bluemantics

[bluemantics]

Everyone knows Keith is an adrenaline seeker. He’s the poster child for jumping into a reckless situation, fire at his back and danger at his front, a blazing comet that won’t let anything stop his path.

What people don’t realize is that Lance is cut from the same cloth. It wouldn’t be a proper rivalry if it wasn’t interesting, if Lance couldn’t rise to Keith’s raging passion. If Keith is a blaze through the night sky, Lance is a tsunami, a buildup of deep-sea pressure before a volcanic eruption.

He’s felt this way long before Voltron. When he was a kid, he desperately yearned for the feeling of a plane landing. While most gripped their armrests and sucked in a breath, he’d lean forward into the sensation, the bumpy tug at his heart as he floated for just a moment.

Maybe that was why he wanted to fly so badly.

He’d first flown on an airplane when he was 12. His mother had seen the starstruck look in his eyes, the way his hand itched as the plane took off. Helpless to stop him she’d instead directed him to the pilot, who gave him a junior pilot badge. God, Lance had been thrilled.

Voltron hadn’t done much to mitigate his desire for danger. If anything, it kept delivering thrills in small doses and then removing them, leaving him chasing something intangible.

He’d seen the fear flash in his teammate’s eyes when he pulled reckless stunts on those rare occasions he’d erupt. After a particularly dangerous one, Keith had even lectured him in front of the whole team. The irony of that hadn’t been lost on Lance. If only Keith knew the easiest way for Lance to chase that gut-swooping, all-consuming, addicting feeling was by chasing Keith himself.

Their push-pull dynamic electrified Lance from the inside out. Sometimes, getting a rise and a challenge out of a Keith was enough to satisfy the fire that tugged at Lance’s ribs. Occasionally even that wasn’t enough for him.

That’s how Lance found himself at Keith’s right hand, riding the comet’s tail. In some ways, Keith’s presence started to relax Lance’s relentless thrum. In others, it only worsened it. But unlike before, when he’d been blindly staggering after an intangible thing, Keith was perfectly solid and real.

Later, when the war ended, Lance was able to bask in their push-pull for what it really was: balance.

[bluemantics]

Something in the way Lance takes care of Keith’s hair that’s so utterly romantic. He braids it when he's stressed and needs something to fidget with. He washes it when Keith is debilitated by a nightmare, gentle fingers massaging his scalp. He pulls it into a ponytail for Keith when he’s about to start work on his bike and forgot that he needed to have it away from his face. He uses Keith's hair to guide him into a kiss. God, he pretended he hated that mullet, but now it’s become one of his favorite things about Keith, some tangible way of showing him how much he matters.

[bluemantics]

I MISSED WIP WEDNESDAY WHOOPSSSS anyways here is an excerpt from my current klance wip (currently at 4.2K)!!

“You’re too pale to be walking around like that, man. Just because you saved the universe doesn’t mean the sun will give you a free pass.” He withdrew his hands as Keith pushed up on the hat, eyes dancing with a smile that made Lance’s heart stutter. 

“We saved the universe,” he reminded. Lance rolled his eyes, looking away toward the goats. 

“Of course I know that.”

“Of course.” 

its a postcanon hurt/comfort fic! think: warm desert air. nostalgia and longing. being on the precipice, yet unwilling to take the last step. confronting change, together. being better, together. flowerbeds and dark wood floors. love, poorly hidden, because it shouldn't have to be hidden at all. warm tomato soup. photographs covering every empty wall. feeling too old and too young all at once.

[bluemantics]

Lance threw open a set of metal doors with a loud bang, sending interns with coffee flying as he stormed in.

“Lance!” Allura rushed up to greet him. She was flawless as always, her white hair pulled back into a neat bun. She was dressed in a pink jumpsuit that somehow made her impossibly taller.

“How’s everything holding up?” Lance asked her. He was a stark contrast to Allura in his quickly thrown together jeans and t-shirt. Dark rings circled his eyes, his normally dewy skin was pale, and his whole body felt like it was going to fall apart.

“Just perfectly, don’t worry,” Allura assured him. She pulled a clipboard out of seemingly thin air, running through a checklist at rapid fire speed. “All of the collection has had quality tests and checks. The lighting crew is fully set up. The models have been briefed on what they have to convey and the message of the line… but.” She paused.

