Jivey (Adult) 💜🤍🖤- I draw what I like. Lots of fandom stuffs, sometimes my OCs. I fall off the face of the earth on occasion. I mostly just use this blog to save/organize my art, so I will dump stuff and dip. If you want to hang around, hi 👋 No pressure around here - lurking is perfectly chill. I just like sharing my silly little ideas with others.
I still want to finish writing Empty Spaces You Left Behind and Red, Red, Red since I have various future scenes already written, and both stories mostly completely outlined, but...
If, for some reason, I decided that was not possible in the future, how would you like for me to address that?
How would you prefer a fic to be discontinued?
just tag it abandoned/discontinued
tag it and add a ch w the outline/art/partial writing for the rest of the fic
tag it and just make a tumblr post with outline/art/partial writing
***see results
Remaining time: 2 days 18 hours
I'm still chipping away at them! I just stress about the possibility of my plans falling through
Hello! I'll happily receive whatever you send, and if I'm both inspired and have the time, I'll use it as a prompt for a doodle! I'm kinda in that dreaded space where I recently burned out hard on my last fixation, so idk if I'll be up for Voltron, but I'd encourage you to send it in even if it is! You never know if it'll reignite the flame, and I'll never be upset about people reaching out to interact in a positive manner, ya know? Really, you can send in whatever: fandoms, creatures, vague thoughts. Just please don't send NSFW requests - I'm not comfy with that.
Btw, any art I make that is inspired by prompts you guys send in, I keep under a "promts from y'all" tag if you ever want to check those out :)
Lots of love for everyone who's ever sent one in! They're so fun to brainstorm how to tackle ❤️
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Just a heads up that my time between posts may stretch even longer for a while. I'm pregnant (very excited for baby #2! Yayy!!!). The first trimester was hell last time, though, so I'm just preparing to be down for the count for a while. Hopefully, I'll be through the worst of it and have a bit more time for creating over the summer, but idk. In the meantime, I'll be sleeping as much as possible bc insomnia, work, pregnancy exhaustion, and keeping up with a toddler has me running on fumes these days lol! I do plan to continue both Voltron fics, just slowly whenever I have the energy left over to give it proper effort <3
Anyway, thank you guys for all your support over the years. I'll be popping up in the comments of fics, but otherwise, I'll see you around here whenever I happen to see you :)
I’m insane about this clone Keith fic btw. Have some doodles of random moments from it
And go enjoy some fucked up klance and Keith whump if that’s your kinda thing
and loyalty is a nuisance child by laferte
Summary:
Keith returns early from a Blade of Marmora mission after sustaining an injury. He arrives back at the Castle of Lions to find that he's already there.
Two Keiths, no answers, and a team of paladins not sure who to believe.
Some Rebel Rolo and Blade Keith saving each other’s asses ✨
Top: Keith can’t breathe the atmosphere on that particular planet and his mask broke. Rolo’s trying to get a good enough seal around his nose and mouth to get him enough oxygen until their ship arrives.
Bottom: Rolo’s prosthetic was severely damaged and caught in rubble. Keith refused to leave him behind, and cut him free.
On the break between 5th and 6th grade, Lance’s mother was called only three days into summer camp due to the “worst case of homesickness” his camp counselor had ever seen.
Lance had waited, curled up on a bench by the entrance, worried she’d be disappointed in him. But when his mamá arrived at the gate, she greeted him the same way she always did.
She stepped out of her car and opened her arms.
The emotions broke free of Lance, escaping him in torrents over his cheeks. He tackled her in a hug, and in turn she just pet his hair, rocked him side to side for a bit, and peppered his head with kisses.
When she finally pulled him back to dry his tears, she told him then that he felt things so intensely because he was a lover. He loved so deeply, and she thought he might just miss things more because of it. That it was nothing to be ashamed of, but that there were still more things out in the world to love. She said she’d always be there to take him home if he wasn’t ready.
When Lance left for the Garrison, he was determined to finally be ready. He was ready. He loved the stars, the endless expanse of universe hanging in the sky waiting for him. Even still, every morning he had to fight the urge to call home, knowing that if he did, all it would take was the sound of his mamá’s voice and the shrieks of his niece and nephew playing in the background and he’d be packing his bags and catching the next flight back before PT roll call.
He regrets not calling that last morning in the Arizona desert.
He is ashamed that some days he considers giving up on this whole Voltron thing and asking Allura to turn the ship around just to drop him back off at his little home in Cuba. It’s one thing to want something deep in his bones, it’s another thing to admit it out loud. If Red had warping capabilities and he didn't have to face his friends' disappointment in the decision, he wonders if he’d fly himself back.
Glory isn’t worth the churning longing in his gut that turns all the food left in his belly sour at night - or at least, the ship's simulated version of night.
