seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from Yemen
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from France
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Algeria
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Türkiye
One of a few of my ongoing Plance WIPs. Pidge and Lance dancing at Shiro's wedding. Wanted to lean into non-binary Pidge for this one as there isn't enough non-binary Pidge/Lance in the world. Also, been using Daz Studio to create my own poses.
A little wip Hehe , I have a question, if someone can share a link to the Plance Discord server? I would really like to join (o´･ω･o)(o´･ω･o)
not me having a plance relapse in 2026 hold up let me repost all my old art lmao is anybody out here
"Don't leave me."
Some Plance angst, brought to you by a pose I found on Pinterest. And me giving Clip Studio Paint another go. (I like it; I'm just too used to Krita's workflow.)
Opening the door to her room, Pidge choked back a girly squeak of surprise. It's not that she objected to his presence, but with a brain fogged by long hours in the Castle of Lions' laboratory, she'd forgotten that she'd given Lance the keycode to her room.
What wasn't a surprise was that he'd made himself at home. A gaming rig, now shut off, added to the obstacle course of techno-junk that littered the floor. The gamer now slept on her bed, sleep smoothing away any hints of his obnoxious but lovable, flirty charm.
Unable to resist an opportunity to torment him, she pounced on the bed and onto him, her weight eliciting the satisfying grunt of air abruptly shoved from his lungs.
His eyes opened with the alertness of a soldier conditioned to wake battle-ready. Blue eyes narrowed with humor as they took her in.
"Hola hermosa. You and Hunk work out how to save the universe?"
"Of course." Normally, she would have expounded on the day's success, particularly since lately, Lance had stopped rolling his eyes and whining the science made him sleepy, and instead would listen attentively to her chatter. But his body heat coupled with a good deal of exhaustion made her long to administer some tickle-torture and then fall asleep in his arms.
"Good girl." His previous alertness was fading, eyelids drooping. "I love you."
"I know."
"What?" Petulance replaced sleepy lassitude on his face. "No, no, no! That's my line."
"Your line?"
"Leia says, 'I love you." And Han Solo says, 'I know.'" He pointed at himself. "I'm Han Solo. The Cuban Han Solo."
She snorted. "You wish, Goofball." Truthfully, there was definitely a bit of Han in Lance, but hell would freeze over before she admitted that. Instead, she lunged forward, fingers finding his armpits, his hilariously high-pitched squeals of ticklish misery ending any further conversation about the matter.
Finally got around to doing a quick rendering of this lineart.
“AAaargh!” Lance’s agonized cry ripped through the air, reverberating in the small space. “Lance? Katie?” A worried female voice responded from downstairs, this followed by footsteps on the stairs leading to the condo’s second floor. “Are you alright?”
“It’s fine, Mom,” yelled Pidge. She elbowed Lance, who sat at her side on the carpeted floor of her bedroom, his face an angry rictus of frustration, long fingers clenched around a gaming controller. “That was just Lance’s cry of defeat.”
“Defeat?” whined Lance. “No, not defeat. Defeat means a fair fight.” He pointed an angry finger at her. “You cheated.”
“There is no cheating in war.” Pidge smiled smugly at Lance and slapped away his finger.
Eyes still on Pidge, expression accusing, he called out: “Ms. Holt? Is there still ice cream in the fridge?”
“Yes, Lance.” Her footfalls on the steps faded as she headed back downstairs. “You can have all you want if you both can keep it down. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“You heard the lady.” Lance got in a gentle nudge to Pidge’s ribs. “Ice cream break.”
At the top of the stairs, Lance poked his finger in Pidge’s ear and sang, “Cheater, cheater, booger eater.”
Though she thought herself beneath such displays, she squealed girlishly. To make up for that un-Paladin-like reaction, she elbowed him in the ribs again, and he responded in kind, but gentler.
Aside from Colleen Holt, Pidge and Lance were the only other people in the Holt home this evening; both Matt and Sam working late at the Garrison. The only other sound, except that provided by their shoving, jostling and laughing journey down the stairs (Colleen Holt’s sighs loud even from her office), was classical music playing from a media center in the living room. Classical music was Colleen’s thinking music. Pidge preferred something from the current century, but had to acknowledge that certain composers, Mozart for instance, made for good coding music.
Just as she and Lance entered the kitchen, a new song started, an Argentinian tango played on classical guitar.
“Oh, yeah, that’s the way,” crooned Lance, his hips swaying to the music, eyes closed in happy reverie.
