ice-shard

You shouldn’t hate yourself for not being in the right state of mind to make a decision. Just learn from that, get your mind right, and make a better decision.
—  My homeboy Davey
Klance Skyhigh au part 3

(Part 3 with the additional ideas from the lovely @becoming-icarus Yes! thank you so much dear! =w=)

•So Keith bursts into flames when embarrassed and Lance discovers that sometimes its because of him when he calls Keith mushy pet names. (Most of the time its just because Lance is being cute without knowing it)

•Lance is over the moon but also sad that he has to tone it down a bit (a lot) so they dont trigger the school fire alarms. (He does it outside tho)

•When walking through the hall, Keith gets called out and taunted by other students (this is before Keith gets beat up in part 2) Lance gets really irritated and grabs Keith’s hand leading him away not letting go until their in class.

•When Lance finally gets fed up and almost starts a fight because of it he feels Keith shyly sliding his hand in Lance’s and pulls him away to avoid getting in trouble.

•While beeing pulled away, Lance is speechless but also proud and he adjusts their hands to intertwine. Keith ducks his head in embarrassment and flicker of flames erupt around his face. He’s Just So Cute Like a Kitten Lance is So Gone.

•Speaking of, Lance slips and calls Keith “Kitten” once during a conversation. lo and behold its the only pet name that doesnt bursts Keith into flames so it sticks during school. (He only raised a brow and said “kitten?” because he really doesnt get it.)

•Skyhigh never knew that Lance Mcclain could be scary af…

•Sure he’s smart, had the knack to distrupt class sometimes with a joke or witty comment. He’s respected but he was the school flirt before Keith came along. He’s protective of his freinds but they never really saw any potential of what an enraged Lance can do until one day.

•When one particular senior had the gall to shapeshift as Lance and fake hit on Keith while he was waiting at his locker, only to shapeshift back and torment him in front of a lot of students for being TWO villain’s problem child AND being gay for Mcclain.

•The whole hall dropped below 20 degrees where Lance was walking towards them in a creepy calm. In a matter of seconds, everything except for where Keith is standing was covered in frost.

•Before the senior could make a comment, sharp, blade-like shards of ice were floating in mid-air all pointed at him ready to strike at one wrong move. “Don’t test me buddy”

•Shiro once said to Lance that when Keith is really scared (which rarely happens), his flames had trouble coming out. That’s why Lance thought Keith was scared of him after that incident when they were walking away. His hands wasnt warm and he was shaking.

•He eventually got Keith to speak up. It wasnt cos Lance got angry at the senior, it was what Lance thought now that he knew that Keith was gay and had feelings for him that terrified him. He didnt want to lose his best friend.

•With that out and a terrified Keith in front of him, it made it easier for Lance to do the next thing he always wanted to since falling for his little kitten.

ALSO ADORABLE art by @becoming-icarus riiight HERE aaaand HERE :D

Aaand really really cute fic HERE by @klance-and-a-half !!

masterpost

Wizard Spells: From 4e to 5e

LEVEL 1

Arc Lightning

1st Level Evocation

Casting Time: 1 bonus action
Range: 100 feet
Components: V, S
Duration: Instantaneous

Lightning leaps from y our outstretched hand, weaving safely through your allies to slam into your foes.

You may use an action to cause lightning to arc out from you, strike a number of creatures equal to your Intelligence Modifier (Minimum of 1).

The Target must make a Dexterity Saving Throw (DC 11) or suffer 1d6 + your Intelligence Modifier in Lightning Damage. On a Successful Save, the Target takes half damage.


Chilling Cloud

1st Level Evocation

Casting Time: 1 action
Components: V, S
Duration: Instantaneous

A lingering swarm of ice crystals chills foes to the bone.

You create a 20-foot-radius circle of serrated, needle-like ice shards. Any enemy who attempts to move closer to you takes Your Intelligence Modifier in Cold Damage.

Additionally, until the end of your next turn, any enemy in a 20ft Radius takes Disadvantage to attack rolls.


Dread Presence

1st Level Necromancy

Casting Time: 1 bonus action
Range: Self
Components: V
Duration:  Concentration, up to 1 minute

Your shadow lengthens and grows, looming over your enemies and overcoming them with dread.

Each Target of Your choice that is within Line of Sight and aware of you must succeed on a DC 12 Wisdom saving throw or take 1d10 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Necrotic Damage, and the target is slowed until the end of your next turn.

Additionally, on each of your turns for the duration, you can use your bonus action to deal Necrotic Damage equal to your Wisdom Modifier to any Target already effected by the Spell.


Erupting Flare

1st Level Evocation

Casting Time: 1 bonus action
Range: Touch
Components: V
Duration: Concentration, up to 1 minute

You kindle a massive, sudden flame within your enemy. The fires burn your foe and spill out to singe any who are near it.

The Target takes 1d10 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Fire Damage, and any Creature that ends its turn adjacent to the Target before the end of the Target’s next turn takes Fire Damage equal to Your Intelligence Modifier.


Fountain of flame

1st Level Evocation

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 50 feet 
Components: V, S
Duration: Concentration, up to 1 minute

You weave a fiery pillar that spins like a top. With each revolution, it douses your enemies with searing heat.

A burst of fire creates a 20ft. Radius zone that lasts until the end of the encounter. 

Any creature within the Radius of the burst must make a Dexterity Saving Throw (DC 13) or take 3d8 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Fire Damage.

Any enemy that enters the zone or ends its turn there takes 5 fire damage. An enemy can take this damage only once per turn.


Grasping shadows

1st Level Illusion

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 50 feet
Components: V, S

At your command, shadows reach out, grab hold of your foes, and wreathe the area in darkness. 

A burst of darkness creates a 15ft. Radius zone of writhing shadows that lasts until the end of your next turn. 

Any creature within the Radius of the burst must make a Dexterity Saving Throw (DC 13) or take 1d8 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Psychic Damage, and be Slowed until the end of your next turn.

Each creature that enters the zone takes psychic damage equal to Your Intelligence Modifier and is Slowed until the end of its next turn. A creature can take this damage only once per turn. 


Illusory Ambush 

1st Level Illusion

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 15 feet
Components: V, S

You create an illusion of swirling spectral assailants that swarm over your enemy.

You choose One Target within Range, the Target is then swarmed by swirling spectral shadows. 

The Target takes 1d6 Psychic Damage and the Target takes Disadvantage to Attack Rolls until the end of your next turn.


Rotting Doom

1st Level Necromancy

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 50 feet
Components: V, S

You hold up your hand, palm out, and release pale wisps to infect your foes with horrid decay.

You choose a Single Target in Range. The Target must make a DC 13 Constitution Saving Throw. On a Failure, the Target takes 1d8 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Necrotic Damage, and the Target cannot regain hit points until the end of your next turn.

On a Success the Target takes half Damage.


Scare

1st Level Necromancy

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 15 feet
Components: V, S

You blast an area, drawing resolve from your foes until they shrink back in abject terror.

You send out a blast with a 15ft. radius, centered on yourself, in all directions. Each Creature caught in the blast must make a DC 12 Wisdom Saving Throw or take 1d8 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Psychic Damage, or half as much on a Successful Save.

Additionally, any Creature which fails its Saving Throw cannot make opportunity attacks against you until the end of your next turn.


Staffstrike corrosion

1st Level Evocation

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 50 feet
Components: V, S

You tap your staff on the ground, and Acid boils up to envelop your Target in a caustic haze.

