#ask shiro

[destiny2skeleton]

🦜 Not a lot of people ask about you. I'm curious how you fell into the rag tag gang? How do you deal with everyone else's antics? (Mostly Cayde's shenanigans and Tevis' moodieness.) Are you as stoic as people say?

Shiro Reply - Found Family

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🃏 Shiro found the group at first as a quick glimmer grab- but luckily for Andal and Cayde- he stays. KEEP ASKING AWAY I AM LOVING THESEE!!!!

[bakafurai]

To Shiro:

What’s your favourite snack? Do you like cupcakes? I hope so, because I baked some really pretty ones today and thought I’d share them with you as my way of saying good luck in the tournament! Make sure to share them with Blue and Green too, OK?

- Rosie

Blue: and good luck in the tournament to you to miss!

(Shiro can't see what it looks like, but is very happy to have received the cupcake! He generally likes sweet things, melons being his favourite!)

@kirbyoctournament

[silverclaw23]

Elloooooooo alllllllll i have two questions for yall:

1: did you have to train to master powers?

And 2: whats more effective tickling appendage, extra arms or fluffy tail,

Shiro: i think we all needed to train, i know im still trying to figure out some of mine, as for what more effective.... depends on the spot... thats all im saying

Eden: it was definitely hard at first trying to figure out my powers, my vines would do whatever they wanted and would even turn on me at times! as for most effective tool... id say my vines are most effective on others~ its like both in one!

[nica-my-beloved]

You can always stop playing a game if you’re not enjoying it. No one would blame you for it

Ofc I always uninstall a game immediately once I start feeling bored. But sometimes there will be some beautiful event or card which catch my eye and I'd want them, but then I'd have to reinstall the game again.

[kcokaine]

Ooh who's the new oc?? Care to introduce him? 🙏🙏

his name's Shiro Gojo and he is Satoru's 1 year older cousin WITHOUT the six eyes. Runt baby. He is still wip but i can tell u he is a coked up frat boy and his cursed technique is called Plasma Paralysis, he controls static electricity essentially

[sylenth-l]

short king Tevis

Every single group pic they take is like this:

[autisticlancemcclain]

The first bout of whispering, Shiro can ignore. He’s a teacher by trade, after all. Astronaut, sure. Paladin, even. But he always expected to be a teacher, trained for it, and he knows when you put a group of teenagers in a room and expect them to start learning by lecture, there’s going to be some whispering. He’d be concerned if there wasn’t, frankly.

But as it keeps happening, again and again, to the point where it’s almost constant, Shiro begins to lose his patience.

“Lance, Hunk,” he says, catching himself long before then. He tries to smile, gentle but firm. “Everything okay?”

The two boys clam up immediately. Lance even begins to lean slightly away from Hunk, although Shiro’s not sure he notices.

Shiro frowns, puzzled at the reaction. That’s — uncommon. He’s seen embarrassed, seen sheepish, seen unbothered, even seen downright rude, but Lance looks almost… afraid. And Hunk looks at him with a lot more anxiety than the situation calls for, but Shiro is beginning to notice that that’s just Hunk.

The both mutter some semblance of apology, and Shiro moves on quickly, unwilling to dwell on the incident too long.

For the rest of the briefing, he keeps an eye on them. He’s still focused, of course, as their break-in and recon on a nearby Empire warship is not only hugely dangerous, but will also be hugely beneficial, but he lets his notes do a lot of the talking for him. He flits his eyes to the pair every so often, and while Hunk meets his eyes on occasion, smiling slightly, Lance keeps his head down, hunched over his tablet.

Shiro notices that the tablet is powered off. He doesn’t write a single note.

His shoulders are hunched up to his ears.

———

“Alright, kiddo, good job.”

Keith grins, stepping backwards and bowing to finish the fight. Shiro bows back, matching his smile.

“You did great.”

“I know,” Keith says cheekily. “You’re getting easier and easier to beat. Probably because you’re elderly.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Am I.”

His annoying little brother hums, completely unconcerned. He steps off to the side and starts swinging around his training stick, very clearly showing off. “Mhm. It was super easy to fight you. I just went whoosh, smack, bam! —” he punctuates every sound with a swing and slash of the stick — “and every hit just landed. Honestly, I think a punching bag would have been more of a challenge. Adam is a way better spar partner than you. I wish I was shot into space with him.”

