#my house turning into a disaster (and failing) plus my own adhd or whatever i have going on not meshing well with my fiancée's brainweird

[badass-sunshine]

almost halfway through nano

progress is. slow.

[itsteaveetime]

//And here’s fic #2: general post-factory Mike/Veruca.//

He likes girls.  That’s not the problem.

Well, it is a little bit of a problem, but an extremely embarrassing audio book his mom got him, that includes chapters such as ‘Why Am I Sweaty?’, and a general internet inquiry has assured him it’s a normal sort of problem.  That even though Ethel said ‘breast’ the other night, entirely in the context of chicken, and as a result, he has felt like he might die for almost two days now, he probably won’t.  At least: not of that.

What’s probably not normal is a Russian oligarch on his knees in a front hallway in Normalton, Idaho with his checkbook clasped pleadingly in both hands.

“Pleasssssssssse Mrs. Television,” Oleg Salt begs, despite the fact that they have both told him several times that their last name is not ‘Television’.  “You must make him be reasonable.”

Ethel barks out a laugh, because there is no making Mike do anything.  There is especially no making Mike do this.

“I will pay you whatever you wish,” Mr. Salt continues.  “You do not know what she is like.”

Mike thinks he might have a pretty good idea, and also: the man is not helping himself out saying stuff like that. 

“It is all she asks for,” Mr. Salt confides.  “And such a little thing-...”

Mike bristles, the corners of his mouth turning down into a frown.

“...a small request!” Oleg clarifies hurriedly.  “One tiny little dinner with my Veruska.  That is all!  What do you say?”

The man’s eyes dart desperately from Mike to his mother.  So Veruca Salt hasn’t changed much since the Wonka tour.  Mike, in his opinion, hasn’t changed much either.

Well.  He is shorter.

But no longer small enough to be picked up against his will and shoved in a purse, so what does he care?  He doesn’t.  There’s no such thing as height on the internet.

But a boy cannot live on internet alone, no matter how he tries.

And it’s been a couple years now, since Wonka’s, and you’d think (at least, Mike would have thought) that the media would have forgotten about them by now.  You know: the losers.  Because that’s what they are: Gloop.  Teavee.  Beauregarde.  Salt.  Golden ticket losers.

And yet the paparazzi still insist on photographing him every time he leaves the house (even as infrequent as that is).  On detailing just how short he remains.  On judging his fashion choices (which are lit, shut up).  On speculating.

They aren’t interested in interviewing him (and he wouldn’t let them anyway), all they want to do is snap, snap, snap his picture.

Not a lot happens in Idaho, okay?  He’s not sure if it’s the same for the rest of them.  He’s been ignoring them as hard as he possibly can.

But it’s no mystery, at least, how Salt knows he’s still out there, not dead or anything.  

“You’ll pay anything?” Mike asks.

Ethel shoots him a look.

“Michael,” she chastises.  But he can see her eyeing Mr. Salt’s checkbook too.  They aren’t poor, but a teacher’s salary doesn’t go as far as it could, and Mike has expensive taste in electronics and sneakers.

They settle, eventually, on Mr. Salt making a donation to the school where Ethel teaches that will keep her and her colleagues in school supplies for at least a few years, and a ‘college fund’ for Mike, which is dumb, because he isn’t going to college, but at least when he turns eighteen he can do whatever he wants with it.  

All that, just for going on a date with a girl.  Mike should (Mike thinks) go on dates with girls more often.

Of course, Mike has never actually been on a date before.  Mike has never had dinner with a girl who wasn’t his mother.  Mike has never been alone in a room with a girl who wasn’t his mother.

He reflects on this as he rides in Salt’s ridiculously large limousine, and then after that in the man’s private jet.  Mr. Salt does not try to force conversation with them, which Mike appreciates.  The man conducts business on his phone.  Mike does the same on his iPad, although his business consists mainly of owning someone on reddit and playing Candy Crush.  Ethel pops a Valium and has a cocktail and is out like a light.  It’s pretty blissful.  Plus, Oleg Salt is rich enough that they don’t have to deal with visas or whatever, and (considering some of the stuff Mike has done) that might otherwise have been an issue.    