You choose a Single Target in Range. The Target must make a DC 13 Dexterity Saving Throw or be enveloped by the boiling Acid at their feet.

On a Failure, the Target takes 1d6 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Acid Damage. Until the end of your next turn, Creatures more than 25ft away from the Target have Half Cover against it.


Stone Blood

1st Level Transmutation

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 50 feet
Components: V, S
Duration: Concentration, up to 1 minute

Your enemy’s blood hardens, slowing its movement and causing excruciating pain.

You send out a blast with a 20ft. radius, centered on yourself, in all directions. Each Creature caught in the blast must make a DC 12 Constitution Saving Throw or take 1d6 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Damage, or half as much on a Successful Save. 

On a Failure, the Target is slowed until the end of your next turn.


Storm Pillar

1st Level Conjuration

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 50 feet
Components: V, S

A crackling column of lightning appears amid your enemies, lashing out at any who move near it.

You conjure a pillar of crackling energy in an unoccupied square within range. 

The pillar occupies 1 Square and lasts until the end of your next turn.

Each enemy that moves into a square adjacent to the pillar takes 1d6 + your Intelligence Modifier in Lightning Damage. 


Unraveling Dart 

1st Level Necromancy

Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 50 feet
Components: V, S

Grey, smokey darts fly from your fingertips to strike at your foes where they are weakest.

You create two grey, smoking darts made of darkness and shadow. 

Each dart hits a creature of your choice that you can see within range.

A dart deals 1d4 + Your Intelligence Modifier in Piercing Damage. 

If the target has vulnerability to any damage types, the damage is of those types. 

If the target has no vulnerabilities, you gain a power bonus to the damage roll equal to Your Wisdom modifier. 

A Little Like Whiplash

(based on this, part two of this, Russian translations under the story itself) 



Jonathan isn’t generally a judgemental person. He likes to think that he sees the best in most people, even if they don’t deserve it.

For some reason, he’s never been able to do that with Yuri Plisetsky, the Russian bombshell that nobody knows or cares to know because he’s terrifying and has a tendency to be an asshole.

He has the distinct impression that Yuri, despite clearly not being a scholarship kid (he’s wearing designer everything, and he drives a Maserati; there’s no way that he came to Portland State for any reason other than that he wanted to), would rather be anywhere but here. He sleeps through the two classes that he shares with Jonathan, and for some reason, the professors allow it. If he was a bit less of an antisocial shit, though, Jonathan would probably have a crush; for all his faults, Yuri is one the most attractive person that he’s ever seen outside of magazines with his immaculately braided, waist-length hair and pouty lips and perfect eyeliner (Jonathan is sure he’s the only one that’s noticed that last bit; the subtlety of it is the reason it’s so damn perfect).

The first time he ever actually says anything, it’s one of those days that the professor decides, for whatever reason, not to show up for class. Until the fifteen minute limit passes, the class hums with a low buzz of noise. Yuri, predictably, is asleep.

Jonathan has a few friends in this class, Anthony and Thomas, and they’re chatting quietly about the baseball game on Saturday. Somehow, the topic shifts to that one asshole that’s always sleeping through class.

“Fifteen minutes!” The girl by the door calls out, and the class gets up.

“I’m just saying, why pay for the classes if you’re just gonna sleep through them?” Anthony says, shouldering his bag and heading for the door.

There’s a snort from behind them. Veronica. Jonathan really doesn’t want to deal with her right now; she’s even worse than Yuri, if only because she isn’t quiet about her disdain for the rest of them. “You know they only accept applications from people like him because he’s part of a minority, right?”

When she sees Jonathan’s raised eyebrows, she mistakes his irritation for curiosity. “Come on, don’t tell me you can’t tell. He’s a goddamn fairy.”

He’s wondering if outing himself here and now would make the situation better or worse when there’s an angry “Huh?” from behind them. The loud bang that follows terrifies all of them, but particularly Jonathan, Veronica, and the other two. Jonathan hadn’t even noticed that Yuri was awake, much less that he was nearby. Now his foot is against the wall, not even an inch from Veronica’s head (flexible, Jonathan can’t help but think). The look on his face pumps shards of ice through Jonathan’s veins.

“There is nothing wrong with being gay,” he growls.

His voice is different than Jonathan would have expected; maybe it’s a bit stereotypical, but he’d expected a low tenor, rather than a mezzo baritone, and his accent is there, but not nearly as thick as Jonathan expected. He stalks out of the room dangerously, and the entire class just stands there in shock for a moment.

Next week, when Veronica stops coming to class and he hears that she’s been expelled, Jonathan is sure that it has everything to do with the rich guy sleeping two seats behind him.

“Jonathan, there are only three people in your group for the upcoming term paper,” the professor says, jolting Jonathan out of his thoughts. It’s true; he, Anthony, and Thomas are planning on working together, since there were an odd number of people in the class. Now that Veronica is gone, that’s not true anymore. “I’m assigning Yuri to your group.”

Fantastic, Jonathan thinks, glancing at Yuri.

He looks up blearily and mutters something in the most snide, sarcastic voice Jonathan has ever heard– yoroshiku onegaishimasu –before dropping his head back on his arms. That didn’t sound like Russian, Jonathan thinks, packing up to leave.

Thomas nudges him. “Dude!” he whispers. “He speaks Japanese? What the hell? And I think that was supposed to be polite, but it sounded like an insult.”

“He can also hear you,” comes from behind them. Yuri has apparently given up on sleep since class is over, and has his phone in his hand. The one that isn’t texting reaches behind him and tugs on something that releases the bun he’s sporting today, letting the waist-length braid fall down his back. He leans his face in one hand and stares at his phone boredly. “You three aren’t the most oblivious people I know, but you’re definitely in the top twenty.”

Jonathan doesn’t know what to say, really. The hottest, laziest guy in class is in a group with him for a paper that’s worth twenty percent of their grade, and their first conversation has gotten off to the worst start possible.

“So,” Anthony says awkwardly. “When do you guys want to meet up?”

“I’m only free on Tuesdays. Yuri, I’m pretty sure you only have class twice a week? Maybe we can meet up for lunch,” Thomas says, trying a friendly approach.

“I can’t meet up on my days off. I have training. It’s a paper on the Japan’s involvement in World War II and how it affects today, right?” Yuri asks, still looking bored.

“Yeah. What do you mean? Do you practice all day on every one of your days off or something?” Anthony sounds mildly teasing, but there’s an undertone of disbelief there.

Yuri looks at Anthony, as if he can’t believe he would ask such a stupid question. “Um, yes? What else would I be doing?”

None of them really has a response for that. Yuri doesn’t look like the athletic type, really. He’s lean, almost willowy; not skinny by any means, since there’s definitely muscle there, but it’s not the build Jonathan would expect from an athlete who practices as much as Yuri claims to.

“Anyway, I’ll deal with the history part,” Yuri says, standing up and stretching. Jonathan tries not to stare at the thin strip of skin that appears when he does. What? He may be an asshole, but Yuri is gorgeous. He’d have to be dead not to notice. “I’ll have it to you by… Tuesday, right?”

“I can do Tuesday,” Jonathan says, not really sure what’s happening anymore.

“So can I.”

Yuri blinks and glances at the table searchingly. “Right,” he says, picking up a sticky note he’d left there and scribbling something down. “Here’s my number. Text me your emails and I’ll send you my part of the project. Bye.”

