#implied klance i guess

[autisticlancemcclain]

“I would argue that Keith has the best impulse control out of all of us, actually.”

Pidge snorted derisively. “Har-har,” she said. “That’s funny.”

Lance shook his head. “No, I’m serious! I —”This time, it was Keith who interrupted him.

“Lance, you called me Mr. Impulse the other day. What are you talking about?” he asked with a raised brow.

Lance huffed, irritated and defensive. “If you guys would let me explain,” he said, looking frustrated. Shiro waved his hand, gesturing for him to continue.

“No, you’re right. Sorry, Lance. We’ll listen.”

“Thank you. Okay. Yeah, maybe Keith does the most impulsive things comparatively. But, Keith, I’m pretty sure you also feel the most impulses. Like, dude —” he turned to Keith, imploring; “How many times a day do you get the urge to hop into Red and fuck off into space?”

Keith blinked, processing the question, and then exhaled deeply, closing his eyes. “Hourly, holy shit. You cannot begin to imagine.”

Lance lit up, gesturing wildly. “See? No one else feels that strong of an impulse so often! Keith has to deal with a staggering amount of pressure to do whatever pops into his head, all the time. And I would say he resists those urges a good 80% of the time! Right, Keith?”

Keith was already nodding, looking… seen. He looked like he’d been trying to explain something for hours and finally gotten through to someone. “Yeah, that’s pretty accurate. I feel like I’m constantly fighting my own brain.”

Lance gestured pointedly to Pidge, who looked shocked. “Exactly! Keith is the most controlled in the same way Hunk is the bravest.”

Hunk opened his mouth, looking ready to protest, but Lance barrelled on. “Think about it, buddy! You’re fighting your anxieties twenty-four seven. All sorts of things scare you, more than anyone else, but you do them anyway. That’s the definition of bravery, isn’t it? Doing things that need to be done, even if you’re frightened?”

“That’s… really insightful, Lance.” Shiro said. Lance beamed. Shiro smiled softly at him. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

[pidges-lost-robot]

My favourite Klance trope in the world is never leaned into enough which is the whole keith not realising Lance and "Taylor" (tbh I'm not big on the Taylor specific part tbh I like the thing of Lance being called Leandro but choosing to go by Lance cause 1. He's trying to do what he thinks will have him fit in and 2. Hates when people try to pronounce it super weird but whatever shush its not the point) are the same person and I love it cause like firstly it implies on some level that Keith has already met Lance/is vaguely aware of his existence but just as Leandro but secondly that gives the initial rivalry to awkward friends to dating the potential for depth and also funny shenanigans.

Like fucking Lance thinking cause met years earlier and got along fine then that he and Keith are kinda friends and then Keith "pretends not to know who he is" (a.k.a Lance forgot when he met Keith he was still going by Leandro and Keith is just actually kinda faceblind and has a hard time recognising people, especially if its been a couple years) and so the rivalry begins cause what an asshole, and then they meet Shiro and once again Keith is speaking to him like they've never met before (a.k.a before Lance.says who he is again, as far as Keith knew, this was the first time they were meeting each other) that's genuinely kind of funny

But also depth cause this isn't just Lance making up a rivalry with a person, this is a person Lance thought for a second was his friend who seemingly twice now has forgotten him and that he spent nearly a year constantly being compared to/picked on about (look ik in canon its one comment but as a person who's primary bullies were teachers, this is my projecting onto Lance era I'm sorry ik it's angst but shut up) and it zones right in at the bullseye of Lance's major insecurities that he's not interesting, worthwhile or worth the time.

Meanwhile for Keith, he didn't really acknowledge being faceblind since being with the team, so for him, twice now some asshole has just had a problem with him for no reason which just hits dead centre of his insecurities, that no matter what he does he'll be hated for things that he can't control and once again people will decide who he is before they even know him.

See, I got a balance for funny and sadness

Also it'd just be really funny to me if the games how episode happened earlier and Keith's round was he had to draw people from memory by name for the team to guess and the whole team bar Lance having hope for a brief second before he reminds everyone that Keith is faceblind he has no idea from faces what people look like. Though it ends up working out well cause Keith tries to use context clues for the name and doesn't draw the people, but objects and scenery relayed to them or memories of things they did

[solistrix-writes]

#002 - kissing omniscience

@fangirltothefullest here it is!! sorry for any bad...ness, as this was never meant to see the light of day lmao

The cave holding the Anisols’ manifestation of their goddess is dark and cold. Only in the orb’s chamber is there light, the otherworldly glow of it throwing bright blue onto the strange planes of stone. The Anisol priestess calls the other paladins over, to speak with them of the danger and sheer power of the Anisol orb.