It still takes about a day to get to Russia, and Mike does briefly entertain the idea that they are being kidnapped, but whatever.  It’s not like they had anything better to do.

The Salt estate is impressive.  And Mike is not a boy easily impressed.  He and his mother are shown to guest rooms that are probably bigger than their entire house, and Ethel tries to convince him to change into a nice button down shirt, or ‘smart’ sweater, and fails.  He shows up at the dining room in his usual baggy joggers, converse sneakers, snap back cap, and hoodie.  And then it’s just him and Veruca.

The dinning table is huge, but only the very end of it has been set.  The lighting is dim, but Mike can see that she is already seated at the head of the table.  It feels like it takes forever, but eventually he is seated next to her, in front of way more forks than he knows what to do with.

And he has no idea what to say.

He has never not known what to say before.  Words have always just come out of his mouth without having to think about them (much to a lot of people’s chagrin).  This is different, for some reason.

Veruca Salt is...pretty.

And Mike Teavee is not prepared.  

He had known, even at twelve, that she was.  Blond hair, blue eyes, pink dress: all stereotypically and obviously pretty.  At twelve, he hadn’t cared about that.

She isn’t dressed like a ballerina now.

Her blond hair is a little shorter and straighter, but still the same bright tone.  Her clothes are simple, but obviously expensive: a white turtleneck sweater in some sort of furry material, and designer jeans.  She’s more or less the same shape, and a little bit taller, but it’s her face, mostly, that makes his mind go blank.  It’s less childish.  He wonders, suddenly, if his own is.  He feels like she looks older than he does.  Next to her, he feels like a kid.

“Hey,” he says, lamely.

“I am so pleased,” she purrs, her long dark lashes fluttering, “that you have decided to join me, Michael.”

Something flutters in his stomach, and then his chest, and then definitely tries to escape out of his throat.  He in no way recalls eating any insects or anything.

“Uh,” he replies, brilliantly.

She smirks behind her water glass.

“We have much in common, you and I,” she tells him.

“Oh,” he says.  “Yeah?”

Because he’s not sure what, exactly, they have in common at all.  Ballet, for instance, is super lame.  And he’s not sure how she feels about squirrels now, but he’s definitely never liked anything small and furry.  Or big and furry, for that matter.

On the flip side, Russian social media is like years behind America’s, and he doesn’t get the impression she games or is interested in computers at all.

“But there will be time to discuss after we eat,” she says.

Mike does not have an adventurous palate, and an impressive selection of mostly unidentifiable food-stuffs is placed in front of him, and Veruca selects a single fork out of the twenty they each have to choose from, and he grasps desperately for something, anything familiar.

“Do you have ketchup?” He asks.

She looks at him like he might be crazy.

“Do you ask me,” she asks, “if we have ketchup in Russia, or if there is ketchup now?”

He stares down at his plate, and no, he doesn’t know if anything on it is supposed to be eaten with ketchup, but he likes ketchup.

“...know you have ketchup in Russia,” he mumbles.

This date is a disaster.

She rings for someone, and a bottle of Russian ketchup is placed in front of him, and he still doesn’t know where to start with the cutlery, or how to turn this around.  She stares at him expectantly.

“I...” he says.

“Yes?” She prompts.

“Uh,” he grunts.

“...,” she responds.

“I’veneverbeenonadatebeforeandIdunnowhatyouwantmetodo, okay?!?!?” He blurts.

She bursts out laughing.  Her hand flies to her chest.  Her eyes are squeezed shut and tearing up with mirth.  She practically falls out of her chair.

“You think this is date?” She manages to gasp.

“Uh.  Isn’t it?” He asks, numbly.

She laughs even harder, and he feels like he might be shrinking all over again,

“Your...you dad said...,” he mumbles.

“Oh, my papa,” she giggles, wiping her eyes delicately with her finger.  “What has he done?”

Mike says nothing.  Mike stares down at what is probably the most expensive plate of food that has ever been put in front of him.  She snaps her fingers in front of his nose.

“Michael Television...,” she says.

“Not my na-ame,” he moans.