Pidge, whose thoughts had been on a pint of yummy peanut butter ice cream, made the mistake of glancing at Lance, her gaze snared instantly by the sway of his slim hips. Of course, she knew damn well the boy had the moves. Heck, he could make walking across the room look sexy. Not that she noticed. Or rather, not that she wanted to notice. He was all about Allura. What was the point of noticing anything about him? Like the way his ridiculously long legs somehow always managed to move with physics-defying grace, or….
Ugh. Stop it, Pidge!
An Argentinian tango, however, paired with Lance’s extremely mobile hips? That was possibly better than peanut butter ice cream. It was like watching a perfectly engineered machine.
She was about to drag her eyes from the view—a monumental task, but hey, she was a Paladin of Voltron, she could do this—when her hands were suddenly enveloped in his.
“Come on, dance, Pidgey. They’re playing our song.” He pulled her left arm towards him, then the right, then left and back and forth.
“Our what—?” Something more biting, more Pidge-like died on her lips, as his hands, in tempo with his hips, moved her to the same rhythm.
For an instant, her brain resisted even as her feet and body began to match his movements. Nervous thoughts scurried through her brain. Her mom was in the next room. Matt and Dad could be home at any minute. And besides, wasn’t he all about Allura? Then again, he spent most of his days in the agronomy lab with her and her mom, with evenings spent like this, gaming or watching movies and shows.
“Mueve tus caderas, chica,” he said.
Italian, not Spanish was her second language, but the two were romance—Ha, “romance”—languages and now, as usual, she quickly worked out the meaning.
“I don’t have hips.”
“Yeah, you do. Move ‘em, girl.”
She was feeling absurdly foolish. Science Wiz Pidge didn’t dance. Sure, her fingers could dance over a keyboard, but the rest of her? Compared to Allura, she probably looked like a, a...what was a clumsy thing?...a Robeast dancing on a pin.
Even so, the tango’s beat hummed through guitar strings, and reverberated back and forth from her body to Lance’s. Though awkward at first, she fell into an easy rhythm with Lance. Her brain still worried about silly things, like how her hands were so sweaty, and her high-tops were squeaking loudly on the linoleum floor, but this was fun. It almost felt like…
Like what?
Like she wasn’t Pidge Holt, Paladin of Voltron with the weight of the universe on her narrow shoulders, but instead was just a teenager girl dancing with a cute boy.
“And...spin,” said Lance, releasing one of her hands, and lifting the other other high above her head.
She complied, but paused mid-twirl, making the error of meeting his blue eyes. He was smiling and so was she, her heart racing, cheeks warm.
His eyes darted left then right, before focusing on his face, a hint of rose in his cheeks.
Whoa, is he blushing?
Is he flirting with me?
No, not possible. Her brain attempt to run the calculations, work out the probability of that happening. Except human behavior didn’t fit neatly into equations. But all evidence, data that she’d compiled on all of team Voltron, with Lance’s dataset being especially comprehensive, led to the conclusion that Lance wanted a girl who was decidedly more like Allura. All long legs, great butt, perfectly proportioned boobs and perfect hair and skin.
He totally wasn’t into agender girls with minds made of math.
But there he was, right before her, hands warm around hers, eyes shining with humor and something she didn’t understand. Her innate inquisitiveness nearly had her rising on tiptoes to better assess the color of his cheeks, to determine if that truly was a blush darkening his brown skin.
He dropped his gaze from hers and stared at his feet. “That was, um, fun.” “Yeah,” she said, her voice breaking like an adolescent boy’s. “Fun.”
He gestured at the fridge, toward the side holding the freezer section. “We deserve a treat.”
“Treat. Right.” Pidge turned toward the fridge and the promise of cold, creamy deliciousness.
As she rooted about in the freezer, past all the mundane stuff like frozen peas and hamburger patties, her fingers chilled by icy food, her heart warmed with something else: hope.
Hope was a dangerous thing. Long years fighting the Gala, triumph followed by many defeats, the endless slog, had taught her the futility of hope. Science, data, cold, hard facts. That was her only comfort.
She’d watched Lance flirt with every pretty girl who crossed his path, been witness to years of his pining and moping over Allura, the prettiest woman in the universe. Irrefutable proof that he had a type and it sure as heck wasn’t Pidge Holt.
Yet, here he was, at her side, grinning like a goofy fool, a funny sort of warmth in his eyes, like nothing she’d ever seen before. Not when he looked at Allura, nor anyone else. A happy Lance smile that was all her own.
Though it went against logic to hope for the most unlikely outcome— Lance finally seeing her as more than a comrade and friend—Pidge surrendered and let hope bloom, if only for this short moment in time.