He misses night - the cycle of a regular rise and fall of heavenly bodies in colorful skies. He misses the feel of Earth's sun on his face, ocean wind whipping the fringe up away from his forehead.
He misses home.
He misses his family and the noise of a full house - the constant clamor of people milling about, waking at different times to complete chores and run errands.
That's what probably hits him the hardest out in space, reminding him of their absence - the oppressive silence that fills the empty walls of the castleship along with all the lightyears of empty, horrible, silent nothing between stars. It takes over all of his senses - tangible in ways he never knew silence could be. It pulls at his limbs and weighs them down. It hangs in the air and chills his bones. It's thick and cold and heavy. When he breathes, it fills his lungs, and he drowns.
Lance would sometimes pick fights just to be rid of it. He'd incite a challenge, get the energy going, and goad someone else into competition just to fill the air with some noise. And in the times where no one felt like talking, he found himself simply existing around his friends as they busied themselves with their preferred activities.
The clacking of Pidge’s keyboard helped him drift off to sleep when the blue glow of his room seemed to seep into his eyelids and project moments of battle he'd rather never see again in crystal clear rerun after rerun.
Hunk's whisking and chopping numbed the hollow ache in his soul, allowing the stiff muscles in his shoulders to relax as the familiar sounds of a kitchen in use blanketed him.
Keith was a blessing in this way, too - always the loudest. It may have been what first drew Lance into his space despite their rocky start. The thuds of boots around the arena floor, clangs and clashes of armor and weapons, grunts and swears of exertion all coalesced to make the training deck one constant stream of glorious noise. Lance bathed in it. Absorbed it. He found himself leaning into it, following the clamor as a flower bloom chases the sun.
So, when Lance, still half-asleep, ambled into the training arena the morning after Keith’s death in search of the comforting din, the resounding silence that echoed back at him was deafening.
He’d missed Keith.
But the difference between missing Keith and missing home, was that he still had hope of seeing home again someday. The dead, on the other hand, could only be remembered.
The silence was too heavy to bear, and Lance's knees buckled under the weight of it.
That was three weeks ago - two weeks before Lance discovered Keith’s transparent ghostly consciousness hanging out with the red lion’s. Now, Keith’s muttering over Lance’s shoulder and backseat piloting is driving him nuts. Silence would be a blessing. He wishes Keith would shut up. He tells him so.
“You’re flying her like you’d fly Blue!” Keith accuses anyway.
Lance lifts a hand from the controls, throwing it out to the side as he talks, “What? With some actual consideration for the obstacles around me?” He gestures at the monitors and the entirety of the dense asteroid field Allura sent him out to practice in spreading out before them.
Keith drags a hand down his face, and Lance feels Keith’s irritation through the bond roll into him like a physical force, then feels it double as Red takes Keith's side.
Great. They’re ganging up on him.
“This is Red’s terrain, and you’re picking through it like touching anything is going to hurt you.”
“Uh, newsflash, Kogane, crashing into asteroids does hurt.”
“Then don’t crash!”
“That’s what I’m doing!”
“By not flying.”
Lance lets the lion stall as he shoves himself back into the chair, crosses his arms over his chest and slumps so that he slides down lower in the seat. His mamá would probably drag him up by the ear over the childish display if she were here to witness it. But she’s not, so.
“What are you doing?” Keith’s tone is laced with frustration as he stalks further into view.
Lance refuses to look at him, staring resolutely at the monitors, lips puckered out in a petulant frown. “‘Not flying.’”
Keith sighs long and deep. A bit of guilt seeps through the link tethering them. “I know you didn’t ask for this - for any of it.”
Lance’s eyes betray him and flick over to take in Keith’s grimace, and Lance feels his own flames cool. His arms stay crossed as he shrugs half-heartedly. “They need me. Now, more than before.”
Keith’s furrowed brows ease into something less aggressive and more pensive. He’s weighing something, uncertainty clear in his posture, in the energy he’s subconsciously sending. “It doesn’t have to be you. They could find someone else.”
The words sting, and Lance winces as old insecurities rear their head. Not good enough, unnecessary, replaceable.
Keith’s eyes widen as he feels the hurt spike out from Lance and he’s stepping forward, reaching out before he has time to remember that he’s incorporeal. He pauses a foot away. “Lance, I didn’t mean it like that.”
Lance’s fingers dig into his arms. “I know.” And he does.
“I just mean-“
“There were Paladins before me. There will be Paladins after me.” Lance sighs and pushes himself back up in his seat. “This situation - Red and I not working out - could be my excuse to go home. I get it. Chill, mullet.”
Keith’s outstretched hand lowers and his shoulders relax, but anxious energy still laps out from him, hesitant, creeping. “Yeah.” His eyes drop to his feet. “So, why don’t you?”
