Guys!! Imagine Keith adapting to Lance’s love for beauty products.
Like Keith isn’t super into facials, makeup or anything involving beautifying oneself but just imagine Lance blabbing about it all the time because he’s super into it and Keith listening to his boyfriend talk about these things he’s into because he just loves hearing Lance talk about things he loves!!
Imagine him asking questions about it and Lance being super excited to teach Keith about the world of beauty products.
Imagine Keith doing facials with Lance and Lance explaining the dos and don'ts of facials while Keith smiles like a dork.
Imagine Keith asking Allura for help on beauty products to buy and Allura being like “I didn’t know you liked this stuff.” And Keith being like “It’s not my thing but Lance likes them so I want to get him something”
Imagine Keith getting Lance little gifts and Lance being like !!! because his boyfriend actually listens to his blabber and he just kinda cries cuz he has the best bf ever.
On the other hand, imagine Lance getting into things Keith likes!!
Imagine Lance watching conspiracy documents with his dork of a boyfriend and being super confused but happy to spend time with Keith
Imagine Lance asking Keith about Mothman and the Moon Landing and Keith excitedly rambling about it and pulling up a laptop to give Lance a two hour lecture on why Kothman is real and the Moon Landing was fake and Lance just being like “Ohmygosh my boyfriend is so cute”
Imagine Lance researching conspiracies and sending them to Keith to get his opinion on it.
Imagine Hunk going “Wow Lance, when did you get into conspiracy theories and cryptids and Lance going “Tbh I don’t understand them at all but Keith loves them and I love him so”
Imagine Lance making Keith a Mothman plushy and Keith crying for three hours straight, he loves it and it’s now their son.
Just imagine space boyfriends engaging in each other’s interest even if they don’t understand anything about it and supporting each other
You see a sentence
written in cyrillic. Some of the letters are familiar. You see the
meaning shimmering underneath the surface. You almost grasp it, but it slips away. The letters on the page mock you silently.
You know this Czech word. You’ve already learnt it in Polish. It is not the same word. It is a grave insult. Your slavic friends are shocked and embarassed for you when they hear you speak it.
There is a sentence in
Croatian. There is a sentence in Serbian. There is a sentence in
Bosnian. They are all the same sentence.
You have to write about your day in Slovak. You spend the night polishing the draft. You fail your assigment. It’s written in Czech. You don’t know Czech.
P is not what it seems. You have to remember that.
The Croatian sentence
does not mean what the Bosnian sentence means. They both mean the same in Serbian.
That word has a diminutive. The diminutive has its own diminutive. The diminutive of the diminutive also has a diminutive. Nobody knows what the final diminutive of a word is. Some say the knowledge had been lost in centuries past and matrioshkas are the echo, the tangible warning left for us to remember. No living creature should hold the means of diminishing something into nonexistence. Others say you may still find some of them in old soviet textbooks, if you dare to look in abandoned schools of Chernobyl.
Someone is speaking to you. Is that a he or a she? You aren’t sure. It’s an abstract concept. Why does it have gender.
You see a word in a
dictionary. It has seventeen letters and only one vowel. You close the dictionary very carefully not
looking at the phonetic transcription. The shape of it haunts you in
your sleep. You wake
up face damp with tears, a bitter taste on your tongue. The clock blinks 3:03AM. You do not dare look up that word again.
This word means the
same thing in the five slavic languages you’re familiar with. You use
it in the sixth one. That word does not exist in this language. It never
did. There is now a word-shaped void in the fabric of this language.
The natives look at you uneasily. There is a new quality to the silence and your palms start to sweat.
H is not H. H is not H. H is not H. H is not H.
One day you flip through your dictionary. A page is missing. What was the word? You can’t remember. There is pressure building at the back of your head. The clock blinks 3:03AM.
You write my name
is in cyrillic. There are shadows dancing on the walls. They grow
longer with each letter you write down. It is not cyrillic you’re
using. You keep writing my name is. The shadows now bleed from
the tip of your pen. It’s irrelevant. You need to remember the right
N is not N is not N is
not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N
is not… If only you could remember the letters. The letters are important. What was it, that wasn’t N?
There are nine different prefixes
you can add to a verb to change its meaning. There are fifty three different suffixes you have to add to a verb to make it
work. In the end the only thing left of the original is a vague shape
of one of its middle consonants.
You can feel the anguish radiating from the verb’s mutialted form. A desperate sob escapes through your clenched teeth.
You’re so, so sorry, you didn’t meant to. You didn’t. It doesn’t matter.
You now read a text in
Russian. You’ve never learnt Russian. Why are you reading that text? The words burn your eyes,
the meaning searing your mind.
There’s a shot of vodka in front of
you. You don’t drink alcohol. You don’t care. All existence is
meaningless, your soul’s in eternal pain. A broken matrioshka lays at your feet. There is no salvation, she says boring into your eyes. You open your mouth to answer, but there is only a burst of harsh rustle. It dies in whispering echoes a moment later. Your glass is empty again.