Shiro’s eye twitches. It’s a clear goad, he knows it is. Keith isn’t even trying to hide it. He’s a twerp with too much energy and too much experience pressing all of Shiro’s buttons — a favourite button of his, of course, being the bit of…healthy competition Shiro has always had with his boyfriend.

(He’s well aware of the irony. He hears Adam pointing and laughing in his head every time he endures Keith’s complaining about Lance pulling his mullet, so to speak. In fact keeping his mouth shut about the parallels is the only thing keeping him from throwing Keith down the laundry chute. He’s waiting for a moment when the reveal can be well and truly devastating.)

Shiro manages, with herculean strength, to step away from his turd of a brother, putting his training stick away.

“I am leaving,” he says loudly, pointedly turning away. “I said I’d train one hour with you and not a second more.”

He feels Keith’s pout more than sees it. “Coward.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shiro snorts, waving his hand dismissively. He hears swishing sounds, and the clicks of buttons — Keith is starting up his own training. Again. “Don’t be late for dinner or I’ll send Lance after you.”

“Can’t promise I won’t maim him,” Keith mutters. “Sometimes I just want to wring his neck.”

Shiro is very familiar with that feeling. Or at least the raving about it. He used to feel great pleasure in driving Adam to that point, just because he was hot when he was mad. But Shiro values his limbs — or at least what’s left of them — where they are, so he keeps the comments to himself as he makes his way out of the training room, meandering back to his own quarters.

He takes his time showering and redressing, knowing he’s got some time before dinner. He thinks Hunk even managed to wrestle Coran out of the kitchen, which means no food goo. It also means that he’s banned from even breathing near the kitchen until the food is fully cooked and completed — which is a bullshit ban and one based in false accusations — but he’s sure he can help set the table, or something. Stir a pot. He’s good at that.

He towels off his hair, not bothering to style it, and takes his time walking over to the kitchens. The castle floors are cold under his bare feet, he finds himself wishing he had the lion slippers Lance made him. They’re very warm. He never wears them because he’s terrified of ruining them, but it’s so icy in here that he might start having to, or else he’ll freeze.

As he approaches the kitchen, he hears voices. He freezes, quieting his steps and pausing behind the wall to listen. Hopefully no one else walks by, or that will be humiliating.

“— all you have to do is ask, Lance, just casually, it’s not even —”

“— it is even, Hunk, it’s the worst and I’m not doing it, why would I inconvenience —”

“— it isn’t! Not even a little! It’s the smallest tiniest thing!”

“Hunk —”

Hunk throws his hands up in exasperation, spoon going flying and splattering some kind of blue sauce all over the cabinets. Neither of them even blinks at it.

“I am tired of watching you struggle, Leandro! Heaven forbid you ask for help!”

Shiro frowns. That’s not good. That sounds serious.

“I asked for help,” Lance huffs, arms crossed over his chest. “I asked you, didn’t I?”

“I don’t count and you know it,” Hunk says sharply, mirroring him. “I already knew.”

Lance looks away, clenching his jaw. His fingers are tangled in his jacket’s sleeve, tense.

“You don’t have to help anymore if it’s too hard,” he mumbles. “I can handle it myself.”

Hunk softens. “It’s not that, Lance.” He wipes his hands in his apron and pulls Lance to his chest. Lance goes, although he doesn’t move his arms, burying his face in Hunk’s shoulder. “You know it’s not that. If that’s all we have then I’ll keep doing it, damn the consequences.” He pulls back slightly, nudging Lance back so he can look him in the face. “You can just do better, dude. All you gotta do is tell Shiro about your —”

A hand claps over Hunk’s mouth, cutting him off, and Lance squeaks, “Hey, Shiro, hello, hi!”

Shiro startles. He scrambles upright before Hunk turns all the way, so at least he’s only seen crouching by the door like a weirdo by one person.

He clears his throat. “Uh, hi.”

“You’re banned from the kitchen,” Hunk says, muffled. How he looks so mighty and dignified with Lance’s hands still very much pressed to his face is well and truly beyond him. Shiro is frankly awed.

“I just came to help set the table,” he assures, hands held up in surrender. “Promise I’ll stay away from the actual food.”

Hunk narrows his eyes, but must decide he could use the help, because he nods, stepping backwards so Lance’s hands fall back down.

“Alright,” he sighs. “I’m making stew. You can set out utensils if you must but know I’ll judge you heavily for it. Lance, come help me finish up.”

