He had promised the queen as such, and, despite the knowledge that he was one of Her Majesty's favorites, he knew he could not risk angering her. Her preferential treatment of him would only go so far, he imagined; he had already been given a few too many warnings. Plus, he was here for his children. Leonardo couldn't bear to disappoint them, not like that.
But then it happened again. Some noble's coffee was not sweet enough, their croissant did not have enough filling, and the waitress was not apologetic enough for their liking (though she shook and trembled and seemed close to tears). They yelled at her, screamed to where the windows threatened to shatter. Horrible, horrible things. Incompetent, fat, ugly, bitch. Leonardo could barely contain the white-hot rage that burned in his belly.
Then they hit her. Their palm met her tear-moistened cheek, and the terrible sound echoed about the parlor. As she stumbled backward, clutching her face, Leonardo saw her eyes; blue.
The pot boiled over, and the Old Ares rose. Once filled with quiet idol chatter, the café grew silent at the creak of his chair. The abusive noble turned to see what was the matter and was met with the most scathing, furious, murderous stare.
Leonardo knew he was downright terrifying, and he knew precisely how to use that to his advantage.
There was a stand-off. The noble was frozen, refusing to lower their hand, yet still refusing to move. The waitress sniffled.
Leonardo took one step forward. Instantly, the noble retreated to their seat and lowered the brim of their hat over their eyes. The waitress took advantage of the moment and scurried out of sight into the kitchen.
Leonardo kept standing for a moment more, allowing the atmosphere to tense further and further, before silently returning to his chair. He sipped at his too-sweet coffee, well aware that the nobles were whispering and staring. When the waitress returned to refill his cup, she had an angry red palm print on her cheek.
That evening, Leonardo returned to the café just before closing with a bouquet of flowers. The waitress cried and cried, so thankful for something so simple as someone who cared. When she hugged him, so small and so fragile, he wished he could burn the entirety of Zeus down for her. But he knew that he couldn’t.
Leonardo had to behave, even if it killed him.
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@sm-baby is the queen of making quality square men who I would gladly let punch some rich pompous asshole for my honor.
In the blink of an eye and a flash of headlights, Shiro's life is forever altered. After being struck by a speeding car on his morning run, he wakes to find himself under the firm but attentive care of a Galran doctor named Thace. Through the haze of painkillers and anesthetic, Shiro asks for the doctor's number, a drug-induced boldness aiding the words. For Shiro, it's love at first sight, regardless of the drugs and the state he's in, and he's determined to see if Thace ends up feeling the same way—even if that means keeping their relationship a secret from Thace's wife.
Title: Lifelines
Rating: Explicit.
Pairing(s): Shiro/Thace & background Keith/Lotor
Read it here!
Woo! Finally able to post this~This is my entry for the @galrabigbang that I was delighted to be a part of. My artist was the lovely @thestargazingpeach who drew two amazing pictures for my entry, which you can find here!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Characters: Keith (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron)
Additional Tags: Werewolves, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Domestic Fluff, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Comfort Food
Summary: Having a werewolf for a boyfriend could be a little frustrating at times, especially when the moon reached its peak, but after dating one for several years, Keith knows the perfect remedy for full-moon stirs: copious amounts of food and lots of cuddles.
just realized i never posted this here! this was my Sheith Halloween Exchange run by @vldexchange and done for @impendingexodus!
The zombie is held together by flaps of stale meat and hope. It searches for something. It does not remember a before. Was there even anything before this? Was it anything before this? It does not know. All it knows is hunger.
The hunger eats away at what’s left of its insides. The hollow cavity beneath its ribcage is infected with unmoving, slimy red entrails that beg, no, yearn to be filled. To be fed. And fed they must be.
Each night, when mother moon rises from her bed, the zombie emerges from its tomb, its prison beneath the grass, and begins to feed. Feed upon lambs resting beneath the stars, stray cats who had wandered too far from home, and villagers. Villagers foolish enough to be out and about under mother moon’s eye. Foolish enough to be awake. Foolish enough to be dinner.
The zombie remembers sometimes. Their grips, their warmth, their screams. Something hot and wet tends to leak from their eyes when it would bite down into the peach of their throats. It wasn’t red. It wasn’t slimy. The zombie did not know what it was. Nothing leaked from its eyes but rheum and blood. So, it paid the wet hot no mind.
And when their grips, their warmth, and their screams all faded into mother moon’s quiet, the zombie would tear into their ribcages, unspool their intestines to make them hollow, and feed. It fills its gaping, crooked maw with meat, rinding, tearing, chewing, chewing, chewing. It dribbled more than it swallowed, and it messed more than it ate. It mattered not.
