Category: Uncategorized

They all know that Lance misses Earth. His family is there, memories of a life that ended when he went to become a pilot, and he has nothing of them with him, no pictures like Pidge or even the tiniest note, no message or anything.

Keith has made himself forget what it’s like to miss someone, but this is different for him. It’s better not to remember if they’re dead. Lance’s family, however, is alive beyond the endless horizon of stars and burning gas planets.

When Allura sends out an order to one of the planets they’d liberated, asking for food and material, Keith goes to talk to her. He shuffles his feet when she smiles and asks, “Why do you want me to order that?”

“It’s not for me,” Keith says. The blush crawling up his face is too warm for any lies. “Just. Please?”

Two days later, Allura knocks at his room.

The same evening, Lance finds a small pot filled with earth on his desk. Within the earth, the tiniest three plants are just beginning to peek out in a flash of green. There is a note, Latin scribbled on it, and the dried petal of a pink flower is placed where a signature should be.

Lance doesn’t look up what kind of plant the Latin names belong to. He takes the petal and goes to Keith’s room, vision blurred with tears. Keith can barely open the door after a harsh knock before Lance tackles him to the floor, calls him an idiot in a cracked voice, how much did that cost you even, no don’t answer that, until Keith hugs Lance and lets him cry gratitude and the shy blossom of something new into his shoulder.

The tiniest plants grow into thick leaves a month later. When sixteen weeks have passed since Lance cried, a pale pink flower sits on the plant’s crown one morning, but it’s not noticed until noon comes around and two warm bodies move out of the blanket nest that’s not longer a bed for just one.

Shiro can’t count all the reasons why his bond with the team is unconditional in its trust, but there are three that come back to his mind every day.

His team looks at his scar, at the loss of colour and humanity in his hair, at the grotesque instrument of death where his warm hand used to be, and they see him as a leader, not a victim, not a fallen one.

Thus the first reason – they accept him.

His team made him earn their fierce loyalty, the trust of their purring lethal machines; they didn’t give him anything for free that he wouldn’t have wanted, but once he’d proven himself, they are there, always, by his side in battle and on the ground and through his nightmares.

The second reason – they give faith, and they take his.

His team may argue with him, drive him insane with worry and the urge to protect, but those four people and Allura and even Coran do something that the aliens took from him when they touch-carved his body into a weapon, when the human doctors strapped him down and looked at him like he was a monster.

The last reason.

When they fight, his words are not the law, but a guidance that the team tunes into the finest perfection.

When Shiro speaks a no about his own body or soul, away from battle and war, they take it as the no that it is, and nothing less.

Keith finds him on the hill before the house. The others are inside, waiting for answers, an explanation, but Keith touches Shiro’s shoulder and looks at him. They talk. Keith can’t begin to describe how much has changed, how he’s been searching while Shiro had been through unspeakable things that left his skin ashen and hair white and cost him flesh all over his body.

He still reaches for Shiro’s hand. “Let’s go inside,” Keith says, wants to pull him off that hill and somewhere safe, but Shiro flinches away from him. “What?”

“I’m not me anymore.” Shiro looks at the ground, left hand curled around his metallic wrist, knuckles clenching tight enough to lose all blood. “This hand isn’t mine. They put it there, I don’t know what it does, and if I’ll hurt people.”

Keith watches him for a long moment. Then, he says: “That’s stupid. Typical Shiro-thing to say, but still stupid.” This time he doesn’t give Shiro a chance to react. Keith snatches his hand, the cold and sharp-edged one, gripping it as hard as he can. 

“Seems like I can still grab you and pull you out of things you don’t belong in. So I guess it works for a hand, meaning it’s yours and it’s you.” 

He doesn’t wait for Shiro’s reaction. “C’mon,” Keith says, “they’re waiting.” When he turns to stumble down the hill, Shiro follows without a word, but his fingers squeeze Keith’s hand carefully. The metal is warm now. 

Today is a wonderful person’s birthday. I wish you a strong, inspired and happy new year of life, dear @hachidorikun – I think my private message said enough, but: Don’t ever forget your own luminosity. This drabble is all for you and I think you’ll remember our talk about it. Keep gleaming.

“Of all the things you could have lied to me about – “

“I’m sorry,” Kentarou says. Or, well, he tries to, because Shigeru is having none of that. A hand slams into Kentarou’s field of vision, and even if it doesn’t touch him, Shigeru’s expression paints such a clear picture of calm before the storm that Kentarou snaps his mouth shut immediately.

“I need you to shut up. Right now. I’m so angry, I – this is – oh my god, you make me lose my words. This is terrible.”

Kentarou looks at the floor. His claws are still out, and he blushes all over his face before roughly pushing them underneath his thighs to sit on them. 