Lance scrambles after him, avoiding Shiro’s gaze like he’s sure he’s going to get yelled at. Shiro watches him go, perplexed.

———

The next few days are, for the most part, manageable. Their mission goes well, Keith is surprisingly mellow — Shiro suspects the little nerd has discovered a library of some kind — and distress calls are minimal. All in all, Shiro should be taking the time as the blessing it is and catching up on some much needed R&R.

Instead, he’s worrying about the Blue Paladin.

Shiro can’t say he knows him well. They’ve hardly been in space a couple of months, after all, and while Shiro must have taught him a couple times — he was in the piloting program so it’s almost impossible that they didn’t cross paths — the Garrison is huge, and Shiro largely teachers younger students. Shiro can’t recall teaching a Lance, anyway.

But he can tell something’s off.

Besides the fact that Hunk keeps looking at Lance with concern, the Cuban seems…withdrawn, almost. He still works hard in training and smokes them in any kind of long distance, but there doesn’t seem to be any joy in it. Even his arguments with Keith seem halfhearted, which Keith will never admit leave him agitated as much as it has Shiro’s eyebrows raising. Shiro is sure, basically, that something is the matter, and surer still that he has to be the one to fix it.

How exactly he should go about it…well, that’s the part he’s struggling with. He knows Lance is kind of star-eyed around him, even though they’re on the same playing field, so Shiro’s not sure just regular talking to him about it is going to do something. And he seemed pretty resistant when Hunk pressed, in the conversation Shiro overheard. He’s just not sure what to do.

Luckily, the situation starts to resolve itself.

“Hey, Shiro, can I talk to you?” Lance mumbles into his breakfast, as everyone else is distracted by Pidge and Keith’s loud argument about cryptids (Shiro has heard it too many times at this point. He’s tuned it out).

Shiro blinks. “Sure,” he says, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. “Now?”

“Uh, after we eat, maybe.”

Shiro tries very hard not to seem over enthusiastic. He sucks at that, so it doesn’t work, and it seems to make Lance more stressed, which only stresses Shiro out more. By the time everyone has finished up and people are starting to file out to various tasks, the tension between them is so thick Shiro feels as if he might suffocate.

Suddenly, as if he propelled himself, Lance springs to his feet, snatching his bowl and Shiro’s and powerwalking towards the kitchen sink. Shiro, startled, follows him.

“You okay?” Shiro asks softly, noticing the whiteness of Lance’s knuckles, clenched around a sponge, and the robotic way he scrubs it across a dirty spoon.

Lance says nothing. He keeps his eyes trained resolutely on the soapy water, spine ramrod straight, nerves bleeding from him in waves.

Hesitantly, Shiro rolls up his sleeves, standing beside him and beginning to dry what he rinses. As Shiro gets close he gets tenser, shoulders hiked up to his ears, but as the minutes drag on, empty kitchen echoing the sound of swishing water and clanking cutlery, he begins to calm down. Shiro watches his face relax, easing its worries twist, and terror fade from his brown eyes.

He hands Shiro the last clean dish to dry, then pulls the plug on the sink, darting over to grab a hand towel and starting to dry.

“Can you write mission plans in pink?”

The words rush out of him, like he’d been holding them between his teeth for God knows how long and they’d finally spilled out. He looks almost nauseous after he says them.

Shiro blinks. That was…not what he’d expected.

“…Why?”

“It’s perfectly okay if you can’t,” Lance continues, as if Shiro had not spoken. “I mean, whatever. I’ll figure it out. I’ve gone without this long, after all, and it’s totally doable. Of course there’s the migraines and the agony but that’s all light work. It’s war, after all. Ha.” He chuckles nervously.

He’s shrunk in on himself, looking almost small. Shiro stares at him with a dropped jaw and wide eyes. Lance doesn’t even notice, eyes focused intensely on the hand towel, breathing worryingly erratic.

“I just swore to Hunk that I’d ask, you know. He said it wouldn’t hurt. And of course it wouldn’t but I don’t need it. It’s just. You know.”

Shiro cannot stress enough how much he doesn’t know. He hasn’t felt this lost in a while.