He walks out of the room, phone already at his ear. “Beka! Vy prikhodite na obed segodnya?

Jonathan looks at Anthony and Thomas, not totally sure what just happened. “So who’s going to pick up the slack on his part?”

That’s not actually necessary, it turns out. Jonathan sent Yuri his email out of courtesy, but when he rolls out of bed on Saturday morning, he finds four pages of 12 point Times New Roman font on Japan’s involvement in World War II, complete with instructions to let Yuri know if there’s anything else that they want him to do (but he won’t be doing the whole damn thing, he doesn’t have time for that).

Except for a few grammatical errors, there’s almost nothing wrong with the work. Jonathan is floored. Maybe this is why the professors let Yuri sleep through class. It’s disrespectful as all hell, but from the way he writes, it’s almost like he doesn’t need to be there at all.

When he’s awake and recovered enough to send a reply, he does. He lets Yuri that there’s nothing wrong with the work, and that he’s looking forward to class on Wednesday. He’s not, but it’s the polite thing to do.

Apparently, Yuri doesn’t planning on extending the same courtesy. “Can’t make it,” he says again, looking bored as he taps away on his phone.

This time, Jonathan actually speaks up. “We could meet up after you’re done with practice or something. It actually works out better for me and Anthony, since we have class on Tuesday.”

“That would work, I guess, but I’m going to be in Japan on Tuesday.” The tone of Yuri’s voice doesn’t change, despite the bomb he’s just dropped.

Why the hell would anyone just up and leave for Japan in the middle of the semester? No matter how rich Yuri is (and he’s definitely rich; they may not know anything about him, but he’s definitely a rich Russian of some sort) it makes no sense. He’s going to miss at least three days of class even if he’s only going to be in Japan for one day, which Jonathan highly doubts. He doesn’t care how pretty or smart this kid thinks he is, there’s no way for him to pass his classes with the way he acts.

“Then cancel it.” He doesn’t even realize that he’s saying the words until they’re out of his mouth, and by then it’s too late.

The look that Yuri fixes on him is as dangerous as it was that day with Veronica. “Fuck you.”

Jonathan backpedals. “I didn’t mean–”

Yuri’s phone rings, cutting him off. The ringtone in itself is enough to cause all three jaws to drop; it’s some classical thing with a boys’ choir singing in what sounds like Latin. Yuri sneers at them, and Jonathan can’t help but think he may have fucked up pretty bad. “Just send me whatever part you want me to handle for the presentation and I’ll do it. Tell me to cancel my trip again, and I won’t do my bit. I’ll still pass without this stupid project.”

He gets up and stalks toward the door, picking up the phone. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on my way to the parking lot now. Shit! Would it kill you to wait a minute and a half, Dad? I said I’ll be there in a minute! Katsudon, get your husband off the goddamn phone when he’s driving. Do you want to die?”

Yet again, there’s this feeling of not really knowing what’s happening by the time Yuri is out of sight. I’ll still pass without this stupid project, he said. That’s almost impossible, unless he has an A in the class. Which he shouldn’t, because he sleeps through it. His participation grade alone should have dropped him to a B unless he’s gotten A’s on every single assignment. There’s no way.

“I need a drink,” Jonathan mutters, and there are murmured agreements from Anthony and Thomas both. “You guys want to go to Shizuku?”

“I’m down.” Anthony says. “Hell, I’ll pay. My treat, after all of that bullshit.”

It’s not even ten minutes to their favorite restaurant by car, but they figure it’ll be easier to walk. There’s no point in driving three cars to get to one place, and none of them are keen on getting their cars out of the student lot right now, since it’s nearly rush hour.

It takes them about thirty minutes to get there, and it’s blessedly empty when they do. There are only a few occupied tables. Still, it seems louder than it usually does, Jonathan notices as they’re waiting to be seated. There’s one table in particular that seems to be making more noise than the rest of the restaurant combined. That makes sense, he thinks, eyeing the back of a silver-haired man’s head. There are a lot of them. At least six, it looks like.

Posmotrite na kotenke, Beka! Eto tak milo! Posmotrite na svoikh malen'kikh lapakh i khvoste.” That voice… it sounds way too happy to be him, but given how the day has gone, Jonathan wouldn’t be surprised.

The silver haired guy moves slightly. It looks like he leaned his face on his hand. “Yurio, don’t be rude. You and your friend aren’t the only people at this table, you know. Richard and Estephania are here too, and they don’t speak Russian.”

“It’s fine,” the person on silver haired’s left says. She has long, dark hair that swishes when she shakes her head. “It’s funny to see Yuri so excited about something for once.”

Jonathan gets a partial view of someone with dark hair and a very serious face. It’s almost scary how quickly he realises that he’s being looked at, and he looks Jonathan dead in the eye. The man nods once, then looks away without acknowledging him further.

“Beka? What are you looking at?” A head of blond hair comes into view, and Jonathan finds himself looking directly into the eyes of Yuri Plisetsky.

I fucked up, Jonathan thinks immediately, watching the mirth drain out of Yuri’s eyes almost instantly, replaced with irritation.

“Johnny? What is it– Oh, shit.” Anthony hides behind a menu.

“If you’re stalking me, I swear to god I will shove my silverware up your respective asses,” Yuri says, looking dead serious. “I have more than enough stalkers.”

That’s cause enough for Jonathan to pause and wonder what he means, but then the strangest thing happens. Instead of looking even remotely alarmed, the way any normal person would, the three people with their backs facing toward Jonathan, Anthony, and Thomas all turn at a totally normal, unhurried pace. Two of them, the silver haired man and the Asian looking man next to him, are even smiling.

“Hello!” the silver haired man says, waving. “Are you Yurio’s friends? Here, come sit with us! We’ve never met any of his friends from school before.”

Who the hell says something like that after hearing him call us stalkers? Jonathan thinks, feeling out of his element and way too overwhelmed. There’s really nothing to do but accept, so the three of them walk to the table as a group.

“Ya dumal, chto u vas ne bylo druzey v Amerike,” the serious man says to Yuri quietly, probably trying not to be heard.

Yuri looks murderous. “Ya ne.”

There’s a split second war between Thomas, Jonathan, and Anthony as to who is going to sit next to the scary serious guy. Jonathan loses. It’s fine. He’ll take scary serious guy over angry Yuri Plisetsky any day.

“My name is Otabek. Yuri is my best friend,” scary serious guy says, holding out a hand.

Jonathan takes it hesitantly, but Otabek’s grip isn’t anything but polite. “Jonathan. That’s Thomas, and that’s Anthony. We take American History with Yuri.”

“My name is Victor, and this is my husband Yuuri! Not your Yuri, we call him Yurio,” the silver haired man says. The Japanese man next to him blushes, and Jonathan supposes that he’s the other Yuuri.

“I will shove my knife shoes so far up your ass, Nikiforov, that you won’t be able to sit for a year,” Yuri warns.

“Yurio is our son. We’re so glad Yuri is actually making friends at school, I was worried for a while. I’m sure you know how tricky he can be sometimes,” Victor continues, ignoring the incredibly violent threat as if it happens every day. What the hell did Yuri even mean by knife shoes, anyway?

“You shut the fuck up, old man!”