“This is business meeting.  I have business proposal for you.”

He looks up, because as much as he wants to die (no chicken involved) that’s...interesting.

“Mr. Wonka,” she says.  “He has done the both of us...wrong.”

She adjusts the neck of her sweater, and he remembers suddenly: she was ripped apart.  If no one’s ever the same after they’ve been on television, they definitely aren’t after they’ve been ripped apart and put back together.  It hasn’t been an easy couple of years for him: he’s still physically stunted.  It probably hasn’t been easy for her, either.  Her scars are probably a lot more visible.

“So what’re you saying?” He asks.  She has his complete attention, and with his ADHD, that’s saying something.

“I want to make him...how do you say...regret this,” she says.

“Like: revenge,” he asks, dubiously.  Because as tempting as that sounds, even he knows that’s not a great idea.  Who knows what that nut job would do to them?

“No-no,” she insists, waving the idea off.  “Well...not like that.  But our own revenge.  I wish to do something to make Mr. Wonka see that he is wrong about us.  That we are not bad.”

Mike looks down at his hands, because he’s not entirely sure he isn’t bad, but still: the idea is quickly growing on him.

“You are smart,” she says.  And then, raising an eyebrow: “At least: I think you are.”

“I am smart,” he says, simply and confidently, because this is something he at least knows about himself without question.

“Good,” she tells him.  “This is what I need.”

It’s a lot easier to talk to her, after that, when he knows where he stands.  They brainstorm for hours, their heads bent close together, their words quick and excited, and this...

He hasn’t felt like this in a long time.  It’s good.

They have a plan by the end of the evening.  They’re going to do something: something amazing.  Something so amazing that even Wonka won’t be able to call them bad, or losers: not anymore.  He can see it all in his head, and she has the money, and the social skills, and the ambition to make it real.

“You are smart,” she says, as he is leaving.

“Told you,” he says, with a smirk and shrug.

She catches his hand in hers.

“You are also cute,” she whispers.

He floats back to America because they’re really going to do something and she thinks he’s cute.

[efrondeur]

bubbly by albino_yeti

Words:  Pairing: Keith/Lance Tags: Summary: It's unbelievable just how lucky Keith is that he gets to date Lance.

Read on: AO3 or below!

For @wtinart who is my @voltronsecretvalentine  

I hope you like it!

“Y’know. If I told my younger self I’d be dating you, I think I’d be on the floor laughing before I even finished my sentence,” says Lance. His fingers twirl around the ends of Keith’s hair.

Keith lets a breath of laughter out from his nose. He squirms a bit in Lance’s lap, trying to get into a position that gives more support to his head. Lance’s fingers leave his hair for a moment, resuming once Keith settles.

“Yeah. Same here. Actually, I think my old self would just go find you and punch you.”

Lance laughs, shaking Keith’s head. “True.”

There’s a small thud above him. Keith opens one eye; Lance’s now resting his head against the wall behind them. He watches a deep breath fill Lance’s chest, stay for a moment, and escape.

“God, I was so dumb,” says Lance.

“Just you?” asks Keith.

“I mean, I was the one that always egged you on.”

“Yeah, but I rose to it.”

Lance let’s stifled laugh, maneuvering his head to face Keith. “You rise to everything,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

Keith rolls his eyes good naturedly, trying and absolutely failing to hide a smile. Instead, he turns, facing their room.

They’re on their bed, Lance sitting on a pillow while Keith uses his lap as his own. From here, Keith has full view of the disaster that is their room. Lance’s clothes are everywhere. There are a couple main piles in the corner and next to their full body mirror. Three out of the five drawers of their dresser are half open, a shirt half pulled out of one.

A towel is laying in the middle of their floor; it’s the one Keith threw when he settled into the bed with Lance, finished with drying his hair after his shower. The Chair is stacked high with clean clothes. Pieces of their armor are scattered about, red and blue mixing just well enough to undoubtedly create an abundance of confusion later.