“Pink makes the letters stick to the page. And I know that sounds stupid as shit and that’s because it is stupid as shit, unfortunately. Dyslexia is the dumbest thing in the world, actually. And who named it that? You know how hard that word is to spell? It’s hard. They should have called it — I dunno, I just mean, it’s whatever. It’s fine. I’ve handled it this long. Uh.” He looks up, finally, and maybe he doesn’t know how to make sense of Shiro’s expression, because he winces, shame overtaking his face. He sets down the towel and gestures vaguely behind him, stepping towards the door. “I’m just gonna — go. Sorry. See you later. Sorry.”

He all but flees out of the room. Shiro barely manages to snag the back of his hoodie, holding him in place.

“Lance. Chill a second. Give me time to respond.”

Lance looks deploringly at the door, then back at Shiro. He looks like he’s accepting his death. Shiro can’t help but feel the teensiest bit offended.

“I’m not going to bite you,” he says, aghast. “Jesus, kid. You’re going to give me a complex.”

To Shiro’s great relief, the remark makes Lance grin. Some of the tension eases from his face.

“You sound like my mother.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s a compliment,” Shiro says lightly. He pulls out two chairs, orienting them so they’re facing each other. He deliberately takes the one farthest from the door, so Lance doesn’t feel trapped. He gestures to the other one. “Sit.”

Lance does.

“Now. From the beginning and with a little less fear, hopefully. Tell me what’s up, kiddo.”

Lance looks down at his hands, where he’s picking at a scar on his wrist.

“Um. So. I have dyslexia. I can’t read too well.”

Lance cringes as he says it. Shiro wonders who he has to kill for putting the idea that this is something to be ashamed about in his head.

“Cool,” Shiro says, as encouragingly as he can manage. “The main character of my favourite book series as a kid had dyslexia. I was jealous of everyone who had it. I used to pray for it.”

The revelation startles a laugh out of Lance, like Shiro hoped it would. The tension melts right off of him.

“You prayed?”

“Every night,” Shiro affirms, grinning. “I even crossed my eyes and pretended when it didn’t work. My mother didn’t believe me for a second.”

“You’re a dweeb,” Lance says, sounding kind of awed. Like he’s shocked that Shiro, too, is a nerd loser on this castle full of other nerd losers. “Dyslexia sucks.”

Letting his face settle into something more serious, Shiro nods. “I imagine it does.” He reaches over and squeezes Lance’s hand, subtly stopping him from picking at the skin. Keith has the same bad habit. “Writing in pink helps?”

Lance shrugs. “Sorta. Dunno why. But things are less squiggly when they’re written in pink or red. Not perfect, but it’s something. I can hardly read at all when they’re in black; it’s like my eyes are spinning out of my head trying to focus on ‘em. Gives me migraines like you would not imagine.”

“And thus Hunk whispering the plans to you so you don’t have to read them,” Shiro surmises, the whispering during briefings suddenly making sense. Guilt twinges in his belly.

“Yeah. Sorry about that, by the way. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Of course not,” Shiro says gently. “I get it now. Sorry for not understanding.” He frowns, remembering something. “I should’ve asked beforehand. Or suspected something, or known better, really. I had a kid a few years back in one of my astronomy courses. Li-something. I marked all his stuff in red for the same reasons.”

Lance makes a very particular face. Warning bells go off in Shiro’s head.

“I appreciated that very much,” Lance says politely.

It takes a moment for it to click.

Shiro considers banging his head against the table.

“Please tell me no,” he begs, ears reddening.

“It was a great honour to be renamed by the Takashi Shirogane,” Lance insists.

“I had you in my class for three years!” Shiro says, aghast. “I — I called you Li all the time! In front of people!”

“I didn’t want to correct you! That’s — embarrassing!”

Shiro cradles his head in his hands. Dear God. He knows he’s not great with names, but — Jesus. To rename a kid. Blatantly. Other teachers must have thought he was some cruel jackass.

“I think there was a Li McKinney ahead of me in roll call,” Lance offers, patting Shiro’s back delicately. “So. Pretty easy to mess up.”

“Did you write your name as Li on tests? And assignments?”

“After the first couple times, yeah. Hunk laughed at me. At a certain point I’d just dug myself too deep, I think.”

Shiro sighs, dragging his hand down his face. It’s still quite hot. He looks up at Lance, who’s mouth is twitching.

“You were short as shit back then,” he observes, trying to picture the kid in his class. “Like, shorter than Pidge.”

Lance scowls. “I was — saving up on growth spurts. Yeah. So. Purge that from your memory.” He smirks. “Like my name.”

