And I Love That For Them - Tumblr Posts

Steven, Leon and Flint were really just like is anyone going to date the final gym leader and didn't wait for an answer

Oh, don’t be upset, think of all the fun we’ve had! Right. Your fun, my blood. You can’t keep dragging me into things, Markos. This will work, I promise you!

phumpeem 🤝 tanfang

love at first violent altercation

yes i believe in will graham x freddie lounds terrible horrible antagonistic friendship supremacy no i will not apologise

hear me out:

danny phantom

kid flash

spiderman

why are you walking away just lisTEN TO ME-

hewwo how are u

i think i have laryngitis lowkey

(its highkey. i have been banned from work and school for the next 4 days. if i fail ap calc bc of this im suing my immune system)

too tired to talk much atm, but here are my newest sons. no idea what purple haired mfer is gonna be named, but ol spikey hair over yonder is Merle and he's my character for another campaign I'm doing w a few pals in a game called Fate (?), unsure how it rlly works but he's an orc coz,, why not ig

Merle, seen above, is a dad! our fate game is running in a post apocalyptic world which means angst can seep thru the cracks of this man's very core (his kids dead, basically, which translates to a very strong paternal instinct and an anxious attachment. never said he'd be a good dad lol, but he's deffo gonna try his damndest)

He walks in on Keith, alcohol-soaked rag clutched in his hand, elbow pressed against the wall to try to reach the weeping wound in the middle of his back. He hadn’t been called, or invited, but had instead used the lock code Keith had muttered at him weeks ago, quiet and plasticly casual in a way that told Lance the gesture was anything but.

He doesn’t wait for an invitation now, wordlessly padding forward and prying the rag from Keith’s crooked fingers, pressing it to the wound. Keith does not flinch or tense, but there is a volatility to the air that makes Lance hold his breath without realizing.

“I’m tough,” Keith whispers, forehead pressed to the wall. His eyes are nearly shut, open only a sliver, and he breathes heavily through his mouth, measured and controlled.

Lance nods. He leaves one hand on the arch of Keith’s left shoulder, using the other to squeeze out the rag into a bucket, blood turning the water pink. He presses the newly strained fabric to the inflamed, sliced skin, and this time Keith inhales sharply, back tensing at the sound of it ringing through the room. Lance doesn’t move, only keeps the rag where it is, applying pressure.

“I know you are.”

“I can take care of myself.”

The bleeding has slowed to something much more manageable, so Lance takes the rag off entirely, tossing it into the bucket with a splash. He returns his fingers to Keith’s heated skin, tracing down the ridges of his spine, the bulges of his trapezius, the raised flesh of his scars. He circles the edge of the wound, mapping the soreness, noting the hitch in Keith’s breath, the jump and twitch of his muscles. He’ll need stitches. Ten, twelve of them, probably. And salve will need to be applied hourly, bandages changed four times a day. This will be a high maintenance injury. He cannot reach it.

He wonders how many of the raised, brutal scars on the Black Paladin’s back are from wounds exactly like this, before Lance knew the lockpad password, before Lance learned to suture, before Lance thought to follow him after missions. Before Lance.

“You have,” he says, instead of that. “You still do. You always will.” He swallows. His hands rest flat-palmed against the wideness of his shoulders, burning through the heat of his skin. “I’ve just joined in, too. Now we take care of each other.”

Keith is frozen, unmoving. The only sounds are his breaths, heavy and slow, and the creak of his jaw as he grinds his teeth.

“You never let me.”

“What?”

Keith turns his neck slightly, looking over his shoulder. He doesn’t look at Lance so much as look to the side of him. “Take care of you.” A beat of silence. “I’m never allowed.”

“I let you,” Lance says quietly. “I always let you fix me up when something hits me.”

“I’m not talking about that.”

Lance heart pounds. Instead of answering, he quickly withdraws his hands, walking over to Keith’s dresser and busying himself with gathering supplies, picking through the first aid kit. He takes his time counting out sutures, a needle, sterilizer, bandages, a belt for him to bite down on in absence of numbing cream. He can feel Keith’s eyes on him, burning the back of his neck, as the seconds and minutes tick by.