“I don’t know.” Lance runs his hands through his hair. He’s thought about this already - come up with a million reasons he could, a million reasons why he shouldn’t. “Because it’s my family I’m protecting, too? Because I don’t know who I’d trust with the team’s lives - everyone’s lives. Because whoever’s worthy, I don’t want to pass this job off just for them to sacrifice their own life and their own time with their family? I’d just be passing the burden.”
Keith’s lips tighten. “There’s people out there that don’t have anything left to lose.”
Lance’s eyes narrow and his words come out sharp, “Because I don’t want anyone dying before they have a chance to realize a future is something to lose.”
And that is the true tragedy of Keith Kogane, isn’t it? He doesn’t even know to mourn himself.
Keith’s gaze holds Lance’s, and the emotions twisting between them are so intense and tangled that it’s difficult to make sense of who is feeling what. The potency of the shared link with Red is like staring directly into a star, burning and unyielding. Lance still hasn’t figured out the best way to read it.
Keith swallows and turns to face the viewing monitors. “Red’s different from Blue. She likes speed and the closeness that comes with it. Besides, she’s not an Earth ship. She has a lot of moving parts at your control - legs, claws, a tail. Fly offensive. Don't avoid the asteroids, use them.”
Lance blinks a few times as he processes the change of topic and the barrage of words. Then, he frowns. “Wait. That actually makes sense.”
Keith throws a small smile over his shoulder, still complicated and tight around the eyes, but genuine. “I know.”
An hour later, Lance is whooping and hollering as he launches from asteroid to asteroid with Red roaring her excitement and pride right along with him. They pinball between obstacles, digging claws into rocky surfaces and pushing off to change direction - more sharply, aggressively, faster than Lance ever thought possible in a spacecraft.
As they speed toward the final mammoth of a rock, he flicks up the safety to dig his thumb hard into a button on her control arm. Red's mouth opens to activate her plasma cannon, and they blast through, a flurry of debris trailing in their wake.
He cackles in delight.
And when he turns to Keith with a victorious cheer, this time, Keith's grin is as bright as the sun back home.
Allura lets out her tenth sigh of the varga, feeling her frustration slowly giving way to exhaustion. She rubs fruitlessly at her eyelids, willing away the itchy burn of sleep tugging at them. She's read the same paragraph four times already, and each time she finishes, she realizes that she can’t recall a single word of it. Normally, Galran wouldn't be too much of an issue for her to understand, but after a full quintant without sleep, trying to read anything, never mind second languages, is a feat.
Coran had encouraged her to take a break and go to sleep vargas ago, but the handful of files Pidge has finally managed to decode from the Raxus mission are all sitting open across the bridge displays in front of her, begging her to put the pieces together and find something useful.
Since Voltron has been out of commission, the Galra's conquests haven't slowed. Planets continue to send out distress signals, and as news of the death of the Red Paladin has spread like wildfire, the Coalition rallies to pick up the slack wherever Voltron would normally have rushed in.
Despite the Galra maintaining their usual patterns of attack elsewhere in the universe, the Castleship hasn't been targeted in movements. Not even so much as a transmitted threat in their direction. Nothing.
It is baffling. The Castleship had been rocked for a phoeb straight after Raxus. Now, there’s silence.
Something is wrong. Allura is missing something. The Galra don't just pull back like this.
If anything, now would be the ideal time for the Galra to strike - when Voltron is at the weakest it’s been since its 10,000 year hibernation.
While they're all grieving.
Allura's heart twists in her chest, frustration quickly souring to guilt and despair inside her. Her duty as the leader of a revolution wages war with the girl inside her that wants to scream out the agony of losing a friend - her family - once again.
Keith is dead.
They killed him.
But why?
To the Galra, the paladins were replaceable. Their deaths served no purpose when another would simply step up to fill the pilot’s seat. Killing the paladins was never their goal. If one of them died, it would have only been a byproduct of their true goal - obtaining Voltron for themselves.
It's why Keith’s assasination left Allura reeling beyond the personal visceral heartbreak. The Galra blew the cover of an agent with close ties to both the team and Blade just to complete an act that they viewed as pointless. Voltron could still function, and they lost the use of a spy that could have provided valuable information for decaphoebs to come. It didn't make sense. What did they gain?
There had to be a point, a reason. Why now? Why the Red Paladin and not the Black? Why Keith specifically?
It’s been eating her alive. He can't have just died for nothing-
“Allura?”
Allura turns to see Lance at the entrance to the bridge, backpedaling as if he'd just been passing by before spotting her. He starts her way, and she does her best to school away whatever emotions may be showing on her face.
“What are you doing up?” he asks, coming to a stop beside her.