Lance stretches forward, entranced by the floating orb, pulsating with some sort of siren energy so strong that he can’t look away. The other paladins are occupied with the Anisol priestess, the gatekeeper of this planet’s religion, reciting a warning in low tones. He can feel this force, drawing him in with every pulse of light and soft whisper of a distant voice in his ear. Millions of androgynous voices, chanting in alien languages he can’t differentiate, all urging- touch it, become one with us, join us, see all there is to see, touch it, prove yourself, become one with us, join us, boy, and see the vastness of all-

“NO!” The Anisol priestess screams, much too late.

His gloved finger brushes the blue light, and his mind explodes into transcendence.

He sees supernovas, brighter than anything and blinding like nothing else, blasting into brilliant colour and consuming entire star systems in the blink of an eye. He sees black holes, millions of light- years across, existence spanning from the creation of time to the end of everything, when all stars had blinked out and the universe was cold and empty and dead. He sees planets and stars collide, the Milky Way and Andromeda becoming one, an event that in real time takes place over billions of years, in less than five seconds. He sees the beginnings of life, and the last, unrecognizable life form left in the universe perish at the end of it all.

Atomic bombs, set off so close he can feel the hot rush of radioactive wind from its source, an orange mushroom cloud blooming into the sky on Earth and, in the event of human thirst for conquest, on extraterrestrial planets. An alien mother clutches her child to her chest, the radiation washing over them and blistering their skin and the strands of their hair white as snow.

He sees alien life forms, trillions of them, quadrillions of them, and discoveries in science so far off and advanced he can’t even begin to comprehend what he is seeing. The fusion in the center of a star. Seconds passing in billions of years in the center of a black hole, everything so dark it was past cognition. Weapons of war blowing planets into shards of rock, the destruction silent in the vacuum in space. An endless amount of sunsets and sunrises. Meteors raining down on a pockmarked planet. Mountains so tall and vast they dwarf Olympus Mons more than hundreds of times over. A cold and dead planet, flung out of orbit from its star, skeletons, eons old, littering the surface. Wars and battles and battlegrounds and scarred planets, soil so soaked with blood it is scarlet in the light of a winter’s sunrise. Castles buried under desert sands, the last remnants of a long-dead civilization.

He hears screaming, tongues that even time had forgotten, sounds made by alien voices completely indescribable in all human languages, every piece of music ever crafted by human and nonhuman hands played all at once in a harmonious, beautiful, discordant cacophony of sound. The deafening boom of a massive bomb destroying entire civilizations. The first human voice, the last human word. Commands and battle drums, clanging metal. Fledgling laughter. Birdsong. Death wails screamed over the bodies of fallen lovers.

He feels the soft rush of waves around his legs. He feels ice and snow sting his face. He feels diamond rain slash his flesh to ribbons, and then an alien apothecary sewing up a battle wound with careful concentration knit onto its features. He feels himself running down a cold, wet beach, laughter unrestrained and loud, the sand dark grey except for where his feet fall, glowing warm and white around them. He feels Altean silks wrapped around his shoulders, Galran armor latched around his torso, Balmeran rings shoved through his ears. He feels grass so fine it must’ve been made from satin, obsidian spear blades sharp enough to slice with just a tap. Volcanic explosions sear his flesh off his bones and turn them to ash; the same burning feeling comes after, but much milder, and deepset in his chest, as he is an ancient king gazing at his betrothed, the amount of love in his heart almost unbearable. He breathes in the acid air of Taujeer, feeling the sting, the pain in his lungs, feeling the encroaching death darken the edges of his vision as he strains for air and the acid eats away at his throat.

He is a Sumerian woman, holding her baby in her arms, feeling its soft skin and sleepy breaths on her arm. He is a H’gadii girl, from the planet of Yutuk, throwing herself in front of a young boy- her friend, her dearest friend- and taking a killing blow from an enraged soldier. His-her - their death inciting a 50-year mass rebellion, liberating the H’gadii people. He is a Chtel-ut boy, bowing deeply, before performing a welcoming dance to the Paladins of old as they arrive in the village of Chtel-te. Hard, black soil is pounded underneath his feet as he and his fellow dancers perform a swirling, mesmerizing illusion of a dance. His colorful skirts and heavy robes spiral around him, shimmering and rippling to the beat of the drum in the bright light of midday.

He tastes blood iron in his mouth, stale and hours old, from a hovercraft fight between rivalling city gangs. He tastes an oncoming storm in the ozone-rich air blowing from the south, while on a galleon in the middle of the Pacific. He tastes bile as he watches legion after legion of enslaved Rejor soldiers fall, shoved off a cliff to their deaths in the battle of Mnor.