Lance felt his face go flat. “There’s a but.”

“But,” she continued weakly, jabbing a pen at her clipboard. “There’s one model that seems to be a bit challenging. He won’t listen to the directors, just keeps posing how he sees fit. It’s making the other models slightly… on edge.”

At that moment, Lance heard the unmistakable sounds of boots clomping over to the door. He looked over to see Nyma, one of his favorite models to work with, storming out.

“I just can’t work with that new guy! He’s the fucking worst. Takes all the damn spotlight and then has the gall to act like he doesn’t know. Dick.” She practically was growling as she left.

Lance raised an eyebrow at Allura. She sighed. “Fine, she’s right. He’s a dick.”

“I’ll take care of it, Llura,” Lance promised. “This is my collection. If there’s something majorly wrong, I’ve gotta fix it myself. You go deal with Hunk, I think I saw him crying over a wind machine in the room next door.” Allura looked relieved, nodding and walking toward the same exit Nyma had left through. Her tall white heels made delicate clacking noises as she left Lance to fend for himself.

Lance inhaled, straightening up and trying to summon the courage of a head designer. This was his first full collection with Altea designs. He was finally done with years of internships, assistant positions, and execution of others’ creative visions. Blue was supposed to be something revolutionary. Allura had assured him that it was unique, but not too bold for an upstart. Floating lines, dramatic blue shades, and sleek fabrics were all signatures of the original line. Lance was so proud of it.

He was not going to let some new model with an attitude ruin his blossoming career.

Lance walked over to the set to get a lay of the land. The set itself was gorgeous; it harkened back to the underwater setting it represented without being too literal, dark and moody in some shots while light and ethereal in other places. Currently, three models were being photographed; Rolo was on the right, laid back with an open shirt, and on the left was Romelle, her skirt dazzling as she moved it around her legs between shutter clicks.

But—

And yes, there was a but—

The model in the center captivated all the attention. Whoever had given him Lance’s favorite pieces from the line was cruel. The dark-haired model was wearing a low-cut black top that rippled out into open, wide sleeves. His bottoms were dark blue and black, Lance’s take on a cross between a skirt and pants. Something that blurred the lines of gender. Even his boots were sexy. Lance wanted to cry.

Then, he saw the problem. Rolo and Romelle were mirroring each other and the energy they’d been told to capture. They were flowing, soft and gentle, shifting naturally from movement to movement.

The middle man was not at all in sync with them. He was dynamic. He was sharp. He snapped between poses, turning his head in a challenging manner or flexing his hand as if he was missing unseen action. It was not what Lance had asked for.

Fuck, it was better.

“Hey,” Lance turned to the photography director on set. “Call cut. Who’s that guy in the middle?”

“Keith.”

“Get him over here.”

The man nodded. Immediately, Romelle and Rolo gravitated toward one another. The other guy tried to stick to the side, until he was pulled over by an intern.

He strode up to Lance with a raised eyebrow, his hands stuffed in the pockets of Lance’s outfit. “You wanted to see me?”

“Hi. Lance. Lance McClain.” Lance stuck his hand out for Keith to shake, eyes trailing the low cut of Keith’s shirt for a moment before snapping up awkwardly. Keith didn’t seem to notice and shook his hand. His palms were rougher than expected for a model, but Lance found that he didn’t mind.

“What do you need?”

“I’m the designer of the line,” Lance explained slowly. Understanding dawned on Keith’s face. He hadn’t even known who Lance was. “I just heard you were having problems with the other models and, well, I can see why.” Keith seemed to bristle, crossing his arms over his chest (which Lance mourned his view of).

“Hm.”

“You don’t match the other models. You aren’t even following the directions you were given. Have you done this before?”

Anger ignited in Keith’s eyes, and he sneered up at Lance. “Well, aren’t you a nice guy?”

Lance grinned in response, which only seemed to irk Keith more. “You know what? I don’t care. Whatever this angsty rage bullshit attitude is, I like it better on this line than what I originally imagined. You added something here, captured a different part of the story.” Lance’s grin only widened as Keith’s confusion grew.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the new face of the collection. I’m giving you solo shots. A bigger role. I don’t care that you don’t work well with that other flouncy, pretty image of this collection. You’re showing my new angle: the untameable nature of the depths.” Lance’s eyes were practically sparkling with each word.