Generally, their room is a lot better than this, always kept in pristine condition; Lance likes keeping it nice and orderly, but his ADHD has been acting up more than usual, not letting him get past throwing a few dirty clothes into the hamper before making him scurry off to do something else. Had it been anything else, Keith would have poked fun at him, asking when he was gonna get his ass in gear and clean their house, but ADHD is a tricky thing and he knows how much it tends to bother Lance himself, so he keeps quiet.

“Hey,” says Lance, voice sounding a ways away.

Keith turns back to him. His shoulders are slumped slightly, but he’s not upset; he’s lost in thought, eyes drifting up to the ceiling as a curious look comes over his face.

“What if I hadn’t confessed to you that night?” says Lance.

“After that huge battle on Killiat? The one where you nearly got yourself killed trying to block a bullet for me?”

“Yeah. Like, do you think we’d even be together right now?”

Lance’s hands slowly still in Keith’s hair, too lost in his thoughts to keep twirling it around his fingers.

“I… I don’t really know.” Keith pauses, thinking.

Would they be together? It’s been almost two years since that battle happened. Since Lance ran up to him afterwards, wrapping Keith in a tight hug, trembling as sobs wracked his body, burying his head into Keith’s shoulder, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Keith had frozen then, unsure of what Lance meant. He’d seen Lance tell Hunk he loved him numerous times, but they both assured him it was platonic.

Then Lance had kissed his neck, wet and gross as tears spilled from his eyes. Kissed his jaw as he pulled away from the hug. Opened his eyes, silently asking Keith for permission before pressing a kiss to his lips, one so full of meaning, so full of love, so full of every emotion possible that it still makes Keith’s knees weak.

He had always thought that the media lied when they said that you could feel fireworks when you kissed someone you loved.

They didn’t. They really didn’t.

Keith’s heart had stuttered before it burst in his chest. A pleasant, light warmth had spread to every nook and cranny of his body, fireworks shooting off behind his eyelids with just a simple press of the lips.

Lance moved away quickly, entirely too quickly for Keith. It was exactly how their first kiss turned into a makeout session, turned into the others yelling for them to go get a room.

Had Lance not done that, not putting an action behind their apparently mutual feelings… Keith isn’t sure what would’ve happened. That’s two long years of possible touches, flirts, confessions.

“I don’t really know,” says Keith. “I definitely don’t think we would be able to go through two years of just liking each other. It would have reached a crescendo at some point, but I have no idea when or how.”

“Yeah,” says Lance, still kind of dazed. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Yeah,” says Keith, voice soft.

“God, I would’ve picked so many more fights with you until that happened.” Lance chuckles.

Keith cocks his head, brows pinching together. “Why did you do that? Pick so many fights. What came out of that?”

Lance looks down to him, gaze soft and fond. He shrugs a shoulder, a light flush gracing his cheeks. “You were cute when you got mad.”

Keith scoffs.

“You were! You still are. Your face gets all scrunched up, your nose wrinkles, and you get this - this passion, this fire in your eyes. Even if it was something menial, you always cared so much, despite constantly acting like you didn’t give a shit. And then your cheeks get all red, and your body would be this just line of tension that I’d always want to massage out. And I just, ugh, you’re so cute.”

Okay, fuck. Lance is so goddamn adorable.

Keith turns away, facing the room again, trying to hide just how hot his face feels. Plus the smile he’s trying to hold back is poking through and he doesn’t want to give Lance the satisfaction.

“I’m not cute,” mumbles Keith. “I’m sexy. ”

“Sure thing, baby.”

Keith clicks his tongue raising a hand to lightly hit Lance in the stomach with the back of his hand. “Fuck off.”

“Hmm… nah.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Keith turns back to him, a smile forcing its way onto his face. “No, I don’t.”

Lance smiles as well, bringing a hand up to boop Keith on the nose. Keith scrunches his nose, eyes closing.

“See? Cute. ”

“Eat my ass.”

There’s no noise, and it’s way too fucking suspicious. Keith opens his eyes, seeing Lance smirking above him, teeth showing in all their glory. “Oh my god, Lance.”

Lance throws his head back, laughing, shoulders shaking with each sound, each inhale. Keith smiles at him.

He has such a cute boyfriend. How in the hell did he get so lucky?