She raises an eyebrow at the hypocrisy of the question, noting the lack of nightwear he is always so keen on utilizing and the paladin armor packed away in its bag slung over his back. “Researching. And you?”
Lance rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “I was out practicing with Red. Guess I got caught up bonding with her after I got back.”
Allura softens, relief shifting to push her anxieties back. Her own bonding with Blue has been going surprisingly smoothly, as well. If Red was finally getting through to Lance, then perhaps they may be able to form Voltron if need be. They'd be ready to protect themselves - each other - whenever the time came. “I'm glad to hear things are going well.”
Lance nods, releasing the straps of the bag over his shoulder, and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “So. Researching?” He peers around her and squints at the documents. “Yeah, I can't read that. What's it about?”
And here come the anxieties racing back in. “It's a few of the Raxus files Pidge has managed to decode. I'm trying to find hints about what we're dealing with, and how they plan to use it.”
“Figure anything out?”
Allura sags. “Not much, I'm afraid. Too much of the files have been redacted. The most I've gathered is that there were trials being conducted on its effects on quintessence. But any one of us could have guessed as much.” She leans onto the control panel and swipes the files away, done with them for the night. “The results are missing. We still don't know what it does. Whatever it is, they really want it to remain a secret.”
Lance's lips tilt down to form a frown that matches hers. “That's not super encouraging. Have we been able to relocate the ship that had the samples?”
“No,” Allura deflates further. “Pidge is doing all that she can, and we have spread word with our allies to keep ears and eyes out for anything that could be the ship, but for now, its whereabouts remain unknown.”
Lance drops his gaze and nods. Nods, again. “We'll find it.” He sounds less convincing than he likely means to.
“I do hope so.”
Silence lapses, and Allura takes to watching Lance's hands move restlessly in his pockets. He shifts his weight. Digs his toe into the floor. Looks out the windows to the stars beyond. The longer he fidgets, the more a crease begins to appear at his brow, until he finally breaks the quiet with a question. “How much do you know about quintessence and what it's capable of?”
Allura eyes him. “Plenty. As a race capable of manipulating it, it was one of the most heavily studied energy forms on Altea.”
Lance levels his stare at her. “And can others…” his eyes slide away, then back, “manipulate it, too?”
Allura considers the question for a moment. “I'm sure there must be others out there - Zarkon has to be extracting quintessence somehow - but I've only ever known Alteans to be capable of such abilities. We carry quintessence in high excess, and can temporarily conduct and accommodate even more. It's what allows us to channel quintessence through us and manipulate it, and what makes Altean alchemy particularly strong.”
“The Balmera,” Lance realizes.
“And the wormholes. And the healing pods,” Allura adds. “Many of the ship's features beyond basic transportation function off of the reserves Coran and I have within ourselves. It is why we must take breaks after jumps or bad injuries and allow our reserves to recover so as not to deplete ourselves to fatal levels.”
Lance huffs a quiet laugh. “I just figured all that was space magic or something.”
Allura cuts him a smile. “Alchemy,” she corrects. “My family had some of Altea's best alchemists.”
Lance grins back. “I don't doubt it, princess.”
Allura's heart warms, and the moment holds between them for a few ticks before Lance is pushing on.
“Can…” he starts, and then seems to reconsider how he's going to ask his next question. “Can quintessence… linger?”
“Temporarily.”
Lance stills. “For how long?”
“A few doboshes at most.” At the confused look this answer receives, she adds, “Quintessence needs an anchor. It needs life to hold on to. It's why the Galra have to constantly harvest and use it or they face it drying out.”
“I thought quintessence is life?”
Allura shakes her head. “Quintessence sustains life - feeds it. And life harbors quintessence - it is its receptacle. Damage the receptacle, and the quintessence will leak out. Lose too much quintessence, and the receptacle will decay. Add too much, and it will corrupt. They are separate, but dependent. One cannot exist without the other. There must be balance.”
“So, no ghosts,” Lance says.
Allura narrows her eyes. “If the castle is translating that word into my cultural equivalent correctly, and you’re referring to unbound quintessence functioning without a vessel, then no. No ghosts," she agrees. Unease prickles at her spine. “Why the interest in all this?”
There's a momentary flicker of something across his face, before he's turning away and shrugging. “Just curious. Gotta know what we're working with, right?”
The reaction does nothing to settle her nerves. “I suppose.”
Lance breathes out and then gives one last look over his shoulder at her. “Anyway, it's late,” he says and adjusts the straps of his bag tighter around himself. “We should both head to bed.”
“Right.” Allura doesn't move.
“Like actually,” he softens, tilting his head and giving a teasing smile. “As far as I've learned, Altean princesses need sleep, too. Get some shut eye.”
“I will.”