Keith still wasn’t relaxed, just a little less outright aggressive. He slowly nodded. “Fine? I guess I'll do it.” Clearly, he was mostly confused, his gaze darting up and down as if still taking in Lance's sudden appearance.

Lance made a short, quick clap. “Great. I’ll talk to the directors, get a new spot on the set, and an intern will grab a few more outfits for rotation.” He smirked, doing a quick once over of Keith one last time. “Seems like we’ll be working more closely for a few weeks.”

He turned on his heel, not bothering to wait for Keith's reaction.

Shit, this was going to be fun.

[bluemantics]

throwing old stuff back in ur feeds as i frantically pen a new fic

Lance breathed in a ragged breath.

In, out.

The soot fogged up his helmet, choking him up, but he still pushed onward. Step after step after step. In, out. His breathing was labored. His armor was dirtied. His limbs ached.

“Keith?” Pidge’s voice rang out over the comms.

Keith had come after Lance when the Galra had made the threat, when Lance dove down into that waste of a planet. At first, he’d been held back by Shiro. Keith was somewhere on this planet now, but Lance couldn’t focus on him. He had other priorities. Keith would be fine.

In, out.

Lance focused on his breathing instead, tuned out the outside sounds of the paladins calling for Keith and him. With each struggling step, his bayard illuminating the way, he dragged himself over to the cave home.

It’s curtains were drawn, and no light came from within. The only sign of life were the heat signatures his helmet picked up.

Fuck, the air was rough.

“Lance, your helmet is broken,“ Allura started.

Lance shut off the comms. Anything distracting him was preventing him from reaching /them./ He pushed his way through the curtain entrance.

There she was.

Huddling under a table in the corner was a small girl, a blue-scaled dragonling humanoid with bright red eyes. She was trembling. Lance got down on his hands and knees, crawling over to her.

In, out. His throat hurt.

“Hey,” he said softly, a rasp tickling his words. “I’m a Paladin of Voltron. I’m here to save you from the fires.”

The alien girl croaked out a whimper. She clearly didn’t recognize him, but her planet was a member of the coalition… fuck. Lance knew what he had to do.

He removed his helmet.

“See?” Her eyes lit up with recognition.

“Loverboy!” she exclaimed. Lance winced at his stage name, laughing outwardly to reassure her.

“That’s right, and I’m here to save you,” he agreed, reaching his arms out to her. Without the meager protection of his helmet, he was really starting to feel woozy. Still, that didn’t matter.

With shaking hands, he picked her up and began to walk outside the cave home and back to Blue.

This time, though, the trek was worse. He couldn’t see as well without his helmet, couldn’t recognize heat signatures or the fastest path back. Instead, he relied on lighting up his footsteps and retracing his steps.

That didn’t last long.

After 20 steps, Lance began to feel dizzy. He lurched, which caused the girl to make a series of clicks.

In, out. He patted her back and continued on.

After 50 steps, Lance started to lose the edges of his vision to blackness. He could feel the mucus in his throat fighting his inhalations. He fought back harder. He would have to reach a level of survival that went beyond what he could handle. To save her.

In, out.

Finally.

120 steps.

Lance fell to his knees.

The girl screamed.

Lance was only a football field from Blue. He had failed.

The girl scrabbled her claws at his armor, wailing, her cries embellished by the distant sound of crackling fire. Lance closed his eyes, listening to her pain, letting it soak in. He’d failed her, and this was his punishment, to lie prone and to hear her suffer. He had failed.

In, out.

He felt a tug to some hidden darkness inside of him.

“Lance!”

Oh, that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Lance felt more than heard the pounding footsteps of Keith Kogane as he ran to his side, kneeling by Lance’s head and cradling it in his hands.

“Stay awake, Lance, I have an O2 mask and we can get the girl to safety—“

“Loverboy!” The girl insisted.

Keith’s head snapped up. Lance chuckled weakly, coughing at the end.

“What?” Keith asked.

“She knows… shows,” he muttered in response. Keith huffed a breath, fogging up his helmet.

“Oh.”

Lance coughed again, and Keith panicked, pulling a mask from his belt. “Stay awake.”

“Loverboy,” the girl insisted again, tugging on Keith’s shoulder.

Lance blinked slowly. The world was slow. Why was the ash now falling on his face in slow motion? Why was Keith putting the mask on so slowly?

