An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Mika tells him his words one day as they sit on the steps, sipping their rations.
“‘Don’t make a big deal out of it.’” Mika quotes, showing Yuu his wrist. He has the words memorized, of course. “I have a feeling my soulmate is gonna be a huge, self-sacrificing idiot.”
“Like you?” Yuu responds, gagging a little at the sourness of the liquid packets. “A match made in heaven.”
...
In which your soulmate’s last words before they die are inscribed on your wrist.
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tim has been denying his feelings for a while, and everything comes crumbling after the almost death of jay. facing this was, and probably is, the hardest thing he's done.
and jay realized that the time he lost hurt more than his adult self
⊱⋅ ──────────── ⋅⊰
there he was,
laying on his couch, bandages around his stomach, and half lidded.
much to jay's dismay, we did go to the hospital, and they helped him. but we didn't tell them about alex. we couldn't. we said it was an accident, and nobody batted an eye. we went along our merry way, the bullet not even needing to be removed.
a pillow pressed against his tummy, his brown hair falling over his face, trying to sleep but he couldn't. i couldn't tell if it was because i kept watching, or because of the pain.
"hey...tim." rasped, but a soft smile on his cheeks.
"it's..it's okay. the threat is over." my heart tinged at it, and i felt my body clench.
"what if something happens? what if those doctors were wrong? jay, i..."
heart achey, hands shakey.
no, not now. close your eyes, take in a deep breath. blink it away.
jay tried to sit up, but i quickly laid him back down. he looked frustrated almost. i sighed and let him scoot himself up, pillows propping him up everywhere.
"tim." he spoke tenderly, soft. it was a tone i wasn't used to. when he tried to show emotion it was always clunky...awkward. sincere, but unsure. this time i could not interpret emotion, but feel it. it was secure.
"- i won't"
"i'm..." he spoke and slugged down. "...with you, and i know you're not gonna let anything happen. the doctors said i was fine. i can't say if it's over, but...it's okay. for now."
eye of the storm, he meant. eye of a hurricane. calm before chaos.
"i'm still not risking a damn thing jay. i won't risk you-"
"i'm not dying if that's what you're implying here."
i didn't even realize my hand was over his. he didn't seem to mind. he let it happen. i felt his cold against my wamrth, and it was...comforting. he intertwined his fingers with mine. i didn't stop it. i felt my torso clench, and my body raise 5 degrees.
it was a very bad time to feel these things, but here i am. doing...doing just that.
jay looked up, flipping his hair over to show his tired eyes.
"look up at me, tim."
i looked up, and our eyes were locked. my mind was grounded, and everything was just focused on studying his face. i realized something
"they're.. they're brown."
jay looked confused, and let out an awkward laugh.
"what are you talking about?"
"your eyes. they're brown. like...green brown?"
jay looked down, and his touch loosened.
shit, made it weird.
"someone told me hazel before. i...can't remember who." he looked suken. "maybe...maybe my mom."
"are you okay if i mention her?"
i know my face was warm, and i felt it get wet. i quickly got my free hand to wipe it away.
"yes, i'm okay with that. i am more than okay if you just...wanna talk about her."
jay stared at the wall, and i saw his entire energy drop. everything went silent, and what felt like emotional smog came inbetween us. a heavy sense of unease washed over me as i tried to not show my emotions.
finally, he spoke, and it was something that sliced both the tension and me
"i can't...remember her."
he looked at me. he started to cry.
"i can't remember my mom, tim. i don't know where this came from, i never knew, i..."
i pulled up next to him on the couch, and i grabbed him. my body was against his, and his head on my chest.
for the first time, i saw him cry. like...really, really cry.
he was much more than vulnerable. it was like he was a child in my arms, weeping. this was a state i never thought i'd ever see him. he cussed everyone under his breath.
he cussed that thing, he cussed going into college, he cussed at alex, and he sweared at himself for starting this.
i didn't intervine. i let him. this has been building up for years. he heaved, he coughed, his eyes were raw. he ran out of tears but he kept on crying. his body convulsed and he couldn't stop. i only brushed his hair and held him.
he soon let his body relax. his muscles weren't rigid anymore. he went almost limp. my own tears spilled, and he looked up at me. there was no words spoken, but we both knew what we thought.
"this...this can be over."
i said, choking on my waterworks.
"this isn't our destiny. we weren't supposed to be here."
jay came closer and sat up, looking down at me. i looked up at him. he wiped his face with his jacket sleeve, and i reached up to glide my thumb under his eyes.
jay opened his mouth to speak, but he quickly shut it. i inhaled sharply.
"talk. please, please talk."
"i...hope so. i don't want to live like this forever."
"i'll make sure you won't." i said out of instinct.
"jay, listen. i love you, you mean the world to me, and you're the last thing i have in this bitch of a world. i'm not letting this bastard ruin it."
jay leaned down, and he rested his head my shoulder. he than leaned up and planted a kiss on my head. no words were questioned. no words were said.
doubt filled my headspace, fear, adrenaline. everything was a shitshow but we didn't question anything at that point.
it was like this for hours. silent, our bodies against eachother. i almost felt like a corpse, laying there, no motion. but i knew i was alive, because i could feel the blood rush in my veins, and my eyes sting from the bitter air. jay's body became warm against me, and i would feel jay squeeze me occasionally to let me know he was there.
soon, after a while, jay spoke.