Lance wipes at his eyes, still laughing. “C’mon man, you can’t open that door and expect me not to do anything about it.”

Keith rolls his eyes good naturedly, not saying a word.

Lance leans over him, smiling before he pats Keith’s thigh. Keith sits up a bit, just enough to lift himself off of Lance’s lap. Lance swings his legs over, feet joining Keith’s at the end of the bed, as he lays down next to Keith.

He rests his head on the pillow, arm bent under it, using at support.

Keith lays back down, turning onto his side to face Lance. Lance boops his nose again. Keith kisses the tip of Lance’s nose in retaliation.

Lance’s eyes slip closed as Keith pulls back, settling down into the bed. A contented smile spreads across his face.

God, he looks so beautiful. His brown hair has grown in the past couple years, bangs cascading down his face, stubble gracing his jaw. Freckles dot his face, centered on his nose and cheekbones, with a couple stragglers here and there. A scar strikes through his right eyebrow, a result of a well placed punch by a Galran soldier to a helmet-less Lance.

His body has filled out a lot since they started dating. His hips had grown slightly wider, accommodating his broad shoulders. More defined muscles poked through the sleeves of his shirt. The rest of his baggy shirt hides the abs Keith knows are underneath, as well as Lance’s proud few chest hairs and a thin trail leading down into his pants.

He runs his eyes down Lance’s figure, trying to reason why a man as beautiful, as kind, as caring and sympathetic and loving would ever decide to love Keith. Keith, a man who can’t always keep his head on straight, despite trying his hardest; a man who doesn’t always know what is too much; a man who acts on instinct rather than brains, and has hurt people in the process, Lance included.

He’s tried figuring it out before, asking Hunk and Shiro and Pidge as to why Lance ever liked him, why he now loves him. He even asked Lance, but none of their answers ever made sense to him. They all called him passionate and caring, protective and loyal, understanding and loving. He’s none of those, but the others seem to believe so.

So he thanks his lucky stars and whatever possible deity might be watching over him. He’ll hold Lance, care for him, love him, for as long as Lance lets him, and be happy that he got at least some time with him when Lance finds someone better, which won’t be hard to do.

He remembers the first time he got to fall asleep with Lance, cuddling in what was Lance’s bed at the time. He remembers how peaceful Lance looked, all tension and stress of their lives completely absent, replaced by a gracefully relaxed, soft expression. He remembers how he stared at Lance for almost two hours, committing the look to his memory. He remembers slowly falling asleep, fingers of one hand laced between Lance’s own and fingers of another laced in the soft brown hair. He remembers waking up that next morning to bright blue eyes trained on his face, a fond smile crinkling the corners of them. He remembers the quiet “good morning, beautiful” and the blush the followed.

Without opening his eyes, Lance asks, “What’re you thinking about?”

“You,” answers Keith honestly.

“That’s gay, Keith.”

Keith lets a laugh out through his nose. Lance’s eyes blink open, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Good thing I am gay.”

“Then what does that make me?” asks Lance, feigning hurt. “Chopped liver.”

Keith scoffs. “Please, chopped liver is a promotion for you.”

Lance flicks his forehead.

“Ow!”

“Promotion my glorious ass. ” Lance eyes him, presumably waiting for another fake insult.

Keith scoffs again. “Your ass is a whole lot better than glorious.”

Lance stares at him for a moment, face blank, before a blush creeps up his cheekbones. He turns his head, smushing his face into the pillow.

“What, you can dish compliments, but you can’t take ‘em?”

“No. You are not allowed to compliment me.”

“Your eyes are so beautiful,” says Keith, coy smile playing on his lips. “I lose myself in them every time I look at you. And if I ever I stumble on my words, it’s always around you and you alone.”

“Stop,” groans Lance.

“And your smile. I swear to god, my knees go weak when I see it. It lights up your face so beautifully and fits you so perfectly. I’ve never seen a smile that actively lights up my life, and yet, yours does.”

“Stop,” groans Lance again, stretching out the word. He buries his face even further into the pillow.

“And, oh my god, your voice is to die for. You can be so smooth and suave or so upbeat and bubbly. You can make the weirdest noises that make even Allura fall to the floor laughing. And when you sing, I can’t function. Your voice flows so well and you have such a control over it that even Beyoncé would be jealous.”