It doesn’t surprise Jonathan in the slightest that Yuri has two dads; it explains a lot about the whole incident with Veronica earlier this year. What he is surprised about is the fact that Yuri’s dads seem so… nice.

Jonathan isn’t sure if that’s pleasant or terrifying.

“Victor and Yuuri are my figure skating coaches,” Yuri mutters, sounding like he’d rather be doing anything but this.

“Wait, you’re a figure skater?” Thomas asks, looking intrigued; seriously, how that guy manages to be so laid back all the time is– wait, what?

“Is that what you keep missing meetings to practice?” Jonathan asks. Suddenly it all makes sense: the lean muscle, the crazy flexibility and precision it would require to nearly kick someone in the head, the whole random flight to Japan.

The entire table erupts into laughter, even the Hispanic woman and the other man that they haven’t been introduced to yet.

Yuri turns bright red, looking both flustered and annoyed. “Oh, fuck off, all of you. Especially you, Katsudon! You have no right to laugh after what happened with these two.” He points aggressively at the two people Jonathan and the others don’t know.

The Japanese man, Yuuri, is the first one to manage to stop laughing. “I’m sorry, Yura. I’m laughing because I know how you feel.” He turns to Jonathan, Thomas, and Anthony, still smiling brightly. “He actually medalled at the Olympics last year. He’s won gold for Russia several times, as well.”

Jonathan isn’t the only person at the table with his jaw dropped. The waitress comes by and sets waters in front of the three of them. Even when she leaves, he still can’t figure out what he’s supposed to say. He’s pretty sure that earlier today, he just told an Olympian medalist to cancel a trip to what was probably a competition at the last minute. He wants to die of embarrassment, even if he had good reason.

“He probably didn’t mention it because he’s too angry that he let that Canadian get gold and he only got bronze,” Victor teases. He slings an arm around his husband. “Still, my son and my husband on the podium at the same time! It’s any man’s dream. I’m so proud!”

There’s a scraping noise on the table. When Jonathan looks down, he sees that Otabek slid over a phone with the screen open to a news article about men’s figure skating and yep, there’s Yuuri. And that’s definitely Yuri, but he looks… different. Happy. Jonathan looks from Otabek to Yuri to the article, then back to Otabek. He knows he’s panicking, because there’s nothing he can really say to make himself feel less awkward but maybe someone calm like Otabek can help him out.

Otabek gives him a thumbs up.




Translations (let me know if I need to fix any, I don’t speak Russian) 

yoroshiku onegaishimasu - Japanese - I look forward to working with you (yes, he’s being a sarcastic little shit here)

Vy prikhodite na obed segodnya? - Russian - roughly translates to “we’re still on for lunch today?”

Posmotrite na kotenke, Beka! Eto tak milo! Posmotrite na svoikh malen'kikh lapakh i khvoste. - Russian - Look at the kitten, Beka! It’s so cute! Look at its little paws and tail.

Ya dumal, chto u vas ne bylo druzey v Amerike - Russian - I thought you said you don’t have friends in America.

Ya ne. - Russian - I don’t.

sunlight-tea  asked:

big mood: Magnus saying "No" to clary/jace/some annoying shadowhunter's whiny and trivial request for something they can't be bothered fixing themselves, having the audacity to bother Magnus while he's swamped with important High Warlock of Brooklyn work. And they're stunned for a minute before attempting again and- "I. Said. No."

it was a gloomy tuesday, the skyline thick with clouds, somewhere past noon but lunch had gotten lost in a landslide of things to do. and on this gloomy tuesday, magnus was not in the mood for anything.

he was not in the mood for the fire message from the high warlock of manhattan trying to change the time and date of a warlock council meeting yet again. he was not in the mood for the stack of contracts piled up on his desk that he needed to finish rereading by the next morning. and he was really not in the mood for one of his potions exploding because a client meeting had gone on too long. he had 10 minutes until he needed to portal to queens and yet there he was elbow deep in purple gunk, carefully using magic to try and remove the coagulated potion off of a very old tome that he really didn’t want to be ruined. so really he was not in the fucking mood for shadowhunters barging into his home.

his jaw was tight and there was a tense energy around his shoulders as he bent over the book, cursing under his breath as blue sparks spilled up over the spine and he watched the potion slowly dissolve away under his magic. he’d have to save the rest of the books with a simpler spell and hope that none of them were damaged, but this one was too important.

and of course, that was when the door rattled. he had been trying to school his breathing, trying to calm himself before he portaled off to drop off some potions but it wasn’t really working when this spell required focus and concentration, and now someone had the audacity to be at the door. his head snapped up for a moment and he glared at it, then dropped his gaze back down, deciding he’d finish the spell and see who it was after. it was probably a client who had gotten timing wrong, which was irritating but he’d handle that when he was done.

Keep reading

VG Monsters! Batch 1

This post is divided in multiple pieces to not be too long

Welp.. here are the first three:

Rime

Gender ratio: Neutral

Food source: Rich minerals below ground and the rich minerals of Pyusty.

Habitat requirements: It must be below freezing, there also must be water and trees. So the icy cold areas around Lin’s castle are perfect.

Rime are highly territorial beings. Apart from that, they are very intelligent beings as well, being very aware that their lives depend on Lin’s ability to keep the temperature low. That’s why they are not aggressive towards their boss monster and miniboss unless agitated.

Their attacks consist of their four limbs coming together to form a drill, with that, they can rush towards one at an easy 50mph. The tip of their limbs are always sharpened with help of the occasional harsh blizzards’ winds rushing at them.

Drop items: Never melting ice(very rare). Ice shard (common)


Frost Lass/lad

Gender ratio: 87% female 13% male

Habitat: Blizzards and areas much below freezing. Thus in the areas around Lin’s castle.

Food source: Mana, mp and Pyusty

Frost lasses have the appearance of a pretty girl, the Frost lads too, and tend to appear when a character is low on hp. They would invite the character’s party to a cabin, being very hospitable. Whilst secretly draining away their mp and mana as food source. Once full, they will wait till the characters fall asleep, then they’ll restore their hp and leave them be.

Frost lasses rarely attack out of the blue, they’ll attack once attacked. Their attacks consist of seeping away one’s luck, making them very unlucky. Then, the character’s environment would be the enemy, with ice blocks falling out of the blue, losing items and getting lost in a blizzard for example.

Drop items:  Ice shard (common) Unlucky hair band(rare)


Pyusty

Gender ratio: 50/50

Habitats: Generally cold, dark or snowy areas. Usually found in caves and snowy villages/towns

Food source: Anything that is digestible really.

These adorable little monsters are very cute and friendly.. and friendsly. (they can end you without meaning to, see below for details) 

Pyusty are easily carried away by a small breeze.

Pyusty are sweet, literally.

Not much larger than three inches, they are harmless in few numbers. Collecting the frozen particles in the air with their body, they become larger and fluffier. they become. Though no matter how large they become, they’re still light enough for their wings to carry them.

The say “Pyu~ !”

In few numbers, they are harmless. But in large swarms, they will plug your holes  be suffocating, literally. When you inhale they will plug your nose, then when you use your mouth, they will plug it too. You will die the most adorable way… good thing they are preyed upon by other monsters in the area as well as hunted upon for their sweet taste.

Even though Pyusty are heavily hunted, they always come back in large numbers. 