Shiro groans. “I’m never hearing the end of that, am I.”

Lance smiles. “Probably not. I didn’t know you were uncool. It’s interesting. I’m seeing you in a whole new light.”

Shiro rolls his eyes, but reaches over to mess with Lance’s hair, like he would Keith. Unlike Keith, Lance freaks out way harder, screeching something about hard work and artistic expression.

He smiles. “Glad you came to talk to me, kid.”

Lance sticks out his tongue, but he looks pleased, too. “Yeah, yeah.”

[klanced]

actuallly new voltron movie WILL have keith AND lance and they will kiss sloppy crazy style canonically. -jeff bezcbos

thank you josh benzos 🫡

[leenfiend]

Family portrait say Kaltenecker!!!!

[localfanbaselurker]

From scrolling on Pinterest, I’ve discovered some things that I have questions about:

-> where does the whole “Keith is obsessed with moth man” thing come from

-> why is shiro referred to as a six-year-old

-> why did you guys decide to call keith’s dad “Texas Kogane” (this is actually funny so it’s not necessarily a question but more of an amused curiosity)

-> is Lance actually cuban or is that just a really popular headcanon/appeared once in a famous fic and everyone started using it

-> what is “shaladin” ???

[torveiglyart]

I debated a long time on whether his right or left leg should go, but I thought losing his left leg would be ‘symbolic’ of him slowly being distanced from the rest of the team in seasons 5 and 6. The exact opposite limb as shiro, the left side motif for Hunk and Pidge, and the lack of change on his right for Keith. During the later seasons, it kinda hurt to see him only every confiding in Allura, who’s attention was split from Lotor, and the mice, who are known snitches. I didn’t want to cut the right, as that would symbolize his loss of Blue and… his loss of Blue. It felt redundant to the red bayard. Actually, let’s talk about the red bayard for a moment.

As I see it, there are two pivotal reasons as to why Lance got a new form for his bayard: The Altean Broadsword.

The first reason is his character growth. Lance is the ‘class clown’ character of the paladins, but that persona is not as viable in a war as it is in a classroom. Lance has had to mature very quickly due to the circumstances surrounding his requirements as a paladin. The Altean Broadsword is a symbol of both his maturity as a person and his maturity into the solider role. Zarkon was the only other paladin known to have more than one form for his bayard, and held a strong connection to the Black Lion. Lance’s ability to have not just the basic rifle, but a sniper rifle and a sword shows his connection to Red, and possibly his nature as a blue paladin: flexibility. His bayard forms allow short to mid to long range that the other paladins don’t have. His ability to listen, adapt, connect, and support is reflected in his bayard.

The second is less happy. The Altean Broadsword could be a reflection of Shiro/Kuron’s need for Keith as the right hand of Voltron, and how Lance has been Keith’s ‘replacement’ multiple times. Lance was Keith’s red paladin before he was Shiro’s, and the two of them had to adjust how they view each other in Lance’s new role. Since Shiro was the clone, there could have definitely been great reluctance to treat Lance as the red paladin and right hand, but rather as another subordinate. This reluctance would have stemmed from how the Empire, and specifically Haggar, views the roles of each paladin, and how the other paladins were ‘subordinate’ to Black Paladin Zarkon. With Allura’s bayard being a whip, Lance’s original semi-long to mid range of combat was covered for the season 1-2 team set up in Blue. With Lance being in Red, a swordsman was missing on the team, and that role defaulted to Lance. He once again was a replacement for Keith, like back in the Galaxy Garrison. Keith leaves, and Lance fills in. This reasoning definitely does not help Lance’s declining mental strength when it comes to being respected by the team and feeling like a seventh wheel.

Overall, I do not think that these reasons are mutually exclusive to one another. I think both are true to varying degrees. Lance had a very complicated character growth arc that was overshadowed by Lotor, Shiro’s return, and the mess that is season 8. That’s not to say the other things weren’t important, and there were others (Hunk) that DEFINITELY deserved more attention, but there were things that could have been worked on. Lance manages, throughout the show, to be a parallel character to, well, everyone. A competitive pilot like Keith, caring and trusting like Hunk, inquisitive and quick thinking like Pidge, supportive and motivational like Shiro, and opinionated and just like Allura. But what does that leave him as?