In, out.

Lance blinked. The darkness came back. He closed his eyes.

“No, Lance, no.”

Lance wasn’t listening. It was more peaceful, here, to focus inwardly rather than on the voices out there. It was quiet and dark and cool. The fires couldn’t touch him here.

“Loverboy? Stay with me, please. Please.” The rawness in his voice made Lance’s eyes snap open.

“Keith? I’m really trying…”

Words were too difficult, though.

So Lance let his heavy eyelids fall, let the blackness rush in. He felt the mask press into his chin and nose.

“I know, Lance.”

Silence again.

In,

[bluemantics]

NO WAY. THE EARTH IS LITERALLY SHAKING RN/pos

My apologies for being off the grid for like a hundred years. Life is busy and weird in America rn and, to be vulnerable, I'm currently waiting to hear if I've gotten into grad school so I'm actually on my phone as little as possible lol But I reached 1000 followers on Tumblr and I want to celebrate you all. So here is a little bit of our favs growing up Love you all!

The Fisherman's Daughter (7735 words) by heavily_caffeinated Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron), Allura/Romelle (Voltron) Characters: Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron), Allura (Voltron), Romelle (Voltron), Hunk (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: Found Family, Fluff, maybe a little hurt and comfort?, idk honestly this is all pretty cute Series: Part 2 of The King and His Fisherman-verse Summary: She nearly ran into him, and Keith blinked back to see her blushing brighter than she had in years. “Goose?” She jolted at the name, grabbing his wrist and tugging him in the opposite direction. “Oh my god,” she whispered, staring at the floor in horror. “Oh my god, oh my god.” “What’s happening right now?” “Tyler’s here,” Lucy chewed furiously on her lip as she marched them forward. “He mentioned going to something this weekend, Sara said she thought it was this but I thought she was just messing with me, I never thought–” “Who’s Tyler?” Lucy blinked, coming to, and spared a side-eye his way. “No one.” *** Five years of Lucy's life featuring laughs, tears, and an incomprehensible amount of love

[bluemantics]

inheritance of a crown

a study of allura

You’re 17, and you’ve woken up alone, on a planet that isn’t home, in skin that feels foreign in its cleanliness. The castle is cold, empty as you walk through it. It is eerie, echoing with screams that five strangers could never hear or pretend to understand. You can’t decide what’s worse: the absence of blood, or being forced to face what a dark stain on a wall might mean. 

You were born a fighter, rebellious and capable. Both of your parents tried to teach you manners, but they never quite stuck. You’d interrupt meetings with a mud stained skirt and challenge warriors to battles between your studies. Now, you do not get to be a rebel, climbing trees and sparring. You must be a face. 

Pristine. Elegant. If the universe will be saved, it won’t be by the girl with scratches on her knees and dirt under her nails. It will be by a woman with a sure voice, sharp eyes, and unwavering determination. 

You did not believe your queendom would arise this way. In fact, you’d never pictured queendom in even the most abstract terms. Back then, many years were left in the space between you and your father, time enough to make mistakes and learn from them, to grow, to love, to be a mother. To watch him get older, until his last breath marked the end of a full, happy life. 

Imagined futures are no longer worth contemplating. You are not a daughter, anymore, and barely a queen at that. There are no people to rule over, nor soil to claim. No gods’ temples to pray to. Your whole family has been erased, undone, scattered through broken cosmos you now try to repair. 

You’re 17, and you don’t know how to lead. Stories from your uncle and father might have once been sufficient teaching, but now the best teacher is failure in its agonizing claws. You fear it as much as you know it intimately, praying that it won’t come and anguishing in the torment of innocents that comes when it inevitably does arrive. Failing is no longer a simple matter of climbing back up. It is stitching yourself back together in wake of death. Battle. 

Occasionally, you slip. You laugh like a girl. You pluck a romance novel and devour a chapter in your bathroom, tucked in the bathtub fully clothed. You wake up from a dream where you are surrounded by your father and your friends, indulging in free time. 

You find out another teammate might understand these things, and you leap at the opportunity to bond with her, ignoring her resistance. 

Slipping reminds you of your home and of your age, stalling you from your reality. 

Other times, you get angry. Spiteful. You feel left behind. As if you have no reason to be here, between the stars, while they are off this plane entirely. You wonder if they could have done it better. And, when it gets particularly hard to face the universe, if it would be easier to join them. 