Drop item: Snowflake candy (common)


Video game AU: @blogthegreatrouge

anonymous asked:

Asdfghj but imagine GS asking He Tian about his brother being all awkward and embarrassed (he's just a teenager and he was saved by a hot older dude let him live) and He Tian getting immediately defensive omg I'd live for this plotline

‘So … your brother’s kind of–’

‘What about him?’ He Tian cut in, words sharp and echo-less in the apartment.

Guan Shan glanced at him. Swallowed. ‘You seem …’ He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, searching carefully for nuance and sentiment. ‘You don’t get along, I guess,’ he finished.

He Tian breathed a low laugh, turning the page of a magazine. ‘I guess,’ he said dryly. 

‘He looks like you,’ Guan Shan said. An insouciant shrug. A chewed pen breaking down between his molars as he worked on his homework. ‘A bit. A lot.’

He Tian’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean I look like him.’

‘Maybe, yeah.’ Guan Shan paused. ‘I just–’

He Tian sat up suddenly, legs swung over the side of the bed, magazine abandoned behind him. His hands were laced tightly together, hanging between his knees. His knuckles were white.

‘I get,’ He Tian said, ‘that he helped you yesterday. Saved you. When that guy was …’ He Tian looked away. The sky was a hazy grey of fading lights and high skyscrapers, and He Tian was all shadows on his bed. ‘But you don’t owe him anything. He’s not–He Cheng’s not special for doing that for you, all right? He’s not a fucking hero. Never has been.’

Guan Shan looked at him carefully. ‘You’re saying you would have done the same? If you were there?’

Of course I fucking–’ He Tian broke himself off, words snatched away like brittle ice shards breaking apart. ‘But I wasn’t. And he was. So I guess that’s all that matters, isn’t it? He Cheng the saviour. He Cheng who’s older and taller and knows what the fuck he’s doing and–’

‘He Tian.’

What?’

Guan Shan opened his mouth. Closed it. He pulled his legs out from beneath him, and moved steadily over to where He Tian sat on the edge of his bed. He ran his fingers through the fringe of He Tian’s hair, and let his hand fall on He Tian’s shoulder, feeling a tight knot of muscle and warm skin beneath his palm. He could feel He Tian’s steady breath, strained and carefully orchestrated.

‘He’s older and he’s taller and maybe he knows what the fuck he’s doing. But he’s not you, all right?’

He Tian looked away. ‘You don’t know what he’s like.’

Guan Shan’s fingers slipped beneath He Tian’s chin, and pressed in until He Tian’s head was turning again, dark eyes tilted up and boring in, unrepentant.

Guan Shan said, ‘But I know you.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s fucking–I mean, he’s hot, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m in love with him.’

There was a silence of hitched breaths and heavy heartbeats. 

‘You’re in love with me?’ He Tian said, quiet.

‘That wasn’t what I said.’ 

A slow grin, serpentine, made its way across He Tian’s face. His fingers were wrapping around Guan Shan’s wrist, his waist, skin hot and searching. 

‘Oh, I think you did.’

Dragon Archery

New apparel needs some new headcanons~

Overall archery was popularized for being a quiet weapon in comparison to other draconian weaponry and spells. This made for both easier hunting and stealth warfare. Also arrows, unlike magical bolts, are harder to see flying at you if the arrows are not enchanted or modified.

WIND archers are the most famous. Its rumored that a well trained wind flighted archer can take on a raiding party alone with a single shot. They can curve their arrows in the air with the help of their elemental abilities, and release arrows at unbelievably rapid rates. Wind bows are the fastest and are designed for speed over power.

WATER archers are more close combat orientated. Their arrows have curved points and tethers that latch onto, tangle, and pull down targets to the (normally) water below- where they are never seen again. Water bows pack the most punch out of all flights hold earth because they are designed to be effective under water as well.

EARTH archers are steady and patient- as well as great trackers. Targets that are not taken down after the first shot tend to spend a entire day in hiding or running from its attackers, only to be taken down the moment they leave cover or let their guard down. There are many stories of great Earth archers who spend days to weeks on stakeouts for their targets. Earth bows and arrows are the heaviest hitting and can split rock.

FIRE archers are best at taking advantage of their surroundings. They use specialized fire arrows and often light fire to their targets as well as the surrounding area. Be very careful when taking cover from fire archers, because they will make that cover a tomb in a few firey seconds. Fire archers are also known for creating a smoke screen effect - tricking armys into thinking there are twice as many archers then there actually is. Like their armor, fire bows are known for their fine metal craftsmanship, being both balanced and covered in complex designs.

LIGHTNING archers are trickshooters - known for their ‘sky’ shots - firing an arrow up, so it hits the target from directly above like a thunder bolt. This allows them to hit targets taking cover behind things with no roof and use gravity to aid in the punch their arrow gives. Lightning arrows also hold charges very well, allowing them to shock and sometimes paralyze targets. Their bows are the most consistent and carfully made/tested in order to pull off advanced shots.

ICE archers are resourceful and good ambushers. Their native landscape doesn’t give alot of materials for arrows so they are often made of pure ice magic or ice shards that are lying around. The empty tundra pushed them into the art of camouflage- a ice archer can be right infront of you and you wouldn’t notice. Their bows are often modified to resemble twigs or old bones so you don’t reconize it as a bow.

SHADOW archers are frighteningly accurate and make the best bounty hunters. The best can snag a moth to a tree with their arrows - without killing it. Shadow archers like to stay hidden and work best in the dark where they can remain unseen. Some archers have skilled magic users lace curses or similar magical tricks into the tips of their arrows. Bow and arrows are best for being quiet - and shadows are the quietest of them all.

LIGHT archers are snipers, they can hit targets over great distances. Most dedicate their lives to protecting sacred ruins and villages - effectively getting rid of any trespassers before they get close. The bows and arrows are made for distance- meaning that the farther away you are the harder it hits. Their shots are fast, some say you hear a lights arrow coming after it hits you.

NATURE arrows are almost always laced with some kind of plant toxin. It doesn’t matter if the thorny wood arrow doesn’t hurt you too bad - because the poison most definitely will in 5…4…3…2… . Archery is popular in nature because they can hit targets without disrupting the surrounding flora. Skilled nature magic users can make living arrows that grow roots in and around their target after they hit. Normally doctors suggest you don’t rip arrows outta wounds so you dont bleed out - nature, plague, and arcane arrows are an acception to this rule.

PLAGUE archers, like nature, rely on whats in the arrow to do the killing rather than the arrow themselves. The arrow heads are narrow, curved like cat teeth, and loaded with pathogens. This makes accuracy hard but the wounds from these arrows not only instantly infect but are extremely hard to clean out. Because of this their bows are best for speed rather than punch - since the arrows don’t need alot of power behind them to be effective.

ARCANE archers are masters at firing off more than one arrow at a time. Behind wind archers, they are the most famed. Their arrow heads are made of Pink Chalcedony - a glass like rock that is abundant in their region that makes non arcane dragons ill. These arrow heads shatter half the time they hit their target and leave shrapnel inside of them. Their bows are more on the powerful side, to support firing multiple arrows at once, but lack range accuracy as a result.

Witch Prompts

Anonymous said:Prompts for witches? Xx //  Anonymous said:Witchy prompts please? Xx // Anonymous said:So sorry if I’ve already asked this but I’m paranoid tumblr ate it so how about some witchy kind of prompts? Something like two different magics, two different covens at war? Thank you so much!!


