Fang Xin Guoshi

they would NOT fucking have communication skills that good

who decided we could package all of this pain into a box and call it family? and call it love?

Keith knows, truthfully and entirely objectively, that his life has improved since he started dating Lance. Obviously. There is no disputing this fact if nature. His attitude has mellowed, his days are brighter, his nights are even better, his crops are watered his skin is clear et cetera et cetera. (Literally, on that last one, since Lance is sneaky with his product).

…However.

There are setbacks.

Like right now, where he’s been pushed so far to the edge of the bed that he’s actually holding his breath to avoid being squished against that wall like a new coat of paint. So.

He loves his boyfriend. Seriously. He’s slept more in the months they’ve been seeing each other than he has in his entire life combined, actually. It’s insane. There’s something about Lance pressed up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs, nose barely peeking above his shoulder to let in some air (seriously how does he do that; Keith has watched him and he has, like, maybe one nostril available for oxygen intake. The rest of his face is smooshed against Keith’s upper arm and pec. And he’s got the blanket up to his ears, too. Does Lance not need to breathe for long periods of time? Like a dolphin? Keith will have to ask) that just makes sleeping actually relaxing, for once. Like maybe he doesn’t have to stay half awake, like maybe he can actually trust himself to be safe in his own bed. It’s an incredible feeling, to finally feel well-rested in the mornings.

He does. However. Feel the ittiest, tiniest bit like he’s sleeping with a corset on. And being hydraulic pressed into the corner of the room. If he has to pick something to be nitpicky about, he means.

“Lance, c’mon,” he mutters, exhaling finally. Lance, who is mostly asleep based on the growing puddle of drool Keith feels wetting his sleep shirt, takes the opportunity to squeeze tighter like a goddamn python. “Can you move over a little bit? I’m up against the wall, I got no room to breathe —”

The human corset suddenly lets up, and Keith can breathe again.

So he does.

Perhaps a touch dramatically, with the bug gasping inhale or whatever.

(Look, he’s not perfect. He’s quite comfortable blaming Shiro’s influence, actually.)

“Thank you,” he huffs. He takes a few deep breaths, feeling the twinge in one of his ribs; tender from an injury he has yet to admit he has. (It’s fine. He checked. It’s barely even bruised mostly, he’s good. It’ll handle itself or become a Future Keith problem, so.) He curses under his breath as he stretches a bit, taking advantage of the space.

He frowns. “Wait, what?”

He sits up, confused as to why his spider monkey boyfriend is not in his immediate presence. It takes a second for his bleary eyes to adjust to the half-light of their bedroom, but eventually he manages and looks over and Lance is — Lance is on the goddamn floor. The blanket is with him. And four pillows.

“Lance.”

Keith bites his lip. This is either a bit or a very delicate situation, and if it’s the latter and he laughs then he’s very much in the doghouse, and for all his complaining he would much rather spend the night suffocating than alone. Much rather.

“Aw, Lance, come on.”

Unfortunately, his voice shakes, and he can’t quite tamp down his snorts and giggles, as much as he tries to muffle them.

Lance doesn’t speak, but Keith can almost physically taste his frown. His pout practically has its own atmosphere, it’s so potent.

“Hey.”

Keith gets to his knees, half-shuffling across the mattress. He leans over the edge, closer to Lance’s curled up form, and raises an eyebrow, amused. “Leandro. You are not being serious right now.”

The silence continues to grow. Keith can almost feel an actual chill, there’s so much iciness leaking from Lance right now.

(He also has the only blanket, but whatever. Tomato tomato.)

“Baby.”

“If you never want to sleep with me again that’s fine,” Lance says tersely. Keith rolls his eyes, head in his hands. “The floor is lovely. I’d rather be here than anywhere near your stinky mullet anyway.”

Keith sighs, long and heavy, steeling himself for the inevitable back pain he is going to have tomorrow morning. The things he does for love.

“You are the most dramatic man alive. Scoot over.”

Caught off guard, Lance uncurls, looking over at Keith in confusion.

Keith grins. “There are those pretty brown eyes.”

The pretty brown eyes in question are still squinted in suspicion, but Keith was expecting that. He moves as casually as he can manage, even trying his luck by humming something Lance was listening to earlier, picking up the edge of the blanket and sliding in behind his boyfriend, flat on the floor, arms winding around his waist and head bent at the junction of his shoulder. Lance is still tense, but allows Keith in his space, thankfully. Keith was half worried he’d stomp away to go sleep with Hunk.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to Lance’s neck and lingering there, making his boyfriend shiver as his lips tickle his skin. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Just feeling a little claustrophobic.”

Lance softens, but only barely. “You can tell me to back off, you know. I will.”

There’s still an undertone of hurt to his voice, a backing of insecurity. Keith tightens his grip, shaking his head.

“No. Don’t want that.”

Lance makes a frustrated noise. “Well, then what do you want, Mr. Mixed Signals?”

“You.” He traces an invisible line down the side of Lance’s neck with his mouth, kissing and biting slightly, relishing in every little twitch of Lance’s shoulders. “Duh.”

“No, not ‘duh’,” Lance argues, but his voice has gone weak. “You’re a pain in my ass. Do you want to be cuddled or not, Red?”