Despite his sudden eagerness to leave, Lance hesitates, seeming to contemplate adding something else - she can see it in the way his eyes flick between hers a few times - then decides against it. He turns for the door. “Goodnight.” It sounds like a lock clicking shut on a secret.
“Rest well.” It sounds like dread. And as Allura watches him disappear through the doorway, the slow viscosity of it drips over her skin.
Perhaps they will not be ready to form Voltron, after all.
Dead Keith/Red Paladin Lance AU (Part 7/?)
Gee, I can’t wait for the super healthy relationship dynamic that's bound to develop out of this situation :D
See you with the Raxus mission in the next part if I don’t change my mind for the 400th time and actually stick to my darn outline lol
This story was a delight ❤️ Thank you for sharing it! Here’s some fanart we made of it!
by @jiveyuncle
by @occasionalklance
moderation by Katranga
(21k words)
Summary:
Keith gets bits by a love bug and falls for Lance. Allura gets bit and falls for Hunk. The only problem is that Keith already has a real, overwhelming crush on Lance, so he decides to only do what Allura does so he doesn't give himself away. A plan that rapidly falls apart.
--
Lance stared at him expectantly.
Keith raised his brows at him. “And this… is why… we wear helmets! You reckless, stupid-stupidly hot, annoyingly charming—”
“Watch out, guys,” Pidge cut in. “I think Keith’s gonna self-combust trying to compliment Lance and drag him at the same time.”
Lance shoved Keith’s helmet into his chest. “Seriously? Acting like you’re dying, making me feel guilty about taking your helmet off, and you just didn’t wanna say anything nice to me? You’re a dick.”
Adored this very much! Thank you for writing and sharing this story ❤️ Here’s some fanart of it!
by @jiveyuncle
My Soul Has Your Claim, My Soul Is In Flames by queen-of-voltronian (TellyMauve)
(146k words)
Summary:
Does anyone know Lance is in love with Keith?
Of course not. And Lance would very much like to keep it that way, thank you! Keith already doesn't want anything to do with him ever since coming back from that space whale; the last thing Lance needs on top of his crumbling self-worth and shaky standing in the team is a rejection that shatters his heart in pieces, too.
But now, Lance got himself in a bit of a pickle. Which is fine, because Lance has a plan to get out of it! A wonderful, brilliant, masterful, completely fool-proof plan. His team won't look at him like he's more incompetent than they already do, he won't have to spend the rest of his life trapped on some alien planet, and Keith will never find out just how head over heels he is for him. It's a win-win-win situation.
Of course, with Keith, things are never quite so simple, and Lance's plan soon causes a domino effect that changes the entire course of his life.
Or:
Maybe Lance should have been a little more specific when he said he'd do anything to get home. Because now...
"You must bestow a kiss on the one your soul most desires."
When Lance wanders away from the group after wrapping up their latest supply run at a swap moon, Keith anticipates finding him holed up in a shop with a bag full of tiny trinkets to add to his already overflowing collection back in his room.
“For Nadia,” he'd say, or “Marco will lose his mind over this,” or “When I told Mamá I’d make it to space one day, she told me to bring home proof when I met an alien up here. Think this is alien enough?” And he'd grin and hold up some bizarre bobble that Keith couldn't even begin to discern the purpose of.
Lance has run out of space on top of his dresser and night stand for the things he's collected. There's a box under his bathroom sink that he's started storing them in, now.
They've been in space for a while.
This time, though, when Keith finds Lance, it's at a storefront he normally wouldn't have bothered peeking into. It's only because Keith's body responds to the sound of his voice before his brain can catch up to where he's at that he finds him.
“Will it hurt?” Lance's voice is guarded, nervous.
“That depends,” a gruff voice responds. “I ain't familiar with your species an’ how thick of a pelt ya got on your bones. Here's the tool I use.”
A loud clang.
“Quiznaking Christ…”
Keith pushes past red, flowing drapes into what he can only describe as a tattoo parlor. Artworks with swirling designs adorn the walls - some framed, and some just stuck haphazardly with adhesives, overlapping and collaged together to cover every bit of flat surface.
Lance is leaned over a contraption on a counter that looks closer to a war hammer straight out of a fantasy film than a tattoo gun. A hulking, tatted up blue alien that stands at least two heads taller than Lance with hands the size of cooked turkeys leans back and crosses his arms. “For the size you're askin’, I'm guessin’ ‘bout 5 vargas under this thing.” He nods at the hammer-gun. “Maybe 4 and a half if ya don't squirm.”
Lance's shoulders are slowly raising to his ears, tension winding the muscles tight. “Can I have a dobosh to think on it?” he half wheezes, half squeaks.
The alien shrugs, grabs the contraption, and ducks through a beaded curtain into a back room. “Jus’ holler if you're interested.”