Lance shoots up, grabbing his pillow, and shoving it over Keith’s face.

“Fuck off, Keith!”

Keith laughs harder than he has ever laughed before, his whole body shaking as laughs rack his body. He heaves in a breath through the pillow, an easy thing to do with Lance holding it so loosely over him. He can already feel tears welling up in his eyes, cheeks hurting with how wide his smile is.

Grabbing the pillow by the ends, he pushes it up off of him and rips it out of Lance’s hands. He lightly hits Lance in the side with it before tossing it on the ground, wrapping an arm around Lance and pulling him back down next to him.

Lance tries to bring his hands up to cover his face, but Keith grabs his wrists, pulling them towards himself. He presses a kiss to the back of his hand, eyes glued to Lance’s flushed face. The blush worked it’s way down his cheekbones, stopping before his jaw, only to continue down part of his neck.

He kisses each and every knuckle, moving from one hand to the other. Lance turns a deeper red.

“This isn’t fair,” whispers Lance.

“Yeah, well consider this payback for being too beautiful.”

“Keith!” says Lance, voice growing louder.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“Oh my god.”

Keith releases Lance’s wrists. His hands immediately fly up, palms pressing against his temples as his fingers brush through his hair. He turns, lying on his back. Keith can’t see his eyes, but he can see his eyelashes. He watches them blink as Lance’s chest rises and falls.

“That wasn’t fair.”

Keith chuckles, eyes closing as he shakes his head slightly.

“And like I said, it’s payback for -” a hand clamps itself over Keith’s mouth. Keith’s eyes fly open, blue eyes meeting his own as Lance turns to face him.

“My heart can’t handle another compliment. It may actually burst and I would really like to live long enough to go on at least one more date with you.”

Keith opens his mouth, licking Lance’s palm.

“Keith, I grew up with six siblings, that doesn’t faze me.”

Keith blows harshly out of his nose, directly onto Lance’s hand.

Lance’s hand rips itself off of Keith’s face. “What the fuck, Keith.”

“It’s what you get.”

“It’s what you get,” mocks Lance, making a weird voice as he wipes his hand on the sheets, but he’s smiling.

After he finds his hand sufficiently clean, he turns back onto his side. He leans over to Keith, gently resting his forehead on Keith’s, eyes half-lidded, looking at Keith with pure, unadulterated affection. He’s still blushing, but it’s significantly less prominent.

“I still love you, though.”

Keith closes his eyes for just a moment, nuzzling his nose against Lance’s. “I love you, too.”

Lance smiles and tilts his head. Keith watches his eyes flutter closed, feeling his own do the same. A thumb and index finger find their way to Keith’s chin, gently tilting his head up. Lance presses their lips together, lingering for quite a few moments before pulling away a few inches.

Keith sighs happily, breath mingling with Lance’s. He doesn’t open his eyes but hears Lance shuffle closer to him. It’s not long before they're kissing again, open-mouthed and languid, taking all the time in the world.

Heart blooming in his chest, the fireworks set off again, dancing across his eyelids. He sighs into the kiss. Lance smiles, having to take a moment to compose himself enough to let it slip off his face before pressing their lips back together.

It’s a long time before they finally separate, so many kisses shared between them, Keith had completely lost count. Lance settles back down onto the bed next to him, a soft smile resting on his face.

Keith lets his eyes slip closed, happily replaying what just happened in his head. The smooth, soft lips moving with his own. The small groans escaping from their chests as their hearts struggled to contain so much emotion. The comforting heat that spread through him slow like molasses, warming him from head to toe. The feeling of Lance’s hand moving from his chin, down his neck, down his chest, down his torso, and resting on his hip. The soothing touch of Lance’s thumb, rubbing circles on his hip bone as each kiss became slower and slower.

“Hey Keith?” whispers Lance, breaking him from his thoughts.

“Yeah?” asks Keith, voice just as soft.

“You know what day it is?”

“Uh… no.”

Lance chuckles, quiet and low. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Keith.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Lance.”