1) “Confess,” they demanded. Expression blank, heart lurching sick in her chest. “Confess to your magic.” She knew, of course, that her lover hadn’t started this curse. Knew she had no power to speak of. Knew as her lover stared, betrayed, that they both knew who the witch in this room truly was. “Confess your sins,” she said softer, as if they didn’t know there was only fire at the end of this, “and you will be saved.”
“My only sin,” they snarled. “Was loving you.”


2) “Court enchantress,” they murmured. “You’ve come a long way from home.”
“So have you.” They’d met a lifetime ago - a very different life - and this was the last place they expected to see the witch again. They had such very different skill sets after all, witches and enchantresses. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard stories of a sorcerer of great power and beauty, who never seemed to age. I had to see if it was true.” I had to see you. “You managed it then, [name].”
“Don’t call me that - not here.”


3) “Dark Magic, Light Magic,” the witch rolled her eyes in despair. “Do you truly believe it so simple?”
“The covens wouldn’t lie.”
“The covens are not what they used to be. A rabble of amateur sorcerers and spellcrafters who think being born with power makes them some kind of divine, as if their magics are not parlour tricks to the old ones.” 
“And what would you know of the old ones?”


4) “You go too far this time. This is murder, not some territory dispute!”
“I told you,” the witch spat. “It wasn’t one of us.”
“It’s your curse - trademark, unmissable. Just look at their veins!”


5) “You are one of the rebel mages,” said the court enchantress. She studied them, eyes cool, taking in that wild, delicious magic that coiled savage and bristling compared to her own sleek control. 
“And you’re a traitor who would turn against their own. Let them enslave you like a trained monkey.” 
The enchantress laughed at that charmingly naive thought, at least so far as it pertained to her. “As opposed to the fool who would infiltrate enemy territory and proceed to insult the person who holds their fate in hand? You could do with some more training, dearest. Monkey or not.”


6) “This type of magic is not for you. It is poisoning you from the inside out, just look at you! You have to stop.”
“I have to save them.” The witch wiped the clammy sweat from her brow, and made an effort to straighten. 


7) Soul mage. The disgust, the horror, shot through them like a shard of ice. 
“No - no - you can’t be-” They tried to move, without success. Every atom in their body seemed ensnared as their enemy flicked their hand, raising them into the air. A lazy show of power. A twist of a finger to make them twirl, some thing to be inspected. They opened their mouth to scream for help, pride be damned.
“No. Hush now,” the soul mage said. 
Their mouth clamped shut, noise choking in their throat. 
They lashed out with their own magic next, but the soul mage’s powers smothered like a wet blanket snuffing flames. 
“You’ll do perfectly,” the soul mage decided. 


8) The power of the covens was absolute. Anyone else was disallowed, hunted, put to death by water or fire. The young witch kept her eyes down, kept herself focused on the salve she’d been tasked with creating, as the Inquisitor strode through the camp - searching for their best and brightest, to join the elite force. To be allowed to leave the circle. The witch could scarcely imagine such a thing as the world outside the coven.


9) “You could put your magic to such good,” they implored. “To such greatness.”
The trickster grimaced and waved a hand to turn the other’s hair blue - as if the manipulation of physical appearance was nothing. It was utterly maddening. Such power, and they refused to do anything other than play the fool. 


10) “Why?” the witch stared at them in disbelief. “Why would you want me? I can’t cast the simplest spell, my potions explode and my cat vomited on my book of enchantments this morning. I can’t do anything right, everyone says so!”
“Every witch can cast a spell. If you can’t, it’s not because you are stupid or weak, it is because there’s something very very wrong with your magic. You have heard of the recent disappearances?”
“You think I have something to do with them!?” 
This day was only getting worse. She should never have dared the universe by thinking it couldn’t get worse.

What You Are According to Your MBTI Type

INTJ: You are the coldest shard of ice, but also the hottest flash of lightning. You are the sofest velvet in a rose petal, and also the sharpest thorns underneath. You’re the terrifying depth to the ocean, and yet you are also the sun twinkling on the waves. You may be the sultriest summer day, but often you choose to be the quiet coldness of a winter morning. You are the calmest logic and also the roil of blood boiling under your skin. Of all these things, INTJ, you are a Paradox.

ENTJ: You are a screaming crowd, the rush of adrenaline pushing you further. The words I will not give up, a business contract with all signatures in place. You are droplets of blood-red ink, and the glint of sunlight off a reflective glass building. You are the gory beauty of a sunset before a storm, the soft certainty of a plant blooming each year. You are a mountain threatening to crumble, and a young tree that refuses to snap in the wind. You, ENTJ, are the confounding fluidity of Strength.

INTP: You are the rapid clicking of a rubix cube under clever fingers, the glint of dark steel, the soft sigh of rain on concrete. You are the flash of unexpected rage, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor as it is pushed hastily back. You are the flipping pages of a textbook, and the squint of eyebrows while reading scrawled writing. It is no wonder that you love asking questions so much, INTP, for you yourself are a Question.

ENTP: You are the flash of an old camera as a photograph is taken. You are the tinest licks of flame in a fireplace, and also the devastating blaze in a forest at the tops of the trees. You are a bright red canvas, washed over with every shade imaginable. You are the blackness of a pupil, going ever deeper in. You are the grafitti I see on street walls as I walk home at night, and the glimmer of icicles on a cold morning. You are the snapping of scissors being suddenly closed, and the sound of ripping fabric as it is pulled apart. You are the irregular motion of fingers tapping against the wooden table. You are both pleasantly warm and dangerously hot, ENTP, because you are Flame incarnate.

INFJ: I see the quiet strength in a mountain side in you, and yet I also see the dangerous temptation of a cliff face. You are the smooth rustling of a stream past rocks, but somewhere you become the roaring power of a waterfall. You are pure white sand and the burning heat on your feet from the sun; I see the softness of vanilla and also the sharpness of peppercorn in you. You are the warmth of the sun on one’s back, and the burning blaze of a desert’s surface. You are power in reserve and power in extremes, you are a dam holding back an entire lake and also the cracks threatening the stone deep beneath the surface. You are mocked as the ‘unicorn’, INFJ, but you prove yourself as something much deeper as the Moment Before a Wave Breaks.

INFP: You are the silken tinkling of water in a cave, and you are the echo of a terrified voice lost somewhere far beyond. You are gentle like a sheet of new paper, yes, but you are the stinging pain of a thousand inflicted papercuts. You are the burst of a flower blooming fast-motion on a camera, and you are the wilted petals underneath. I see the blur of water colours on the white of a desk, and also a room with no visible end or beginning. You are the sudden smile that appears for no reason, and the ugliest frown appearing like a storm. You are early mornings and quiet whispers, but most of all, you are Changes.

ENFJ: You are a mirage; the image of a shallow pool with a thousand feet of water underneath. You are dirt lining the cracks in one’s hands, and the threatening pull of mud under one’s feet. You are the purest feeling of happiness, and you are a maze with level after level. You are a bright blue shirt flipping on a clothesline in the breeze, and you are the flick of a light illuminating a dark room. You go many places and love to see new things, and that is well, for you are an Adventure.

ENFP: You of all others are a perennial favourite. You are the favourite younger sibling in a family, you are the warmth of protection glowing in one’s chest. You are waking up late on a slow day, and you are the beat of a song that plays during work. You are a child skipping rope on the sidewalk, and the wonder of a scientist testing an Element. You are pens scattered on a table in every shade of the rainbow, and the hopeless scrubbing of an eraser over paper. You are notebooks sitting in a shelf unused and half-finished art projects left for a soon-due essay. You, ENFP, are the Glow of Praise.