Bingo. Keith fights a smirk at the nickname, knowing he fails when Lance sighs, but the slide of his hands to rest on top of Keith’s bely his amusement, his fading irritation.

“Course I do,” Keith promises. His kisses the back of Lance’s neck again, but it’s softer this time; no underlying motives. An assurance, a promise. “I just. You know. Would also like twelve percent more space to inflate my lungs, if that’s okay.”

Lance snorts. Keith grins.

“You’re such a goober.”

“You’re the goober, actually. The pile of drool on my shoulder proves it.”

He feels more than sees Lance’s neck go red. Keith snickers. Lance hates when Keith brings up the drooling and for that he will literally never ever stop.

“I hope you wake up in agony.”

“Oh, I will, thanks to your hissy fit.”

Lance kicks his heel into Keith’s shin because he’s a shithead. Keith takes it without complaint because he’s the biggest whipped loser of all time and he’s well aware of it.

“We can go back to the bed, you know,” Lance offers eventually, although he makes no effort to move.

Keith yawns. “Nah.” He rests his head on the top of Lance’s spine, tangling their legs together. “I’m good where you are.”

———

based off this post

the nickname

[789 words]

Kirishima didn’t mean to let the nickname slip. He really didn’t.

It was a slip of the tongue. Yes, he often referred to his best bro in his own mind as such, but he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Kirishima had barged into Bakugo’s room earlier that evening for their weekly hangout. Since first year, the two boys had slowly become attached at the hip, and now in their third year they had developed an unspoken rule that Sunday nights were Bakubro and Kiri hangout nights (or, at least that's how Kirishima referred to them). They settled on playing a mean game of Mario Kart tonight, both boys' competitive sides on full display. Normally, Bakugo was the one bringing home the first place title. Kirishima, of course always trying to win, didn’t mind when Bakugo won–he was just so cute with an arrogant fire in his eyes and that feral smirk on his lips.

Kirishima had been sitting on the floor with his long legs outstretched towards the TV (he had grown to be significantly taller than his best friend, much to Bakugo’s dismay) leaning against the bed. Bakugo himself was on the bed above Kirishima, slowly inching towards the edge of the bed in his cross-legged position as he got more and more invested in the game.

It was the fourth and final track of the circuit and Bakugo was up two wins to Kirishima’s one, looking like Bakugo was going to secure his reign for a fifth week in a row. Except… Bakugo was having a lot of issues with the CPUs this round. It was honestly really funny to watch him rage at the game, and Bakugo was doing well enough that Kirishima was still expecting him to win.

“There is no fucking way, I was just hit with a green shell! There is no way that was the full cool down time! Stop laughing, shitty hair, you know that was absolute bull!”

Kirishima could not stop laughing at his best friend’s reaction to his perceived injustice. They were both nearing the end, with them and all of the CPUs neck and neck. Somehow, Kirishima was able to pull ahead into first place, and right before Bakugo was about to cross the finish line for second place he was hit with another red shell.

“Are you fucking serious?! There is no way, I was totally about to cross the finish line! Fourth?? I got fourth place?!? You did not deserve this win, idiot.”

Kirishima threw his head back in his laughter, eyes watering and abs hurting. He heard Bakugo growl above him and felt him shift–wait, since when were they close enough…?

Opening his eyes, Kirishima realized he’d essentially thrown his head back straight into Bakugo’s lap. Fire red eyes met the darker burgundy of the ones above him. There were traces of a scowl on his face, no doubt from the loss, but Kirishima was met with mostly surprise from his best friend above him.

The blinds were open, letting the golden rays of sunset stream through the window. Kirishima had never thought much about the positioning of the dorms, but in that moment he was thanking every deity he could list that they were facing west. The light reflected beautifully off the blonde locks hanging over Bakugo’s face as it tilted towards him. The rays filtering through his luminated hair refracted through the reds of his eyes. Bakugo naturally ran warm, a side effect of his quirk which could be felt by the boy in his lap. His strong calf and quad muscles had tensed when a head first landed in his lap, but, and to Kirishima’s surprise, they were relaxing into the comforting weight.

There was little Kirishima could do other than stare up at the beautiful sight above him.

“...’Tsuki…”

“...Huh?”

He hadn’t realized anything had come out of his mouth until the boy above him twisted his face in confusion and replied. Kirishima flushed, immediately trying to backpedal. “Oh! Sorry, sorry, I’ll…” He moved to lean his head upright and shift away, not wanting to make his best friend uncomfortable.

He couldn’t, though. Not with a hand in his hair.

Steeling himself (ready to harden himself for an explosive reaction, literally) he looked back up into the eyes of the boy he more than likely had just crossed a line with. When he met the other’s eyes, however, he was shocked to find a hint of a smile on Bakugo’s face and… was that a blush?

“The moon to your sun, huh? I–I like it.”

He felt his face split open into the widest smile Kirishima could possibly handle, reaching his hand up to join the one holding his hair gently.

“Alright then, ‘Tsuki.”

im very late for valentines day but heres a comic about confessing

beef & leaf 🫶🫶🫶

but ghost king doesn't swea--- *dragged away by ruoye*