I really went on a rant there but would love to hear other people’s thoughts about this. Yes, both the leg and what I wrote. You can also request art! I mainly do Voltron art but I do have experience with other fandoms (The Owl House, My Hero Academia, Star Wars, She-Ra, etc.), and would love to fulfill some asks.

[destiny2skeleton]

I just spent an unreasonable amount of time scrolling through your art- it's absolutely gorgeous by the way- and I need to know how that Argent-4 managed to bag PRIMAL of all people

Like- does that exo hold classes I can attend or something?

🃏 OK IT TOOK A WHILE BUT HERE YA GO! Finally- an ask that- isn’t- cayde…

THANK YOU I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS TREAT!!!! ( also tumblr don’t be mean-)

PLEASE KEEP THE ASKS COMING I AM SO HAPPY OF THESE!!!

Argent is owned by @zamasever

Primal is owned by me!

[bakafurai]

Cauchemar: so I'm facing you three -looks at Shiro, Blue and Green- pleasure to meet you three. -bows politely-

Blue: ohh, A pleasure to meet you too sir! Green: and a good luck to you!

@kirbyoctournament

[silverclaw23]

okay I have 2 questions first, besides their laugh or their ticklish level whats your favorite thing about your partner? and 2nd how sharp are your claws?

Shiro: if i had to pick... i guess it would be how he always wants to try and make me feel better... even if his ways are..... ya know.... As for my claws, i try to keep them kinda sharp, to where if i need to use them as weapons i can but dont want to hurt people if it isnt needed

Eden: i love how my sweet melody thinks shes so tough but shes really a sweet little softy~ and i keep my claws rounded, perfect for getting lees!

[fractalkiss]

I wish you would write a fic where...

Lance isn't a driver, but Fernando is still his hero.

took me a while to figure something out for this in an angle that i would like to think about. but.. rule63! girl lancenando in the 2000's where lance isn't a driver but still dreams of racing (rated M under the cut):

She turns twenty-five on Monday really, but the cake is there anyway. Ribbon-piped vermillion and curled flowers around it with strings of pink icing on top that says Happy 25th. The decorative candle is in a similar loopy font, not the chunky kind. Chloe must have picked it out. Dad would have gone with the classic kids-party-cute, and Lance would have taken it in stride for the joke that it would have been from Dad had she still been sixteen.

Her birthday is on Monday, but it's the weekend, and people are here. Esteban is in his pink and navy team shirt after running from the motorhome to the restaurant they’re huddled in, slouched forward and clutching the backrest of the chair that Mick is sitting in. By the frosted glass windows, Alex is beaming an awkward but nonetheless shit-eating smile, her highlights still visible even in the backlight and Georgie’s there with her shoulders perfectly prim and poised while she’s stirring the straw of another (Alex’s) drink. They didn't have to show up, as quiet as this thing was meant to be while they’re at Monaco for the grand prix; there's appreciation there bubbling up in Lance anyway seeing Georgie trying to get day-drunk on an aperol spritz even when she could have made up a thousand and one excuses not to accept Lance's cordial invitation through an IM.

It goes like this: Count the number of girls who frequented a karting track at twelve and still see years later at an F1 grand prix and you’d hold up just one hand. Count the number of reasons you don't grow out of that, and it’s the same thing.

Somewhere over people’s heads, Lance’s mom is ushering someone closer. Through the glow of the candle flame in front of her, Lance sees a flash of Fernando’s squared, dimpled smile behind her mother before someone pats her gently to look back at the cake—"Come on, hon, make a wish," Dad says, and Lance will decide not to close her eyes. She wants this to be quick.

Fernando is helping her mother for the cutting, apparently. It’s how Lance looks up when Fernando holds out a plate of cake for her.

“You look a bit red,” Fernando comments, and Lance rolls her eyes. “Your mama says this is already small enough.”

“Wouldn’t have been a surprise if it wasn't,” Lance mutters through her strained smile.

"It is nice. Este is here, and your old boy the Schumacher."

"Oh whatever." Lance's own cheeks have only just stopped heating up. People are dispersing around them, going back to their own conversations, but it’s as if Lance can still feel them watching. She hears her father, chuckling along with other men as she takes the plate from Fernando to finally stick a forkful of ice cream cake in her mouth.