ISTJ: You are the crisp of white sheets being put on a bed. You are pancakes on a china plate, and black shoes polished to a shine. You are hair in graceful waves, and the graciousness of a smile. You are the furrowing brow of brewing anger, and the sudden splash of cool water on overheated skin. You are the beep of a heart monitor, and the prick of a needle on your finger. I see the quiet, far reaches of the ocean’s surface in you, and the grey shadow of sharks swimming somewhere below. You are not so easily stereotyped as boring, ISTJ; for you are Deep Water, slow to move and full of changes underneath unseen by those on the shore.

ISFJ: You are the glint of a sword being drawn free, and the warm smell of leather. You are the glossiness of a horse’s back, but also the sudden kick of fear. You are tiny smiles and curling fingers; a garden full of colourful flowers. You are the unexpected sting of poison ivy under one’s feet, and the soothing balm of chapstick over cracked, bleeding lips. You are a train rushing forwards, carrying thousands of pounds of cargo. You are the steady thrum of a heartbeat, a yellow ribbon wrapped around a present. You are still water in a vase, and the sudden frustration of broken glass and spilled liquid on the floor. Well are you called a defendor, ISFJ, because you are a Strong Wall, full of the tiny cracks that come with humanity and yet standing strong for all those who need you.

ESTJ: You are the click of an old typewriter’s keys, the soothing hum of a printer completing its task. You are a smile showing teeth, and the biting nip of the cold outside. You are the comfortable feeling of coming home, and a suitcase lying, half-packed, on the floor. You are the beautiful sound of a violin playing, and you are the sobs it so often draws out. You are an army of baked goods resting on a kitchen counter, and the smile on a child’s face. You are the secret desire for untested things, and you are a kind email directed at someone who needs it most. You are always accomplishing things, ESTJ, for you are an accomplishment yourself. Finally, you are spinning in a desk chair unobserved, for you are the Sense of Satisfaction.  

ESFJ: You are the flick of long hair over shoulders. You are gift bags resting on the floor at a party, and the sparkling bubbles of champagne. You are the terrifying shriek of a hurricane and hands wrapped around a warm mug. You are striped colours on a wall and the ticking beat of a watch on one’s wrist. A lively tune on the piano, the blur of 3D movies without glasses. You are the feeling of wandering across a busy city at night, and shaking hands gripping each other. You are as delightful to some as you are strange to others, ESFJ: you are an Unexpected Surprise.

ISTP: You are bubbles rising in a beaker, a baseball slamming into a glove. You are the curl of lazy smoke, and the sheen of sunglasses in the daytime. You are the age-old familiarity of denim, and the crisp cleanness of a white t-shirt. You are a smooth voice making love to the microphone in your hand, and the faint rasp of a speaking voice afterwards. You are a comb moving through hair over and over again, and the yawn unrestricted by a covering hand in a classroom. You are narrowed eyes moments before a game, and the passionate sting of a sudden kiss to the mouth. You and your eagerness, ISTP, are the easy impatience of a Rumbling Engine, desperate to move.

ISFP: You are paint rubbed smudged on a nose, and freckles washed over cheeks. A whisper louder than any scream could be, steam rising from a cup of hot chocolate. You are the bright green of grass in the summertime, and the wilting curl as it shies away in the Autumn. You are a picture of two lovers hugging, their faces absolutely at peace. You are the tossing of a ship in a storm, and the glint of a seashell on damp sand. You are the trusting curl of a child’s hand in your own, and the flash of pain when one bites their tongue. You are Rafflesia arnoldii and Wolffia growing together in a field, some strange combination that manages to be beautiful. You, ISFP, are the Beat of a Dragonfly’s Wings, beautiful and fragile and quick to escape.

ESTP: You are a thousand screaming voices in a stadium, and also the shaking earth underneath. You are a building standing proud and tall, full of life and energy and bustling movement. You are a fist holding the ribbon attached to a medal, and the rumbling growl of a motorcycle’s engine. You are the sting of cold air in the lungs on an early morning, and sparks crackling off a bonfire. You are a tree in the woods, being hacked to the ground, and you are a weed growing rampant in an abandoned garden. You are a force to be reckoned with, ESTP, and a formidable one at that, for you are Determination.

ESFP: You are the twirl of a new dress in the mirror, and the shredding of fabric under a foot. You are a newly polished mirror and shards of a broken glass on the floor. You are the pettiness of envy and also the beauty of magnitude, the gloss over pictures in a magazine and the sound of feet moving on a dance floor. You are the excited shout of a new discovery, and the shattering loss of a loved one. I see the allure of a late night, and the glow of string lights in you, and the rapid beat of a lunar moth’s wings. It is easy to see why you have such quickness in everything, ESFP, for you are Movement.

blue-kitsune  asked:

Albina@Pixel: "My my what a handsome young man you are. I see that you also have blue flames like me. Could you show me more of your moves?" (Albino-arcanine)

Pixelwott had fun showing off his moves for you, but it doesn’t seem like he fell asleep from his actual move Rest. He’s probably pretty tired from trying to show off his moves to the best of his abilities.

@albino-arcanine

Pixel’s moveset has been unlocked on his reference page!

Female INTJ

You are the coldest shard of ice, but also the hottest flash of lightning. You are the softest velvet in a rose petal, and also the sharpest thorns underneath. You’re the terrifying depth to the ocean, and yet you are also the sun twinkling on the waves. You may be the sultriest summer day, but often you choose to be the quiet coldness of a winter morning. You are the calmest logic and also the roil of blood boiling under your skin. Of all these things, INTJ, you are a Paradox.

Battle for a Soul - Voltron fic

So this fic was brought on by rewatching the Azula and Zuko Agni Kai a couple (hundred) times. I cried writing it soooo Please listen to this on repeat if you feel like visualizing Keith and Lance and crying: Last Agni Kai or you can try Reconciliation from the ATLA soundtrack. Feel free to see this as a Klance or friendship fic. 

The only other thing to know is that in this universe, the Paladins have evolved the powers of their lions and that Lance succumbed to his insecurities while Keith was acting as Black Paladin and fell under the sway of Haggar after he was captured.

Rating: T - violence, manipulation

Pairings: Klance (ish)

Tags: S2 continuation, Black Paladin Keith, paladin powers, angst, manipulated Lance

 —————– 

Keith forced the fire in his veins to a dull roar, knowing that he needed Haggar alive, that one move of his sword at her throat would cause him to fail his mission. 

And failure wasn’t something he would accept. 

He rasped at the dark figure, “Give him back to us. Now.“ 

The witch smiled. “All you had to do was ask, halfbreed." 

His hand twitched, correcting itself before something outrageous could happen, like Haggar’s head sailing across the floor. Still, she noticed the weakness and met his gaze, a farcical smile twisting across her thin face. 

Keith kept his gaze impassive and tightened his grip. This was no cat and mouse game. One false move and she’d be dead and Lance’s location lost forever. 

"I’ll call him over. Don’t do anything rash now. You wouldn’t like the consequences.” She turned and cackled into the hall, “We are ready for you, Paladin." 

And Keith froze. Why was Lance just waiting for him? Why would Haggar let him roam free after months of imprisonment? 