The zombie knew it would not be satiated.
It does not know why it became this way. This hunger… no. This wasn’t hunger. This was something else. Something it knew not of. What? Why? Where? It does not know.
So, the zombie began lumbering endlessly, searching for something else.
With mother moon waking to its right and dozing off to its left, the zombie traveled. It ignored resting lambs, wandering cats, and foolish villagers. The hunger clawed and clawed, pulling and pulling forwards, forwards, forwards. It yearns to be fed.
The zombie daydreams sometimes. About grips, warmth, and screams. Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if the grip were gentle? Wouldn’t it be nice if the warmth was mine? Wouldn’t it be nice if the scream came from a mouth upturned? The hunger grows stronger. It yearns to be fed.
One night, the zombie came upon something. Something big. Something white. Expansive, angelic, reaching for the tail-tips of the stars. It was like a village, only not. Villages had never been so big, so white, so alluring. The hunger grows stronger. It yearns to be fed.
Drawn forwards by the yank beneath its ribcage, the zombie lumbers forth. No, this wasn’t hunger. It came not from the stomach. What else was in there, in the non-writhing masses of slimy red entrails? Liver? Kidney? Lungs? Heart?
Heart. Heart. Heart.
Thump. Thump.
The zombie follows its heart. There was something in those walls. Something big. Something white. Something that would feed it. No, not feed. There was no meat waiting on the other side. That much it knew. Something. Something. Someone. Someone. The heart grows stronger. It yearns to be found.
Someone. There was someone in those big, white walls. Someone. Someone for the zombie. Someone with a gentle grip. Someone with warmth to share. Someone with a mouth upturned. Someone made for it. The heart grows stronger. It yearns to be found.
Someone who could fill the emptiness. They were there, beyond the big white, reaching for the tail-tips of stars. Waiting. Waiting with their gentle, their warm, their upturned mouth… their smile. It’s called a smile. The zombie remembers now. It’s called a smile. Thump. Thump.
The white grew taller and taller as the zombie approached. It mattered not. All that mattered was its someone. Their gentle grip. Jagged fingernails scrape at the big white. Their warmth. Find purchase, find foothold, climb climb climb. Their smile. A scream. Thump. Thump.
A scream. Who was screaming? The zombie wasn’t feeding. Why would anyone scream? Where was its someone? Why did they hide behind this big white? Don’t they want to meet it? To be fed? To be loved?
Bang!
Something hits the zombie’s back. Jagged fingernails lose purchase. It slides down the big white. No. No. No. No! Where was its someone? Where? Where? Where were they? Why won’t they save it?
Bang! Bang!
Something hits. Something hits. The zombie stumbles, crumbles, and falls like a puppet with its strings cut. No. No. No. No. No! No! No! It doesn’t understand! Where’s its someone? Its person? They’re in there! It knows it! Please! Please give it a chance! Please find it! Find it!
Bang!
Something hits. The zombie lays on the ground, staring up at the expanse of the big white, all the way to the tail-tips of the stars. It hears something thumping it its ear. Closer, closer. It hopes. Its someone? Oh, please. Be its someone! Find it!
A figure rises from the side. Not gentle. Not warm. Not smiling. Not its someone. The figure twists its face, mouth downturned. Its innards chill. At least they weren’t screaming anymore. The figure raises their foot. The underside blocks the stars. Its heart falters.
The zombie feels something wet and hot leak from its eyes.
—
Deep within the heart of the luxurious and peaceful Coven of Zeus, a witch lies awake in his bed. His wife is asleep beside him, facing away. She was upset again tonight. Something or other about him being distant. He always pretends that he doesn’t know what she means, and she always gets huffy, as women tend to do, and turns her back to him like always. This was nothing new.
However, the pain persisted. Not due to his wife, no. There was something in his chest. Something that begs, no, yearns to be filled. He doesn’t ever remember a time when it wasn’t like this. Was there a before? He does not know.
All he knows is that tonight was different somehow.
It was sudden, like the pop of a champagne cork, and it overflowed like fizz from a bottle top. Agony spread through his chest. He grabs at his nightshirt desperately, fingernails scraping into the white, looking for purchase. He found none. His heart throbbed and throbbed and throbbed.
He was gasping. When had he started gasping? Panic. He was panicking. No. No. No. No!
Find it!
He shot up from the bed, dragging his silken covers along with him. He barely registered his wife’s yelp, nor her following slew of complaints and personal slights. All he knew was pain.
Then, the pain ceased. What replaced it was something else. Something darker. Something hollow.
Hunger.
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@sm-baby and her worldbuilding once again stole my giblets and left me to rot (/pos).