"did you mean it?"
"after all this, do you think i have a purpose to lie about that?"
jay nodded, and swallowed hard. "in that case, i love you too."
and, in that moment, i realised those words were all i needed to stay here.
My Shaladin Secret Santa contribution for @luluwritesthings! Requested post-Voltron fluff, and I did my best to provide! I'm sorry it's a bit on the short side, but I hope you enjoy!
Shiro/Hunk/Lance, rated G.
Shiro was still getting used to coming home at the end of the day.
In the abstract, of course, he’d come home at the end of the day for most of his life. When he was a kid he’d come back to his parents’ house, and those sixteen years had been far longer than the years he’d spent at the Garrison, where ‘home’ was somewhere you only went for a few weeks of the year and your bunk was where you collapsed at night; or the year in a Galra prison, where there was no such thing as a bed, let alone a home; or the heady, terrifying years of Voltron, when ‘home’ had been a wondrous if capricious alien ship that he lived in most of the time, and returned to on a schedule that varied based on the local politics and whatever the Galra were up to at any given time.
Going from a cabin in the Castle-ship, drifting through the endless wonders of space, to a cosy two-bedroom house in a quiet suburb had been enough of a change. And now, adding to the surrealism, he came home every day to somebody else. To two somebodies.
It wasn’t the way he’d ever thought his life would go, but Shiro wasn’t complaining in the least.
He landed the hoverbike carefully, lifted the bag of groceries, and swung the front gate open, feeling faintly ridiculous. The front garden was a complete disaster zone and had been since they bought the property. He was probably going to have to do something about that if they stayed. The house itself was in decent shape, as far as he could tell. Lance had been lobbying to repaint the front – “C’mon, what’s the point of having a house if we can’t have a Voltron mural on the front?” – but so far he’d been voted down.
He had, however, proudly brought home a Voltron-shaped door-knocker, now mounted over the letter box. The robot hung by both Lion-arms from the flaming sword, poised in mid-stomp, with the Yellow Lion kicking back into a metal plate with Zarkon’s face painted on it. Shiro didn’t even know where Lance had found it, but it still got a smile out of him most days.
The smell of baking flooded out when Shiro opened the door. Somewhere in the house Hunk was singing cheerfully. Shiro toed his boots off into the pile by the door, hefted the groceries, and followed his lover’s voice into the kitchen, where Hunk was elbow-deep in the sink with his back to the door. The radio was playing something Shiro vaguely recognised as a classic, and Hunk was singing along with a lot of substitutions.
Space hadn’t been easy on any of them. Pidge had a cybernetic right eye, courtesy of the Olkari after one of Haggar’s smaller experiments had taken a swipe at her face. Keith had regrown so many teeth they’d lost count – a side benefit of Galra genetics – and three of Lance’s ribs had been outright replaced after a particularly nasty fight. Hunk had taken his own share of hits. Even from the door, Shiro could see three faint white scars traced across the back of Hunk’s neck, just visible under his hair and the faded ribbons of his headband, the leftover signature of a Druid’s twisted curiosity.
And the radio played on the countertop, beside half a dozen racks of small golden pies, and below the scars on Hunk’s neck was the fading hickey Shiro had sucked into his skin two nights ago, upstairs.
They took on the Galra Empire and won, and this is what they won. It’s strange, in so many ways, but Shiro likes it.
“Hey, Hunk,” he calls, dumping the groceries on the table and crossing the room to his partner.
“ –old-fashioned way – hey, Shiro!” Hunk slotted a mixing bowl into the drainer and turned away from the sink, holding up a hand when Shiro leant in for a kiss. “Whoa, let me dry off.”
“You’ve been busy,” Shiro commented as Hunk quickly towelled his hands dry. “What’re you making?”
“Something special.” Shiro snagged Hunk’s waist and leaned in again, and this time Hunk let him, curling one arm around Shiro’s shoulders to pull him in for a quick kiss. “You know, festive season, we’re back on Earth, we should do it properly. You’re early.”
“Today’s debrief was pretty short. We’d covered a lot of it already.” Shiro’s current job description might as well be ‘Go over the entire Galra war with every officer in the Garrison, twice.’ It was important work, there was no denying that, and Shiro was still a Garrison officer. Still, it got frustrating, sometimes, going over the same thing again, even if he was careful not to let it show. He ran the fingers of his metal hand through Hunk’s hair and smiled. “You have flour on your nose.”
Hunk wrinkled his nose and pulled back, scrubbing at his face. “Thanks. Naxela again?”
Shiro let him go and started unloading the groceries. “The Balmera. I think Professor Montgomery’s going to be after you about power sources again, he seemed frustrated when I couldn’t tell him anything about the resonance.”