A curling wave of danger hit the back of his mind and rolled in his gut and he jumped back just as a spray of sharp ice shards shot out from the dark corridor. 

A familiar figure strolled forward, tall and lanky just had he remembered. But no longer in the white suit of the paladins but the black and purple that he hated so much. He could barely recognize him. 

Lance seemed ethereal, seemed lankier, like he hadn’t been fed, and looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. Considering Haggar had imprisoned him, both were likely. His hair was unkempt, falling into his eyes and long past his ears. 

It could be an imposter if he didn’t instinctively know him, his aura, his quintessence. The part of them connected by Voltron and more, told him that this was their lost friend, shattered by the druids and remade into… something.  

His eyes were the worst, like he wasn’t really seeing anything. Blue chips flinty and cold, no hint of warmth or humor. 

And something else was off. Lance held himself tightly straight but as though his spine was twisted around itself. His head cocked at angle made him seem arrogant. He was not here as a friend. 

As his face was lit up, Keith could see a cruel half-smile. "Keith, you’re not gonna fight back?” Lance bowed his head low and chuckled darkly. “Scared you’ll lose?"  Keith lowered his bayard, fighting the wave of cold fear that overtook him.  

"Lance, what are you doing? I don’t want to fight you!" 

Lance looked up, eyes narrowed with something colder than hatred. It was hard to see in the strange Galran light, but it looked like he was faintly glowing, a dark aura surrounding him. 

Keith glanced over towards the witch to see a similar glow surrounding her hands and that feral grin marring her face.  

"Of course you don’t. Why would Voltron’s best bother with a second-rate cargo pilot, right?" 

He took a step forward, raising his palms just as Coran and Allura had taught them to and the frost that Keith was so used to counting on in battle started to appear on his fingers. 

He quickly put away his bayard and called on the lethal combination of powers he had acquired: controlling the air as the Black Paladin, and summoning fire as the Red. 

He could barely stop himself from growling.  "Lance, listen to me, please. Haggar is using you! She’s done something to you! Come back to Voltron! You’re ours! Our Blue Paladin! Open your eyes!" 

Before he had finished he had to throw himself back to avoid the barrage of ice sent his way. Lance laughed again, panting even though he had barely moved. "But Keith, that’s exactly what she did for me. She opened my eyes to see that Voltron will NEVER need me when they have YOU!" 

And Lance shut his mouth and ran at him, summoning a wave of dark water that Keith barely beat away with a gust of cold wind. 

Before he could do anything, a second wave came from behind him and smothered him, wild currents pulling him to the ground in a whirlpool. Keith struggled, trying to hold as much air in as he could. He gathered his strength and moved his arms outwards to create a crest of fire, blasting the water away.  

Without thinking he punched his fist out, shocked, and a funnel of red flames hit Lance on his chest, too fast to dodge. The former paladin fell a few feet away before he rose again, baring his teeth, eyes glittering dangerously. 

Haggar hissed from her spot by the wall, "You see, don’t you, they want you dead! They want you gone, just as I told you.” Lance stood with his head down, trembling terribly for a long minute. He looked like he was fighting tears. 

Haggar spoke again, “Quickly! Finish him before he kills you!" 

Keith shouted out, "No, Lance, don’t listen!" 

But it was too late, the other teen lifted his head out of shadow, sneering. He staggered forward, gasping, and Keith realized then that the aura he’d seen wasn’t imaginary. It was still there, darker and brighter at the same time, more tangible than before. 

Haggar wasn’t giving Lance more power, more strength. She was stealing it from him, taking it from his very life force. That’s why Lance was stronger than he’d ever been…. and why he was falling apart, taking deep huffing breaths and barely keeping his balance as he threw out punishing attacks. 

"NO! LANCE!" 

It took all his strength to block the ice that flew at him, and even then some of it had stuck him through the thigh. Keith burned it away, ignoring the stream of blood oozing down his leg as he realized he’d need to overwhelm Lance if he had any chance of saving him. 

But he didn’t have water, or earth, or plant life, something he could use to somewhat gently stun Lance. His weapons were all fury and danger. He could steal the breath away from him. He could burn him. And he’d have to or Lance would literally fight to his death. 

Haggar was trying to kill Keith at any cost. 

Keith dodged again, and again, and again. He had no choice and finally kicked out, creating a vortex of flame that flew too fast for Lance to dodge. 

The paladin barely managed to erect an ice barrier but the fire licked up his arms and the sleeves of his armor briefly. Lance shrieked and stumbled back, before tearing at his clothes and screaming at Keith. 

"I knew it,” he grit out, using his ice to briefly soothe his burning arms. Tears slid down his cheeks. and his face was twisted with anger and pain. “I knew she was right. That you all wanted me out. That YOU wanted me out!" 

Lance laughed again, a bitter high-pitched wail that was almost a cry. Keith took a step forward before being forced back from Haggar’s lightning. 

"It’s not like that. She’s killing you, Lance!” He felt droplets burn their way down his cheeks. He could barely speak from the smoke and ash, his own emotion drowning him. 

Lance looked up slowly, his face lit with a grim smile and shattered eyes. Body swaying but voice soft and steady. 

“Let’s end this, Keith."  

No. 

No. 

He grasped for anything, any memory to convince Lance that he was trying to save him, but the witch had a grasp too strong to fight: Lance’s mind was infected and had been over the months he’d been missing. It would take twice as long to heal him, save him from the darkness. 

Keith could only pray that they’d make it out alive now. 

And the battle began again, harsher and faster. 

Lance attacked, fell, stood, was burned, and attacked again. He stopped talking and just stared with those accusing eyes. 

No self-preservation, no defense, just careless aggression. 

Keith teetered on the edge of panic. He had to save his friend. He had no way to save his friend. Shards of ice ripped into him, making sharp cuts and stabbing his face, his arms, his legs. Every hit from his fellow paladin carved into his heart. 

Finally Lance raised a hand, cradling in it an orb glowing an eerie blue-white. 

And Keith felt that instinctual warning not to let Lance attack with that. That the quintessence lost would finish Lance, forever, and possibly him. 

So he took a long breath and pushed past all the distractions, past the worry whether Allura and Hunk had succeeded in rescuing Shiro, or whether Pidge, Coran, and Matt were fending off the Galra. 

He found the fabric of his courage inside him and wrapped it around his heart in one moment. Then Keith let it go with a desperate scream, wrapping hot air around burning fire, creating a bomb and flinging it at Lance and Haggar. 

As soon as he threw it, he could see the reflection in the pinpoint of Lance’s eye, the fear, and he ran after it, praying that the other paladin would draw an ice-shield up somehow. 

But it struck the Blue Paladin too fast in a torrent of wind and flame. Haggar shrieked as the heat and fire washed over her too and he lost track of her, focused on Lance. 

He was covered in burns, red shine and sooty skin on his hands, arms, and face, Galra armor seared off, and barely awake, barely alive. 

He couldn’t move at all, and only cried out in anger, gasping, unable to stop from crying, the hurts in his mind as bad as his physical injuries. 

Keith’s own voice was barely there, as he cradled Lance and rasped into his helmet. "Coran, we need immediate extraction. I-I’ve got Lance. But you need to hurry. It’s touch and go right now." 

And he waited for his team, all of his focus on his friend, on the sighs and sobs, trying to sooth them with quiet hushes.