Lance releases a shaky breath and reaches for a binder with foreign script on it. When he flips it open, a rotating holographic projection displays a muscular arm with a tattoo of an unfamiliar, spiky alien animal climbing up it. Lance swipes at it, and a new body part with a more geometric inked pattern flickers to take the previous tattoo's place.
“Didn't take you to be one for tattoos,” Keith says, leaning onto the counter.
Lance jumps, and his head snaps sideways to take Keith in. His temporary shock quickly fades away to be replaced by a wry smile as he returns to swiping through the artist's portfolio. “Yeah, well. Me neither.” He leaves it at that, and the way he says it doesn't settle right in Keith's chest.
Keith squints, trying to discern what is off about the response, then turns away to look over the art on the walls. “What gave you the itch?”
He can see Lance pause his swiping in his periphery. A beat. Two. “I'm tired of seeing my back in the bathroom mirror.”
Keith scrunches his brow in confusion, and faces Lance, again. “Your back?”
Lance huffs a deprecating laugh. “Yeah. I don't know if you've noticed, but it’s not pretty back there. It's definitely gonna be a turn off for future Mrs. Blue Lion.” While he talks, his hand wanders up and over to knead behind his shoulder. “I know they say scars are sexy and all, but this one really, really isn't. Gonna get it covered.”
Keith presses his lips together, unsure what to say. He feels wholly unprepared to tackle this conversation. Really, before this moment, he hadn't even considered that Lance would be bothered by the scar beyond the physical discomfort. Despite how powerful the healing pods were, they still left scars if there was any kind of delay getting into one. The whole team is scarred up at this point. Blades, burns, shrapnel - scars are just a part of their appearance, now. He doesn't think any less of his friends because of them, and he's pretty sure they don't think any less of Keith, either. But if Lance was worried about what people outside of their team would think, then he has no idea how to fix that. Even picturing a post-war universe to worry about feels like a fantasy.
Lance must take his hesitation to be disapproval, because his posture starts to take on a defensive stance. “Hunk's already given me the whole speech on how it's a symbol that I'm selfless and a hero or whatever. But if I'm being blunt? I hate the way it looks. It's gross. And I know you're probably going to tell me not to-”
“I'm not going to tell you what to do with your body, Lance,” Keith dismisses.
“I know you probably have an opinion!”
“Not really. And even if I did, it doesn't matter. Isn't that what you're trying to tell me, anyway?”
Lance clenches his jaw and glares at the surface of the countertop. His fingers tighten around the edges of the portfolio. “I just- I feel- I don't know! Everything is bigger than me! This war! Being a paladin! Entire planets of people suffering! But I still worry about missing Rachel's birthday next week, or if my abuela's still hanging on, or what I look like, and it just feels like I'm not allowed to feel those things because what are all my worries in the face of literal genocide and fuck-” He sucks in a few quick breaths that have Keith stepping closer. “I'm losing myself. I don't have a choice in anything happening to me, and here I am worried about whether a girlfriend I don't even have yet will find me attractive when it's all over.” He finally releases the portfolio to press the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I don't even know why I'm explaining myself to you. You're all about pursuing the greater good over personal shit.”
Keith feels the words like a kick to the gut. Maybe he had acted that way near the start of their journey, but it's only because he hadn't had any personal shit left to lose.
Keith is selfish when it comes to the things he cares about. He regrets having ever said the things he did to Pidge back on Arus. He looks back and winces at the time he suggested they leave Allura when she'd been captured - largely because he cares so much for them, now. He'd sooner let the Galra hold an entire planet hostage than hand over any one of his friends.
He's not noble. He never has been. He just hadn't had anything besides Shiro that he was scared of losing.
He does, now.
Keith reaches out to gently tug one of Lance's hands away from his face, and the other naturally follows. He doesn't know how to put words to any of what's rushing through his head, and what comes out is, “I turned my back on Shiro to find out who I was at the Blade base.”
Lance frowns deeper, not following.
Keith releases Lance and shakes his head, trying to explain. “I had to choose between learning about my heritage and what I thought Shiro wanted.” His hand grazes his mother's blade at the small of his back for reassurance. “I put myself first. I think, sometimes, we have to.”
It seems to quell some part of Lance that had been kicked into fight or flight, and he visibly releases a breath. He nods. “Yeah. Okay. Alright.” He glances to the beaded curtain where the artist disappeared into and swallows. Hard.
“You can come back to the castle.” Keith suggests, and when Lance starts to take on a betrayed look, he rushes to add, “You can still cover the scar, but you obviously don't like your option here.”
“I never said-”
“I can draw on it.” Keith pulls a marker from one of his belt pouches and holds it up between them.
“Is that a fucking Sharpie!? Have you had that on you this entire time!?”
The sound of Lance's surprised laughter fills the space around them, and it's music to Keith's ears.