Suddenly, he is Coran, very young, playing with his siblings on an intact Altea, the blue mountains in the distance huge and imposing over the field where his brother and sister play apothecary and customer. He stares up at the mountains, awed by their majesty, shrill voices talking, indistinct, behind him. A breeze rustles the fluorescent blooms around him, twisting the train of his delicate robes behind him. His siblings call out, and he turns away from the mountains.

He is Hunk, four years old, running into his moms’ arms, after being told they were adopting him. A bright joy, sunshine shoved in a bottle, is hot and unrestrained in his tummy, where butterflies flutter. He is smiling into his Mama’s arms, as Mommy cries happy, laughing tears into his hair, kissing it over and over again. This was so long ago, and he was so young, he barely remembers the words that were said. All he remembers is the happiness, the glee, the warm and security of belonging. He often revisits this memory before bed, feeling empty and alone in the deep, cold reaches of space.

He is Pidge, thirteen years old, sitting on the garden wall with her brother late at night, looking out over the suburbs. He is decoding more and more messages from Dad, the keys clicking constantly. His voice, a rumble she feels more than hears as she leans against him, calms her with its rhythm. He is reading out more messages from Dad, deepening his voice and imitating Dad’s thick midwestern accent, with its flat vowels and varied pitch. She falls asleep under the stars, softly snoring.

He is Keith, barely one, even, and held in a woman’s arms. He can’t see her face- his vision is unclear, and the room is dark. She is singing to him in an alien language, speaking calming and reassuring words to him, stroking his hair, rocking him. Mommy loves you, Kyeryt. Mommy loves you so much.

He is sixteen, almost seventeen, and he is blazing through red desert on a stolen hoverbike at almost deadly speeds. Red dust is rising up in massive plumes behind him, swallowing the Garrison security cruisers up in russet dust clouds. His reason for running is nothing to be joyous about, but the thrill, the adrenaline blaring in his veins makes him shut his eyes tight, tilt his head back, and whoop loudly at the cornflower-blue sky.

He is Allura, at a ball as a younger teen. Her dress is brand new, silver and blue silk draping around her in elegant waves. Embroidered blue gems glitter from the hems and belt, catching the glowlights floating aimlessly above the dancing guests. A fast-paced waltz plays over the sound of talk and laughter, and Allura sits by the window, looking at the crowd. Before long, her father comes over and holds out a hand, a silent invitation. Allura gladly takes his hand, and they twirl out onto the floor, her skirts spinning outward in spiralling murals of silk and lace. Her expertly coiled updo slowly falls out, ringlets bouncing against cheeks flushed from laughter and exertion. She goes to bed that night thoroughly exhausted and smiling.

He is Shiro, a year earlier and readying for launch to Kerberos. He looks up at the sky through the ship’s windows, and sees the moon from afar, a white crescent in the blue.

“Readying. Launch in five.”

He continues pressing buttons, turning switches, adjusting knobs on the screens according to the instructions being relayed into his ear. Matt Holt is reading off strings of numbers into his microphone, and adjusting calculations as a tinny voice gives suggestions. Sam Holt is double-checking, triple-checking, quadruple-checking every single thing on the ship, a bundle of overexcited nerves.

“Launch in thirty. Twenty-nine.”

They buckle in their seats, flip a few more switches, and settle back to stare at the sky. Matt smiles and says into the comms, “See you later, Katiebug.” Sam smiles and repeats the same thing, but to his wife, and now Shiro feels the need to say something to Keith.

“Don’t get into any trouble, kiddo.”

The engines fire, and the Kerberos mission is exploding into the sky, to the farthest reaches of the solar system. Science and discovery await.

He is himself, during some summer visit to Cuba, years ago. He rides his abuela’s old, rusty levscooter through the streets of Varadero, and some girlfriend or boyfriend he can’t recall is holding onto his waist, giggling into his ear. His guitar case is lashed to the back with some old cords, jostling through rough turns and little curb hops every so often. He can feel the Cuban sun and tropical heat beating down on his back. He’s telling a lively story in Spanish to the happy person clinging to him, who seems to very much enjoy his company. Through the gaps between palm trees and Spanish-style buildings with red roofs abound, he sees the white sand of Varadero beach, and beyond, the sun glinting off bright blue water. He smells his favorite pizza shack as the levscooter drones by, hiccoughing a little with the extra weight. The person lays their head on his back, and he can feel their heartbeat pound against his back.

He is himself, years in the future, laying in bed in some bright house. Soft wind rustles the curtains, pulled apart across a wide open window. It’s mid-morning, and golden sunlight pools onto a blond wood floor. He hears the rush of waves against beach sand. He turns to see another person laying next to him, thin white sheets pulled up past their shoulders, soft, light snores coming from them. He rolls over and pulls them close, burying his nose in their dark hair. He feels them huff, and somehow knows that they smile sleepily, before a deep voice says, ‘good morning, Lance,’. Dark eyes open to look at him, sleepy and glazed- familiar eyes-

He feels millions of years, billions of millenia pass in seconds. He ages with Earth, watching her form and be destroyed thousands of times, a record on repeat. He sees humanity arrive, humanity depart, and humanity return over and over again. He sees the beginning of life itself, and the universe tears it apart unceasingly but still life persists.

