over his lips. ‘ Go. I’ll be here when you get back. ’

[patientfocusly]

[ nap ] for your muse to fall asleep against mine :-)

@alnaari​      [      meme      accepting !      ]

He’s tired. All the time. The healing chamber had done the brunt of the work, but it feels like he’s still settling into his body ( not his own body, but his body ), and making it move takes more energy out of him than it should. He probably shouldn’t expect to be back to normal so soon, if normal was even a possibility for him, if it had ever been a possibility for him. There’s the physical tiredness, and then there’s the effort it takes to remain present with his team as they bicker and argue . . . and don’t get him wrong, he’s glad to be back. He can’t yet formulate just how grateful he is to Keith, and Allura. It’s there in his chest right next to all the other feelings that are consuming him whole. But with the whirlpools in his head trying to make sense of it all, and the outbreak of chatter that usually happens during team meetings and over the comms, Shiro’s energy droops drastically. And it’s not like the journey back to Earth is smooth sailing, because of course it’s not. Armless, weaponless, and exhausted, he feels more like a liability and burden to the team at this point than a member - but he knows voicing such a thing would only have him shut down within seconds, so he goes along and grits through the exhaustion, and when he can, he slinks off to one of the bunkers in whoever’s lion he happens to be travelling in that day, to rest. 

He has a suspicion that Keith knows his recovery isn’t going as seamlessly as he tries to portray it. It’s Keith. 

It’s Keith who has done so much for him already. Too much. It’s Keith who has a team to lead and Keith who has to keep them all sane on the journey home. Keith who’s got his own myriad of struggles that Shiro being tired shouldn’t have to count as another one.

Mid-conversation, Shiro’s eyes go tired and lids begin to droop, head falling back against the bunker wall that they’re both leaning against, sitting on a makeshift bench that was really just a storage unit pushed up against the wall. There was too much to talk about, and with everyone travelling in each other’s lions, there wasn’t really much of a chance to catch up. These private moments, while Krolia and Romelle monitored the cockpit, Shiro doesn’t want to waste sleeping . . . but it seems he may not have a choice right now . . . as a wide yawn escapes him.

There’s a small tug on his collar, and when he looks, Keith is smiling gently at him. The smile pulls at the scar emblazoned on his cheek, and Shiro wonders if he’ll ever not hurt when he sees it. The message is clear, though, and with a soft, resigned smile of his own, he shifts and lets his head tip against Keith’s shoulder. It’s the most comfortable he’s been for the last couple of days of travel . . . They’d salvaged what they could from the castleship, but the lions’ bunkers had never been designed for overnight stay. He tells himself he’s not going to sleep . . . he’s just going to rest his head for a little while and they can continue their conversation. Starts to do so as Keith’s arm goes around his shoulders, creating a safe crook for Shiro to rest against. He goes quiet mid-sentence a few minutes after that, breaths evening out as does the tension he carries around his eyes and in his jaw. If you looked at him now, you wouldn’t be able just how much he’s been through. Even with the white hair, he looks young. He is young. They all are. The war has just added years onto their souls.

An hour or so later, Krolia walks in to swap cockpit shifts with Keith, and sees the both of them with their eyes closed, lips parted, letting out synchronised breaths. Shiro’s head is still safely tucked against Keith’s neck, Keith’s is upturned, resting against the wall. 

Krolia smiles unperceivably and turns to leave them be.

[patientfocusly]

i’m with you

@alnaari said : 💛 for a moodboard about our muses’ relationship 👁

[patientfocusly]

💪 I mean cmon.

@alnaari       accepting !

Shiro’s sunglasses start slipping down his nose and he pushes them back up, high on the bridge, covering eyebrows scrunched together in an effort to combat the glare. Purple waters shimmer in front of him, lapping gently at the shore and glinting under luminescence radiating from the planet’s atmosphere. It’s hot, humid atmosphere. 

He stretches his neck to the left, then the right, muscles easing as Keith lathers sunscreen diligently all over his back. The process is taking a while longer than Shiro would have thought, but Shiro can be a very patient man when he wants to be. With Keith’s attentive application of lotion . . . that has Keith’s fingers and the flat of his palms rubbing deliberately over the large expanse of skin that Shiro’s back offers . . . he wants to be.

Keith’s hands come together at the small of his back, thumbs pressing down the line indentation of his spine, taking a rather liberal interpretation of the world ‘ apply ’ as stipulated on the back of the sunscreen bottle. Shiro rolls his shoulders, blades moving in synchronisation under tan skin, scored by old scars now more than familiar to Keith.

Keith’s hands feel hot against his body, distinguishable even with heat beating down on them from all sides. Shiro’s not sure their SPF 50 is going to cut it against the planet’s radiation but he’s more than happy to suggest that double, triple coats may make a difference, science be damned.

He lets out a contemplative hum when those thumbs move down his spine, then press under the waistband of his swimming shorts. They’re already low set as is, a brief strip of paler skin visible from the last time they’d done this and Shiro had regained the California glow he’d grown up with. He raises his left shoulder, propping his chin on it to look over. “You think I need UV protection under there?”