Lance's bare back is warm under Keith's fingertips.
They sit cross-legged on Keith’s bed. Lance hugs a pillow to his chest as he gives Keith full access to decorate his skin however he pleases with the instructions “Surprise me,” hovering in the air.
Keith's marker slows its trek to end a line running parallel with Lance's spine. The line wobbles a little over the uneven bumps and ridges of scar tissue, and the line zigs left when Lance shifts again in his inability to sit still. After only 20 minutes, there's easily just as many wayward lines to match. He'll have to improvise something out of all of them.
“How'd you learn how to do this?” Lance’s voice carries softly over his shoulder, vulnerable in the same way he gets on sleepless nights. Maybe it’s just a Pavlovian response to being in each other’s beds at this point.
“What?”
“Drawing.”
Keith leans closer to start in on some fine linework on a few of the inner details. Goosebumps rise along Lance's skin, and he shivers. Keith sucks his teeth when the movement jerks another unintended line across his back.
“Sorry.” Lance mutters. “Your hair tickles.”
Keith leans back, and roots through one of the pouches on his belt, pushing aside essentials - a mini screwdriver for Pidge, a chapstick for Lance, a fresh grease rag for Hunk - until he finds a hair tie that's certainly seen better days. He drags the longer hair that’s falling over his shoulders up into a half-decent pony before leaning back in.
“My dad,” Keith answers. “He showed me the basics. We didn't have service out where we lived, so he passed the time by drawing. Mostly cryptids and aliens and stuff. I guess I know why, now.” He feels the pull where his mother's blade currently rests underneath his pillow, always aware of its location in reference to himself. “Then, after Dad died, there wasn't really a lot to do in the foster system. Can't really keep a whole lot when you’re shuffled from home to home as often as I was.”
Lance finally stills, and Keith takes advantage of that to mark in an area he really can't improvise on if Lance squirms while he's working on it.
“I didn't own much, but pens were pretty universal. I'd collect them off the classroom floors on the way out of classes. Pencils were easier to find, but they required paper, which was pretty limited as far as what I could get ahold of. My skin was always there, though, so I stuck to collecting pens. Spent most of my time in the homes drawing on myself.”
Lance waits a moment to see if Keith has more to add before asking, “You ever draw on others, or was it always just yourself?”
Keith's lip curls up at a corner. “Shiro used to let me give him tattoo sleeves back at the Garrison.”
Lance jolts up out of his comfortable slouch, excitement radiating off of him (looks like Keith will just have to go for a messy on purpose kind of look). “No way! Imagine how much worse the crushes would be if we got to see a tatted up Takashi Shirogane. The world couldn't handle it.”
“Yeah, he'd hide it under his uniform sleeves. I don't know if he was just humoring a troubled kid, but he used to swear he'd get me to tattoo them on him for real one day.”
“That'd be sick.”
Keith's smile slowly fades, and he starts sketching on an empty area of his back. “I never got around to picking it up. By the time I turned 18, Shiro was gone. Since he's been back, I haven't really asked to draw on him, again. I haven't been sure how he'd take me asking since he's lost his arm.”
Lance hums thoughtfully, picking at a stray thread on the pillow in his lap. “I don't think he'd be mad if you asked.”
By the time Keith is putting the finishing touches on the Sharpie tattoo, his hand is cramping. It's easily been a year since he last wrote anything by hand, and the way his muscles are protesting remind him of that fact.
He finally sits back and stretches, satisfied with the end result.
Roses climb up the center of Lance's back with his scar acting as a portal of sorts. The flowers range in various states of bloom - some budded, some partially blossomed, and some at the peak of their beauty. Petals and leaves spill out over the sides and cradle his ribs before coming to a stop at the lowest point of the scar.
“Finished,” he tells Lance, and pulls him to a stand. Both of their knees and backs pop like old men, and he tilts his head toward the bathroom. “Go take a look.”
He lets Lance wander in first, then follows behind to stop in the doorway as Lance turns to look over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror.
“Roses,” Lance says in amusement. “Kind of a basic choice, don't ya think?” He angles his back in different ways to get a better view of the full piece. “Jesus, they're beautiful, though. You're really good.”
Keith smiles. “I didn't have any other colors. Otherwise, I'd have tinted them yellow.”
Lance pauses his admiring, eyes going unfocused for a second as he processes before leaving the mirror to instead slide over and lock on Keith beside him. “Did I tell you…”
Keith shrugs. “Amar es cuidar.” His accent is horrendous, but a smile cracks across Lance's face like lightning, all the same.
“Cuidamos de las cosas que nos importan,” Lance recites, wiping the sudden dampness at his eyes. “I don't remember telling you about that.”