Shigeru narrows his eyes. “If you tear my sheets, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”

“I’m not gonna tear anything. Look, I’m really sorry – “

“Of,” Shigeru presses out, the word almost a growl between his teeth, and the irony of that thought makes Kentarou swallow a laugh, “all. The. Things. I would have understood if you hadn’t told me about what an absolute bloody bastard your dad is, okay, I really get that one, and I’m still eternally grateful and happy that you told me so we could do something. But still, I want to yell at you. A lot.”

Kentarou gives up then. He moves off the bed, turning to make his way over to Shigeru’s window where he’d entered half an hour ago. “Okay. That’s that, then.” It hurts more than the bullet (oh wait, plural, bullets) wedged between his ribs. He’s used to that. Seeing how your boyfriend screams in horror when you climb into his window at night in your quote real form unquote, that’s something else. A bit like swallowing acid while hanging upside down from the ceiling of a hunter’s basement (Kentarou’s Friday nights are never ordinary, okay, so he’s got that going for him and that’s nice. Or life-threatening, anyways, it’s not boring).

“Where do you think you’re going?” Shigeru is by his side, eyes softened from dark anger to something bright that Kentarou doesn’t deserve. He flinches when Shigeru reaches out, but the touch against his jaw isn’t a slap.

“Did you think I was – “ Shigeru says, voice cracking on gentleness, and Kentarou can’t.

“I’m not gonna bother you anymore.” He takes a deep breath. Shigeru’s fingers cradle his cheek then, thumb tracing Kentarou’s mouth where he’d kissed it just yesterday. This is the last time he gets to feel it. There’s no boyfriend anymore, just Shigeru who has a normal life and Kentarou who’s always going to protect him in secret.

“I can see your brain running,” Shigeru whispers. He’s close, and leans in even more, both hands reaching now to push Kentarou’s lower lip down a bit. The moon is bright outside, pale and harsh, and there’s no chance for Shigeru to miss the sharp fangs sliding out of Kentarou’s mouth. His claws are stuck where he’d slammed them into his pockets. “Ken.” Shigeru tugs at his wrist. “Ken, look at me.”

“I get it.” Kentarou hates himself for closing his eyes to breathe in Shigeru’s scent. This is home. Shigeru is everything good he’s ever had, the only precious thing he hadn’t ruined until now. Shit. “You’re scared, I get it, I’m a monst-”

“Cut me some slack here.” Shigeru sighs, annoyance swaying in his voice before he tugs Kentarou’s hand free and takes it into his own. “I’m a modern and tolerant man, but you bursting into my room at fuck o’clock with blood all over you and oh, the small detail of you having been a pony-sized wolf until you turned back into my boyfriend, that would scare anyone.”

“It’s not my blood,” Kentarou says, then hesitates. He doesn’t want to lie anymore. “Mostly. I heal fast, I practically can’t die, and the few bullets that – “

Shigeru makes a sound like someone punched his lungs. “See! You keep doing that, hiding things from me because you want to protect me! Ugh.” He pinches Kentarou’s cheek until he opens his eyes, and then Shigeru kisses him, makes him breathless and growling in his throat. Kentarou swallows when Shigeru pulls back, dares to rest a clawed hand on Shigeru’s hip, so careful that he almost doesn’t touch him. “You’re not running away. Yet. Are we still together?”

“I’m still angry at you – oh don’t make those puppy eyes, and oh my god! Now that I know what you are, they’re actual puppy eyes, that’s the best irony of my life. I know so many dog jokes. Anyways. I’m angry because you didn’t tell me, because you didn’t trust me.” Shigeru pulls him to the bed, and Kentarou follows fluidly, immediately tucking Shigeru into his arms so he can nuzzles his neck, humming happiness against his skin. “Can’t believe you still like me.”

“Not like,” Shigeru corrects, leans back into his embrace with a smile playing around his lips. “I love you, okay, memorize that. And why wouldn’t I? Ken, you treat yourself like you’re a bad person. You thought I’d leave you after you told me about your dad, even if he was the guilty one.”

“That’s because he was the monster in that case. This time, it’s me.”

Shigeru is silent for a long time after that. When Kentarou slides his chin onto his shoulder, pushing it forward to look at his face, Shigeru’s eyes are wet. 

“Hey,” Kentarou says. “Hey. Shi, don’t, don’t cry.”

“You’re not a monster.” Shigeru shifts, and then he’s flipping around in Kentarou’s arms and catapults himself on top of Kentarou, collapsing both of them on the bed. Kentarou doesn’t tell him that he’s pressing on the bullet between Kentarou’s ribs (it’s gonna heal), so he just cups a hand around Shigeru’s neck. “Okay. I’m just glad that you… still, even after knowing.”