Luckily, you’d never take an easy road. You’re just that stubborn, like every other 17-year-old girl— woman— who is trying to assert herself. It’s the only time your age suits you. 

There are few traces of what once was. Clothing, packed away. Clean floors. Pristine rooms.

An empty ballroom echoes with the tones of music and life. Guest halls murmur their diplomatic assurances. Dining rooms clink as ghosts scrape their plates and marvel over their meals.

All that remains of a family and a planet is wrapped up within you, and after 10,017 years, it is still not enough. It will never be enough. 

[bluemantics]

““I’m going to kiss you– fuck, I mean, kill you.” Keith dropped his head into his hands”

LMAO NICE SLIP UP THERE KEITH

I just wanted to say that this fic is amazing and I love it and ur amazing pls keep writing

thank you so much omg!!! yes i loved writing that line lololol SO GLAD U ENJOY MY WRITING

i do in fact have a wip rn! we at 3K so far hehe

[bluemantics]

not even kidding i have a really shitty crackfic about this

rip lance mcclain, you would’ve loved sabrina carpenter

[bluemantics]

the art of tending

Keith has a lot of scars. Some are more visible than others, but Lance makes sure each one receives the proper care that it requires. In the morning, as he sweeps into the kitchen with languid stretching, he slides up to the counter beside his love. Ever the early-riser, Keith smiles at him as he scrambles eggs. 

“Good morning, Lance.” Keith isn’t one for pet names, which never matters— the way he says Lance is enough. It echoes in the crisp morning air, traveling out through the ajar windows. 

It’s too early for words, so Lance cradles Keith’s jawline in his hand. He relishes in the feeling of his wedding band pressing softly against Keith’s scarred cheek for a moment before pressing a kiss into its slight ridges. His husband hums, content. 

They linger in mornings, now. And both of them are endlessly thankful for the ability to wake up slowly, together. 

Throughout their days on Earth, teaching occupies a large sum of their time. The students at the Garrison are brilliant. Lance has a fondness for one girl in particular, a 16-year-old named Vidhi who loves the simulator and loves pranks even more. He scolds her, of course, in an attempt to not be obvious with his favorites. Still, she knows that she can always come to him. It’s a source of pride for Lance. 

As wonderful as they are, they can also be… challenging. Lance is grading papers when Keith storms into his empty classroom at lunchtime. He throws himself into the chair opposite Lance with a drawn-out huff, dramatically leaning forward on the desk. 

“Carlo, again?” Lance doesn’t even look up, continuing to work. 

“He’s skipping math. I asked him about it, and he said that he’d rather fly, and that he doesn’t like the other kids. In less polite words,” Keith explains, balling up his hand in a fist. “I want to be there for him, I do, but he isn’t ever there for himself. It’s so—“ 

“Oh, Keith,” Lance clucks his tongue, drawing a glare out of his beloved. 

“Don’t do that,” Keith complains. “Just say what you have to say.”

“Carlo is a trouble kid right? Always does what he wants? Kinda a lone wolf?” Lance levels an unimpressed look at Keith. 

“Yeah?” Keith raises an eyebrow, clearly confused and frustrated.

“So, he’s like you, babe.” A range of emotions flash over Keith’s face. Indignation morphs into thoughtfulness before settling on realization. 

“Oh, shit.” He pushes back his bangs, eyes wide, and looks down at his hands with panic. “How am I supposed to even start with him? He’ll see right through me, and I am not equipped to handle an emotionally unstable kid. This is a horrible—“

Lance grabs Keith’s hand, forcing him to meet his eyes. “This is a wonderful idea. Who better to help him than a person who understands him? Who will treat him like an equal?”

“I don’t know where to begin, Lance,” Keith whispers. Lance rubs his thumb over Keith’s knuckles.

“Yes, you do.” He uses his free hand to turn around the frame on his desk. In it is a picture of the team, all smiling proudly while hugging one another. Lance taps the photo. 

“Shiro.” Keith follows his gesture, grabbing the photo and looking at it contemplatively. 

“Shiro,” Lance agrees, watching him take that information in. “You don’t have to be perfect, red. God knows Shiro wasn’t— he was just as young as we are now— but if you can do what he did for you… that’s powerful stuff.”