Probably because he'd been half out of his mind, delirious after a three day stint of no sleep on a stealth mission. He'd been curled up against Keith’s side, finally back on the castleship and desperate enough for rest to have skipped his own room and gone straight to Keith's.
He'd talked of missing home. Of how it'd be time to trim back the yellow roses in his mother's kitchen window. That yellow roses were her favorite, and his father bought them for her every year on her birthday, until one year, he bought her a pot of mini yellow roses to set in the sill. They were a notoriously difficult plant to keep alive, and when his father confessed to a little Lance about his worry of whether he'd be able to keep them healthy, Lance had asked why he didn't just get a bouquet like he always did.
“‘Amar es cuidar.’” Lance mimicked his father's voice. “‘We tend to the things that matter to us. I want her to know that she always does to me.’ He was always putting his all into his family.” He let go of the strand of Keith's hair he'd been playing with as he trailed off. “I wanted to be like him when I grew up.”
Keith thinks he must have succeeded, if Lance’s descriptions of him are true.
“How you feel is important,” Keith tells him and reaches for the spare container of cooling lotion he kept on the counter for nights Lance stays over. He unscrews it and motions for Lance to turn around, familiar enough with his nighttime routine. When Lance turns and braces his weight against the counter, Keith begins smearing the cream over his scar and continues, “And if you're worried about what others think about your appearance, then for what it's worth, I like what I see when I look at you - with or without a tattoo.”
Not that Lance should value what others think of him over himself. But sometimes, it feels good to hear the positive stuff from others. Foster home number four taught him that.
Keith's hand trails to a stop as the last of the cream is absorbed into Lance's skin. When he lifts his eyes to meet Lance's in the mirror, there's something there. Something he can't read. Something he desperately wishes he understood.
Lance turns away from the reflection to meet Keith's gaze face to face. “Thank you.” It's more breath than words, and he pulls the moisturizer from Keith's hand, replaces the lid, and steps through the bathroom door.
Keith follows him out as he opens the wardrobe and tosses the clothes he designated Keith's pajamas at his chest.
“I think you should ask Shiro,” he says, kicking his pants off and climbing into bed in just his boxers. “I think he'd appreciate you asking.”
It's not until much later, when Lance is already asleep against Keith’s side, that he realizes that it’s the first time he’s seen Lance sleep shirtless since he took a bomb blast to his back.
Shiro is preparing to search for Keith to update him on an information lead Pidge had found on the experimental substance they'd lost on the Raxus mission, when he opens his door to find Keith already waiting outside.
“Keith, I was just about to-” Shiro stops short when he notices Keith’s expression. He looks caught - head lowered, arms crossed defensively - and half ready to duck out like he did whenever Shiro showed up to dig him out of trouble in the Garrison disciplinary office. “What’s going on?”
Keith stares at Shiro's feet for a solid three seconds before he lifts his chin, arms still crossed tightly. “Do you want me to draw on you?”
And it's so reminiscent of old times, of a younger Keith and lesser responsibilities and home that Shiro's mouth finds the words before he's decided what to say.
“Sure.”
A couple hours later, Shiro is surprised to find his throat tightening and heat burning his cheeks as tears gather along his waterline. He drags the back of his left hand along the underside of his eyes.
“Shit. Shiro, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you.”
“No, Keith-” Shiro's throat is tight as he rotates his prosthetic to look over the desert canyon winding up the inside of his forearm, “It's just- this the first time it's felt like my arm since it was taken. Not a weapon. Not a piece of who I had to become in that arena. Just-” He breathes out shakily and looks up to find Keith clutching the marker stiffly at his side, shoulders raised up like he’s unsure of whether he should be bolting towards or away from Shiro. “Just me - from before all this.”
Keith drops his eyes down to the marker in his hands and nods, the tension releasing a bit from his posture. “Okay. That's good.”
Shiro reaches out his arm to tug Keith into a hug, and buries a sniffling smile into Keith's hair. “It is. Thank you.”
***** V *****
Little fingers run over the black lines looping their way up Shiro's arm. They stop over the silhouette of his old hoverbike kicking up desert dirt in the distance as it dives over a cliff. “This part is the coolest.”
Shiro smiles at that, eyes following the familiar lines and patterns with ease after years of saving it to memory. “You know, your Uncle Keith drew this.”
His daughter's eyes grow wide, and she shoves aside his leg to make room for her on the couch. She makes a grab for his prosthetic and pulls it closer. “Tell me more stories about Uncle Keith,” she demands, settling in against his side.
Shiro laughs. Seven years old and she never tires of hearing stories of his best friend, and he never tires of telling them. He obliges with an aching fondness in his heart.
He looks back to the silhouette of the hoverbike and feels the smile stretch itself across his face.
“Have I ever told you about how Uncle Keith and I met?”