“Idiot.” There are tears dripping into Kentarou’s neck, but nobody mentions it. “I told you, I don’t ‘still’ like you. I love you, not ‘still’ but ‘since’ and then indefinitely. And now you’re gonna let me look at those wounds or I’m gonna put another one into your leg, do you understand that?”

Kentarou kisses him on the crown of his head, closes his eyes. “Yeah. ‘course.”

“You can’t fight a dragon by running away,” said the companion to the hero when he saw her flinch before the beast.

“I am not running,” the hero said. She walked backwards, ducking below the monster’s fire, and then dropped her sword. Her companion called after her when she started to climb up the mountain’s side, away from the valley where the beast roared for blood. “You won’t defeat it like that! Only cowards run, only cowards drop their sword and go for the easy way!”

The hero had found a ledge in the wall. Pulling herself up on it, she stared down at the monster, and told her companion: “Move out of my way.”

“You’re giving up,” her companion whispered, disappointment bright in his eyes.

And the hero tucked an arrow from her quiver, raised her bow, and shot the beast right in its mighty neck, where a sliver of flesh had shown itself between the raised spines. 

The companion was silent. As the beast fell, its scales crumbled apart, a last roar shaking from the body before it thundered to the ground. All that was left after the dust had settled was silver ash that spread through the air, and a gleaming pile of gold underneath.

“I didn’t run,” the hero said when she was back on the ground, helping her companion back on his shaky feet. She smiled when he threw his arms around her and began sobbing. “Why,” her companion whispered.

The hero put her bow on her back and brushed some ash off her shoulder.

“I didn’t run, I changed my angle. And I didn’t give up either.

I just took a run-up, and I took aim.”

Everyone can see who Tooru is, clear as day and bright like sunlight that catches in his hair during games. Nobody’s blind to his motions, the grit of teeth when he sets, the fluid grace that flows in his muscles when he orchestrates his team. Tooru has never thought about being invisible.

When Hajime joins the same college as he does, Tooru learns what it means. The volleyball team, one of the most prestigious in Japan, only takes one of them. Hajime doesn’t seem surprised or disappointed. His kiss tingles on Tooru’s lips throughout the first practice.

It’s the girlfriend of one of his teammates that points it out. She’s next to Tooru on the bench when he chugs down water, and her face is gentle when she says: “Iwaizumi is your boyfriend, right? I was surprised to hear that, to be honest. You’re so extraordinary, Oikawa. Don’t get me wrong, he’s nice even if he mocks you sometimes, but he’s so average. Almost ordinary.”

Before he could reply, the girl’s boyfriend (their libero, sweet guy actually, even if Tooru hates him for his choice in the opposite sex now) had called her name, and she’d run off. Tooru had stood there, speechless, then dropped his bottle.

He’d understood one thing then – that none of them sees Hajime.

Where Tooru is shrill and colourful like a rainbow in the sky, Hajime isn’t on the spectrum. There’s no red or blue in him, no hue of flower petals, no dark green of the forest, and now that Tooru thinks about it, he can’t describe Hajime as violet, white, night-black or ivory-soft. 

It’s sad, Tooru thinks, that none of those people have the receptors in their eyes for something before crimson, after ultramarine. They’ll never get to see the ultraviolet gentleness of Hajime’s fingers on Tooru’s skin, mouth whispering in new octaves of love across his temples until Tooru shivers so hard that he fears he’s going to burst at the seams. They’ll never get to see the infrared loyalty that is Hajime hugging his parents, both families spending holidays together and Hajime locking his fingers into Tooru’s below the table while just smiling when Tooru’s baby niece climbs onto his lap. 

And god, it’s sad to know that none of them has eyes brilliant enough to see the gamma rays of Hajime’s words when he talks about becoming a doctor to save souls, when he speaks to his mother in a softness that singsongs love with every syllable, and when he kisses an oath into every inch of Tooru’s skin until the echo of it leaves wave-shaped cuts on Tooru’s heart.

Voltron’s Bond.

It’s Pidge who initiates the whole thing without even wanting to.

They’re all exhausted. The team building exercises did nothing for them, they still can’t assemble Voltron again, dinner tastes like slimy slippery goo and it’s so quiet except for the sound of their spoons against the bowls that Pidge can’t bear with it anymore. “I’m done for today. Night. I’ll be in my quarters.”

Everyone looks up, but nobody does anything to keep Pidge from leaving the table. They just watch, young eyes dark and tired, as a thin frame disappears through the door, outworn and hunched over like all of them.

Hunk is the next to stand up, five minutes after. “Pidge’s right. I’m done, too. See you guys tomorrow.” Then he stomps off. The silence around the table thickens, and it’s no surprise to Allura that the rest of the food stays untouched until one after another, the boys get up and nod at her. 