He sees all of time, stretched out before him; all there is to be and all there was before his very eyes. Every birth, death, war, and all the love the universe will hold and had held is flashing before his very eyes.

For a single moment, Lance Suarez-Famosa is omniscient.

With that, it all stops. Lance separates from the orb, his eyes still glowing aqua, human brain stuffed with an amount of information millions of times its capacity, Keith hanging onto him with an iron grip around his arms and mouth open wide in a shout. He meets Keith’s dark eyes, and whispers, “I-”, before his eyes roll back into his head, and Lance knows no more.

i wrote this to “mountains” from the interstellar soundtrack several months ago

inpsiration to publish it was inspired by this post , as the concept was just so similar!

[peculiarlyairie]

Serving the galaxy is tough work. (w/ @babynarwhalshineyeyes )

[fivtoo]

The aptly named @panicatthebooksale got me to listen to Panic! At the Disco and this is the result. The song is Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time. 

[incorrectvld-quotes]

Lance: Do you have any idea how hard it is to get bloodstains out of a white shirt?

Keith: ...no?

Lance: Well it's time to learn cuz you keep ruining every single shirt I loan you.

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Romelle: Has anyone ever thought you two were a couple?

Pidge: No, because Keith likes to screw boys like a whore on tequila.

Keith: *shrugs* It’s true

[allexche]

messy sketchy Keith goodnight)

[buzzbeez]

Keith probably had a lot of time to himself to think while stuck on the space whale, I wonder what (or who) he was thinking about?

[wlwvoltron]

jeremy shada is an honorary gay

[bleusarcellewrites]

‘Don’t let go.’ Keith thinks, heart on his throat as his hand burns. ‘Don’t let go. Please, don’t you dare to let go.’

Lance, as always, goes against him.

“Keith.” He calls softly, the slight tremble at the end of his voice only making Keith’s grip around his hand to tighten. His breath hitches when the action only seems to make their hold slipper. “It won’t hold us both.”

“It will.” Keith mumbles, choking out a dry sob as he throws his head back, the slim rope that gets thinner by the tick mocking him merciless and then looks down, meeting Lance’s eyes and not the endless drop below them. Lance. Lance. Focus on Lance. “It will, Lance.”

Another snap. Both of them jump, fear digging deep in their bones as they hear the sound of the rope pulling on itself, thread by thread at a slow painful pace.

Seems like they have a lifetime, when they don’t.

“Keith.” Lance says quietly, sad blue eyes staring at him and nothing else, “I’m sorry.”

Resignation. Acceptance. Choice made.

Keith rejects it.

“Please.” Keith whispers, shaking his head in denial, grip shaking against Lance’s hand and breathing becoming panicked when Lance’s hold goes limp, “Please, no.”

Cold air hits Keith’s empty heated hand and it’s the realization of the lack of Lance’s own that has Keith screaming. His hand can’t reach, he’s too far from Keith and he just keeps falling, falling, fall -

Gone. Lost. Choice taken.

Keith rejects it.

[incorrectvoltron]

Shiro: Go tell him he's cute. What's the worse that could happen?

keith: He could hear me.

[divine-draws]

Please not now I just stopped believing in happy endings Harbors of my own But you had to come along didn't you Break down the doors, throw open windows Oh if you knew just what a fool you have made me So what do I do with this? This stray Italian greyhound These inconvenient fireworks This ice-cream-covered screaming hyperactive thought God I just want to lay down These colors make my eyes hurt This feeling calls for everything that I am Not

god it was soo soososo hard finding a section of these lyrics to put here. i would have pasted the entire song if i could so PLEASE listen to the whole song.. anyway stray italian greyhound is a song ive loved for a very long time and it makes me think of klance..

[voltronprompted]

Consider this:

Zootopia but instead of Judy and Nick fighting for the equity between prey and predators it's Lance and Keith fighting Iverson' s dumb disciplinary rules :D

(L: Why exactly did you kick Keith out, again?

I: He had disciplinary issues-

K: I LOST my ONLY fAmILy fIGuRe

I: That doesn't permit you to go off on your own and-

L: He LOST his ONLY fAmILy fIGuRe

-cut to end of the movie-

Iverson is assigned to train the cargo pilots while Lance and Keith become professional fighter pilots

screw Iverson)

[kvrishima]

oh look it me

[nekubeat]

comic of cupid!lance inspired by @saltenecker