“Yeah,” Keith mumbles, glancing back up at Lance. “Okay, yeah. I can try.”

“I know this is hard,” Lance tells him. “There is no other person who could do this for Carlo, Keith. Not a one. You’ve got everything you need, and if you ever need help, you can always call him. You lived it first. Now pass it on.”

Keith stands abruptly and places the frame down on Lance’s desk, determination set into every muscle of his frame. “I’ll talk to him.” He swivels on his foot, turning to fast-walk out. 

“Up-bup-bup! You’re forgetting something!” Lance calls over. 

“Oh, yeah.” Keith grins, spins back to his partner, and draws him up into a kiss. It’s as grateful as it is fleeting. 

It leaves Lance’s heart fizzing with energy as Keith dashes out, adding a new pep to his grading. Lance is always relieved when he can soothe the pain from Keith’s oldest scars, the ones on his mind.

Eventually, when they turn in for the night, Keith will wince at the pull of his aching muscles. He’ll twist in their bed, trying to get comfortable until Lance finally gestures for him to move in front. Then, with quiet and calming hands, Lance will rub out the soreness from a long day of training and hard work. He makes sure to gently pull aside Keith’s long hair when necessary, lets his fingers skirt over the hard lines of Keith’s back. 

Keith will lean into his touch, as always. They’ll talk, voices long and low, about everything. Their classes. Hearing from teammates. A hard workout. An annoying call from family. Even, in their most difficult moments, they might mention missing some aspects of the war.

Those kinds of discussions are only reserved for nighttime. When the air from the windows is chilled, the stars are up instead of around, and Lance’s hands are tracing lines across Keith’s ribs and his shoulders. He maps out every scar from memory, pulls out every memory from each scar. 

Over time, Lance will lose his ability to speak, capable of just monosyllabic words. 

Keith will notice. He can never stop noticing. His eyes will wander over his shoulder, see his husband’s lids droop, and, with the grace of a much less rugged man, will ease Lance slowly to lie down. 

In a matter of seconds, Keith will wrap around Lance. They’ll close their eyes, limbs tangled, hearts thudding slowly in time. 

No “I love you” needs to be said when every action, every tender caress and guiding word, leads them to the same place day after day. 

[bluemantics]

fic tagged with "crack" and it's just the most biblically accurate thing you ever read ever

[bluemantics]

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR A KEITH BY ANY OTHER NAME AHEAD

you have been warned.

since AKBAON was originally intended to be a Valentine’s Day fic I figured on its two year-ish anniversary i would share some BTS of my planning document. pls enjoy

[bluemantics]

short Keith sabve me

savbe mee shortr keiyh

[bluemantics]

yall: man it is so close to Valentine’s Day if only i had a cute, fluffy klance romcom to read. specifically one where they’re funny and silly and horrendously down bad. and it’s a fun classic trope done in a different way!

me: wow if only…. you read MY ALREADY PUBLISHED FIC, A KEITH BY ANY OTHER NAME!!

yall: this is soooo fun! the vibes are so good, but how can they possibly be even better?

me: gosh, maybe you could read it while enjoying THE ACCOMPANYING PLAYLIST

yall: thanks so much bluemantics i will support your works forever

me: aw shucks all in a days work

[bluemantics]

voltron and its all the same except keith has reaaaally sharp stilettos

[bluemantics]

there has been an update in my fight with voltron official instagram btw. im def revealing my insta (not accepting followers tho </3) but the account and i started arguing in comments of their spotify wrapped post over what lance’s top artist was (i said sabrina, they said TAYLOR SWIFT). i published a satire fic in retaliation that people ate UP and my comment got over 1K likes… THEN YESTERDAY THEY MADE A POST WITH A CAPTION ABT HOW LANCE LOVES SABRINA CARPENTER. IM FUMING

bonus here’s our fight (voltron official later responded saying i was RIGHT)

guys help i just got in a small fight with voltronofficial’s instagram and threatened to write a post s8 miniseries that actually showcased character development

[bluemantics]

THANKS FOR 300 FOLLOWERS KLANCERS AND COMPANY!!!!! to celebrate i will make something post-canon hurt/comfort and post as soon as i cannnnn i luv yall!

also for the new ppl as a reminder i love when ppl send asks abt anything, including vld hcs and asking for hcs, so yeah <3