It’s Keith next, quiet and with gritted teeth, fists curled by his side. It’s Lance, not even cracking a joke at her, worrying his lip between his teeth. And after he’s stacked the rest of the bowls and mumbled a quiet “thank you for the training today”, Shiro follows after them, having stayed for over an hour since Pidge vanished.

The night has fallen over the planet when Coran steps to stand by Allura’s side. She’d been watching the virtual model of the galaxy, counting planets that needed saving, but turns her head to him. “I don’t know how to get them to bond. They’re so young. They’re scared, and I can’t make their fate easier.”

Coran tilts his head and, for some reason, smiles. “You should see this.”

And she really should. Coran leads her to Pidge’s room, at the very end of the corridor, the door carelessly open. Allura prepares for a lecture about safety in one’s quarters and underestimating the enemies’s stealthiness, but Coran simply points into the room… and Allura can’t help but smile, too.

In a pile of blankets and pillows, the five paladins of Voltron are asleep. 

Pidge lies in the middle, legs stretched out long, glasses somewhere on the floor because Hunk’s big hand cradles that fragile jaw and pulls both close against another. They had been drawn here, one by the other – Keith next, legs tucked to his own chest and curled up so tightly that he’s a tiny fraction of his usual temper and red-hot wildness. His nose touches Pidge’s back, and the strong arm around his waist that belongs to Shiro seems to be what holds him together. And there’s Lance, wedged somewhere by Shiro’s hip, head on his stomach and Shiro’s fingers calm in his hair. 

Allura turns and closes the door again. She says good night to Coran, walking to her room in silence. She thinks about the paladin’s slow breaths. She thinks about Pidge’s fingers gripping Hunk’s shirt, Shiro’s fingertips reaching against Pidge’s back just below where Keith looked vulnerable. She thinks about Lance, looking in place, belonging, safe.

“Bonding, huh,” Allura whispers to the stars outside the castle. “I see.”

inspired by this beautiful artwork of demon Iwaizumi by LordIzxy.

The ink stains Tooru’s fingers for three days. He has dreams about it, how the darkness drips from his fingers as he paints the night sky’s colour on each of the warrior’s skin, hundreds, passing by and getting a touch of Tooru’s finger from shoulder to the back of their hands. 

The crown on Tooru’s hair is cold silver. Not a prince but an emperor, not a warrior but a mage. Not in the front line but upon the highest tower of the castle, there he will be in few hours, magic echoing off his trembling muscles and sweeping over the enemies’ fighters in a roar of bursting sparks. But now, he is casting protection.

And the last in the long line, their commander, naked as all of them are with skin that withstands fire, is the man who knows Tooru’s fingertips like he knows war.

“Iwaizumi,” Tooru says softly. The leader of the demons bows his head. There is no smile on his lips, nothing but death waiting silently in the sharpness of his claws, on hand and feet. His wings are folded, the tips trembling.

Tooru waits until the others have left the throne room. Then, a dam breaks. “You will return to me, soldier,” Tooru whispers, “and that is an order you are not allowed to disobey.” His black-dripping hand grabs Iwaizumi’s arm, nails digging deep where shoulder slopes down to arm, and his mouth crashes against that of the man who has taken him apart between his legs just hours ago.

“Then you better cast your spells well.” Iwaizumi’s growl has the windows in the throne room quiver in their frames. He kisses Tooru, no, devours his mouth with a snarl, teeth leaving a puncture of red-hot-pain flaring up at the edge of Tooru’s bottom lip. He tastes copper, shudders when Iwaizumi licks it off, just like last night when he’d buried his face between Tooru’s thighs, slid between them moments later, made him howl and writhe and beg until he fell, bloomed open and grasped his neck to pull Iwaizumi closer, deeper, sheathed in his heat.

“You will come back home.” Tooru wraps a hand around his horn, whispers a spark of magic into Iwaizumi’s mouth until his body shivers, skin glowing with the protection on it. “And if I have to reap them all with my own hands, I’ll take you back into my arms. Now go. Lead them to victory.”

But Iwaizumi laughs, low and sharp. “I’m not whom they obey.” He steals another kiss, burning hot like the fire that suddenly illuminates the windows from outside, followed by a deafening explosion. Tooru lets go, fingers tracing Iwaizumi’s shoulder, and the long line is crowned by a circle just on the top. “Of course you are. You are as much their demon warrior as you are mine.”

“No.” 

And the demon spreads his wings, horns elongating, claws growing from sharp to lethal. He turns, approaches the window, the glass shattering in a new burst of fire. Iwaizumi doesn’t look back, yet Tooru hears what he speaks before he soars down into the war. 

“They don’t follow a warrior. They follow their ruler.”