“He called earlier,” Hunk said, making a face. Flour was smudged down the side of his nose. “I told him he could wait ‘til tomorrow. Did I get it?”
"You’ve got a spot –” Shiro gestured to his cheek. Hunk scrubbed again, missing the trace of flour by an inch. “No, left a bit – you’re good. What are these, anyway?”
“Mince pies.” Hunk bent down to help Shiro with the groceries, and straightened up with a bottle of milk in his hand. “You know, that was always what I missed in space. Don’t get me wrong, Balmeran cave bugs are amazing, but sometimes I just wanted something familiar, you know?”
Forming the Coalition, Voltron had visited a lot of different planets. A lot of those planets had been pretty spectacular, even to someone who didn’t have the curiosity needed to fly out to the edge of the Solar system in the space equivalent of a rattletrap buggy just to see what was there. Every day had brought a new species, a new culture, or a new natural wonder to marvel at. Mablis had been one of the high points: The capital city was a miracle of engineering, suspended in a gorge by a thousand narrow filaments, with waterfalls pouring down to either side. The fighting hadn’t been too gruelling, and the native Eriglits had been happy to host them for a few days, had offered food and comfortable rooms and surprisingly bouncy music.
It had been peaceful. Pleasant.
At the end of the fourth day, Shiro had slumped back into the bed and realised that he would willingly trade – maybe not his entire remaining arm, but at least a couple of fingers, for a battered paperback murder mystery and a mug of hot coffee.
“I know the feeling.”
Hunk looked down at the milk and smiled wryly before putting it in the fridge. “It was the holidays, mostly. Even when we got the calendar working, we could celebrate but the food wasn’t right. It wasn’t the same. So – this year, we’re doing it right.”
Shiro looked at the racks of cooling mince pies, thought back to his childhood, and smiled. “You know, if we’re going to do it right, we ought to get fairy lights.”
“Already done,” a smug voice said from the doorway.
Shiro jumped and turned around. Lance grinned at them both and hefted a carrier bag triumphantly, then stepped forward to press his lips to Shiro’s cheek. “I got fairy lights. And tinsel.” He bumped his mouth against Hunk’s and dropped the bag, reaching for a mince pie. “I am prepared. This house is going to make people on Pluto jealous of our decorating prowess.”
“Careful, they’re –” Lance spluttered around a mouthful of pastry. “-hot,” Hunk finished.
“Worth it,” Lance managed, though he was panting to cool his tongue down.
“You don’t have to burn your tastebuds off, babe.”
Lance took the glass of cold juice Shiro handed him and gulped it down gratefully. “First mince pies in seven years,” he said between swallows, and put the glass down. “Man, I missed those.”
“So I see,” Shiro said. “And…tinsel, apparently.” He nudged the carrier bag with his foot. Strands of glittering gold, green, and red bulged out of the top.
“Way better than that glittery string we used in the Castle,” Lance said. “We had loads, when I was growing up. We used to wrap it around the bannisters. And then we’d take it off to play with it, and Mom would yell at us for making a mess – we got bits of it everywhere. My cousin made a beard out of it one year.”
"No,” Hunk said immediately, shaking his head. “Lance, I love you, but not the bannisters.”
Lance grinned and wound his arms around Hunk’s shoulders. “How about the door frames?”
“…yeah, okay.”
Shiro shook his head. “So…we’re decorating.”
“We don’t have to.” Lance hung his weight off Hunk’s shoulders and bent back until he was looking at Shiro upside down. “We can leave it if you don’t want to. But I’d like it.”
“No, I don’t mind.” Shiro stepped in and pulled Lance the right way up so he could kiss him properly, quick and sweet. “It’s just…” He laughed, surprising himself. “It’s pretty domestic, isn’t it?”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rita fumbled with the tape recorder. “Okay! Statement of, uh, Cassandra Kanagawa, regarding…”
“A lot of things,” Cass crossed her arms. “But I guess it started with the time my stepmother buried me alive.”
“Thanks, Miss Kanagawa. Anyway, statement begins.”
...
In which there is an Institute, there is an Archivist (better known as Rita), and there is an apocalypse prevented through a couple of close calls and the power of friendship.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The two of them are quiet for a moment as the music swells and distant laughter echoes. Madoka stares dolefully at the happy dancers.
“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” Homura tilts her head back, eyes on the stars, dotted between strung lanterns. “To celebrate a time like this, sending their youth out to fight each other. Celebrating human lust for power, their greed, their—are you crying?”
Madoka shifts one gloved hand upwards to wipe at her eye. “Of course I am,” she whispers. “I’m sad.”
...
Homura is Life. Madoka is Death. They’re figuring themselves out.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Occasionally she’ll catch a glimpse of her siblings’ faces in the chaos of the crowd. Round moons, pale under her brilliance. Sometimes horrified, sometimes fearful, sometimes awed.
Her siblings, the Umbrella Academy, may have been the sun, bright and gold and all-consuming, but she is the winking starlight left in their absence. Eternal and unbridled. They can’t drown her out forever.
...
The White Violin would rather die than be ignored.
