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reuniting 🌸🌿
Better Together, a series of moments (Part 2)
So, guess I'm making a little series out of this. I keep thinking of bucktommy moments I wish I could see, so why not write them. Post S8, wishful S9 thinking. No Plot, just vibes. I'm going for fluffy and wholesome but can't promise some angst or smut will sneak in eventually.
Part 1 |
It was a Saturday, a rare day off for the both of them. Tommy sat at the dining table with his old-man newspaper—as Evan loved to tease him about—glasses slipping down his nose as he flipped through the sports section when a sharp bang on the counter made him glance up.
On the counter top sat a neat little row of ingredients and he watched, curious, as Evan rooted around in the the lower cabinets, until he popped up with the Kitchen-Aid in his hands.
Uh-Oh.
Happy birthday Samurai There is an equal chance that Lance is tenderly kissing Keith or giving him a raspberry
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
new fic and its totally soft fluff. completely inspired by the conversation @cool-and-grizzled and i were having about keith bonding with lance’s mom.
i did not edit it at all. and i do not know spanish. so give me kindness but enjoy!!!
Being able to draw them brings me so much joy genuinely :)
Gumrob fans and psychological horror fans wake up
https://archiveofourown.org/works/77114756/chapters/201859186
This is probably my most planned out fic yet, it's a yandere inspired psychological horror/romance fic! I love Gumrob and I love writing out the thought processes of characters, so far this has been a blast despite the dark subject matter.
I will warn you, this is not going to be a light fic. There will be depictions of mental breakdowns, mental illness, panic attacks, obsessive behavior, and things of that sort.
Still, if you are not deterred, I encourage you to give it a read and leave your thoughts in the comments over there! Thanks yall!
LIGHT HOUSE S8 SPOILERS
HEAR ME OUT. Foreman and Chase animatic about House after Wilson dies and House exits life early cuz I do not believe that man could live the rest of his life without Wilson to the song When He Died by Lemon Demon. Are you guys seeing this or am I just crazy
Lance knows they’re in for it the second his brain decides to wake him up, because there’s no way he’s up on time. Simulated light shines brightly on their bed, lighting the whole room up, and Lance is groggier than he usually is. They’ve most definitely slept in.
He squeezes his eyes shut, allowing himself three seconds of peace before dragging himself upright, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the mattress, blankets still pulled up to his hips. There’s a low groan from beside him, despairing almost, and the sign of it makes Lance’s lips quirk up despite his morning grouchiness.
“Time to get up,” he says quietly, trying to blink the bleariness out from his eyes. He glances at his slippers, trying to convince himself that it’s worth getting up and facing the day. (It does not go well.)
He boyfriend grunts again, then shifts slightly, dragging his arms out from under his pillow and clamping them around Lance’s waist instead. He squeezes for a moment then relaxes, breath huffing on Lance’s bare skin. Lance places his hand on Keith’s head, brushing through the tangled mullet without looking. Keith makes several pleased noises, muffled by Lance’s hip, where he has decided to keep his face until further notice.
“We’re late for training, baby.”
Keith hums, tightening his hold. “Mhm. Tragic.”
Lance huffs, grin getting a little wider. He tries to look back at his slippers, really convince himself — they are the leaders of Voltron, after all, what kind of example does it set for the rest of the Atlas crew if they don’t bother waking up in the mornings — but he can’t pull his gaze away from Keith.
He doesn’t get the chance, often, to stop and stare. Keith gets self conscious, rarely allowing it, and they’re so busy besides. To have the chance now is a treat. A luxury. A gift, really.
And who is Lance to turn away a gift?
He settles back into the pillows with a sigh, upright enough that he won’t fall back asleep, but reclined enough that it’s clear he’s not getting up, either. The position isn’t lost on Keith, who smiles widely enough that Lance feels it, the slightest press of crooked incisors on the soft skin of his hip.
“Don’t get used to this,” Lance warns. “It’s not happening again.”
Keith kisses him slightly, not moving. “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”
Lance tugs on his hair, rolling his eyes. Keith’s shakes slightly as he laughs, completely unintimidated, then settles back in to the bed. His breathing evens, and he’s out within seconds.
“I hate how you can do that,” Lance mutters. “Goober.”
He sits for a while, contemplative, as Keith’s snores full the room again. He traces the shape of Keith’s bare shoulders, the curve of his rins and waist, the jut of his hipbone, the bend of his knee. With his eyes, first, then with light, careful fingers; running along the heat of his boyfriend’s skin, over the sheer just barely covering his backside, as far as he can reach. Not to start something, for once, although he wouldn’t be opposed to it, but to feel his chest expand with every breath, the coarseness of short black hairs covering his skin, the bumps and stutters of scars crisscrossing everywhere he can look. The ridges of a map he’s studied thousands of times before, worshipped, noted and re-noted again and again and again, committed to memory.
“You are the most beautiful thing in this goddamn universe.” It’s a breathless kind of awe, the way he says it, like he’s just discovered it. He hasn’t — he’s known Keith was beautiful for as long as he’s known Keith — but he’s reminded every day, every morning they wake up together, every time they train and Keith’s grace and power is entrancing. He never forgets, but every time he looks at him he’s reminded.
His eyes start to grow heavy. He’s not tired — not really — and he’s only just woken up from hours of sleep, but Keith is so warm. He slides down the headboard of their bed, adjusting himself in Keith’s arms, resting his head on his chest and sliding his hands up his back until they’re resting almost on his shoulders, hooked under his underarms, gripping him like a buoy in deep water. He presses his ear right above his heart, closing his eyes as the steady beat pounds, and matches his breathing to his boyfriend’s snores.
Training can wait.
———
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