He keeps his head down as he turns around with his armful of supplies, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor and organizing all the equipment, lining it up so it’s perfectly straight. After several minutes Keith joins him, sitting gingerly in front of him with his back turned.

Lance starts with gauze, drying up the wound, soaking up the last surges of blood. He presses until he can no longer feel the burning heat of it pooling into his hand, then he pulls on gloves, tying the suture to the needle. He nudges the belt towards Keith with his foot.

Keith grabs it, pulling it slowly towards him, and holds it loosely in his hands, draped over his lap.

“You were angry at me last night,” he says softly. “After. You pulled away and locked yourself in the bathroom and didn’t come out until you thought I was asleep.”

“I was just showering off,” Lance says shortly.

“You weren’t.” Keith fiddles with the buckle. “There wasn’t any steam coming through the door. You just turned the sink on. I heard you crying, anyway.”

Lance’s hands shake. He clenches them into fists, squeezing until they still, blinking the sting out of his eyes.

Keith lifts the belt up to his mouth, long ends extending behind him like the reign of a work horse. Water condenses on the leather of the belt from the heat of his exhales, millimeters from his mouth. “I know it was because — because I was far away. In my head. I wasn’t — I wasn’t vulnerable.”

The end of his sentence hangs in the air, like a discordant note, in unfinished chord. He finally takes the belt in his mouth and bites, clenching it between his teeth, steadying himself for the sharp pain. Lance forces his hands to move, to slide the point of the needle through red flesh, curve it through torn muscle and sluggishly leaking veins. He loses himself in the sutures, tying one, two, ten. He second he ties off the final stitch, he hears a clink, and the leather belt slides off Keith’s shoulders as he unclenches his teeth, dropping the belt from his jaw.

“You aren’t vulnerable with me, either.” He shifts, pulling away from Lance’s frozen hands. “You keep things locked to your chest. It’s like you have to force yourself every time you touch me.”

Lance swallows. It doesn’t touch the dryness of his throat.

“I react badly to being loved,” Keith says when Lance can’t bring himself to speak. “That’s why I — pulled away.”

“You pushed me away,” Lance corrects. His voice is so quiet it rasps the inside of his throat. “Not — not pulled.”

Keith winces. “Yeah.”

Lance’s hands shake again. He wants to put them on Keith’s skin again so badly. Like a magnet, almost. He glances at the bandages, weighing the weight of the excuse they offer.

“It’s okay,” he starts shakily, stretching the bandages across Keith’s torso, lingering on his chest, his shoulders, his ribs. “For people to — for me, to like the things you’re way too hard on yourself for.” He inhales quickly and forces the rest of the sentiment out, even though it’s humiliating, even though it will cost him. “I like your brashness.”

His face is to Keith’s back, but he can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. It’s — charming. It comes from your protectiveness, I think, and I like the thought of that. Of your protection, I mean.”

Keith doesn’t say anything for a moment. Lance can’t read him, can’t guess his thoughts, and he feels like a flayed heart in his openness.

“I like your competitive streak,” Keith says softly. Fondly.

Lance blinks in surprise. “You like my — you like that I’m stubborn?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Lance isn’t the only one who likes the ugly parts, then.

“Can we start over?” Keith asks timidly, after Lance has wrapped his wound tightly, after he has turned to face him, but still looks slightly away. After they sit inches apart, refusing to touch, itching to make contact. “I want to — be vulnerable.” He speaks the words as if they hurt on their way out of him. “I want to do this together.”

Lance shudders, eyes closing without his permission.

Together — that’s all he’s ever wanted. Equal footing with Keith. All he has ever wanted was for Keith to want and crave him as badly and he does, and apparently he —

Apparently, Keith likes him when he’s stubborn, when he is argumentative and frustrating and annoying. Keith wants him then.

“Yes,” Lance says quickly. “Together.”

———

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