Fernando makes a soft noise beside her. “Seems your father will want to talk again,” she says, though she makes no move to get up, her legs stretched out in front of her like this is her small surprise party and not Lance's. The ends of her cargos brush the floor and the khaki grey looks pretty darn drab rather than understated, but Fernando pulls it off somehow.

“Ugh. I’ll say that we’re talking,” Lance offers pleasantly.

Fernando gives her a sideways look. “Are we?”

“We are,” Lance insists, and improvises, “The fundraiser’s doing well. And I asked, about new karts.”

Fernando barks out a silent laugh, more punch of air than anything but her eyes are warm. “We can do with more race kits also. We're fixing it up again, stronger barriers around the track, the tarmac is not so good, still.”

Lance hooks a strand of hair out of her face and huffs, “Well, that's new.”

Fernando’s laid on her liner a little stronger today, the softness of it creasing around her eyes as she grins. “See? Today should not be for this kind of talk, m'ija.”

"But I want to know," Lance says plainly, "Like, you know…Saturdays at the school, and the karters—" Whether the school was doing well, if there was any more help Lance and her father could give, whether Fernando's little niece went back to the track after skidding off and giving the scare of her mother's life.

The din of the restaurant isn't nearly loud enough for her to say it. Fernando is doing that thing with her hand where she's absently kneading circles into the arm of the chair with her thumb, a freshly healed patch of tanned skin there past the knuckle. Lance wants to ask when her next stint will be—as if she hasn't been watching every rally and Le Mans, each rare Formula One test session that Fernando gets to do, but as it goes—Lance still gets nervous around Fernando, for obvious reasons.

"Do you want to talk, later?" Fernando asks, like she's talking to something very small. The cloying sweetness from the cake sticks beneath Lance's tongue anyway, and her crossed legs feel tight and a little clenched in her seat. Fernando's perched herself almost still in her seat, her pants bunched a little over the crotch area; she moves her hand over Lance's bare knee, her calloused fingertips warm enough that Lance stops fiddling with the fine charm on her own bracelet.

"Later?" Fernando says again.

"Sure," Lance says.

*

When Fernando asked her whose picture from Autosport would Lance have cut out for safekeeping, Lance had smiled her sweetest and pretended like she wasn't kicking her feet at metaphorical pillows inside her in a sick squirm of panic and flattery over being asked. She'd told Fernando that she already owned a pristine vintage issue that contained a special on Sarah Fisher. It wasn't a lie—she did have the magazine, and Susie's issue too before her last name became Wolff, but as it goes, Lance gets nervous. The things she did to hide it only made her sound hollow and ruefully unimpressed, the kind of thing that used to hurt Mick's feelings a little bit years ago when they'd gone on dates. She's not proud of that. Esteban had to awkwardly offer tissues the first time she cried about it, frustrated at herself more than anything, really, a symptom of being clueless and seventeen.

She's in Fernando's hotel room now, and climbing onto the bed. The air-conditioning is turned on low, but there's a tingle down her spine anyway at the cool air hitting her skin. She's undressed down to her one of her nicest most comfortable lace sets. 

"It's for me," Lance mumbles, when Fernando comes out of the bathroom and gives her a once-over. 

"It's nice," Fernando just offers, and Lance feels herself huff. The muscles in her stomach tense for a second anyway, at the soft slight rasp of Fernando's voice. Anyone else would probably make Lance bored, would have made her automatically just, like switch on, to a performance.

Fernando's eyes are darker now as Lance tries to shimmy herself up farther and nudge at Fernando's leg with her foot to hurry up. "It's my birthday," Lance reminds her with a grin.

"And then another birthday on Monday, no?" Fernando counters. The lampshades here throw half her face in shadow, her jaw more pronounced while she's smiling a little. Her hand runs up the inside of Lance's thigh, finally. All Lance can notice now is how easily Fernando still moves in those baggy khaki pants, and how easy it'd be for her to be comfortable with it.

Lance brushes her foot over the inseam, and she feels it; Fernando was packing today. For how long, Lance doesn't know, but throughout the entire party earlier, for sure.

"Could you—" she starts, and moves forward to touch, but Fernando is already unbuttoning the pants, and getting out the silicone cock that slips out from the harness underwear, curved and a shade lighter than Fernando's skin. Lance wants to feel that brushing the back of her throat.

"That can wait," Fernando says, but Lance moves in, her mouth dry enough that saliva gathers fast, the fabric of her own panties starting to stick already with a wetness.

Last year, Lance had gotten down to eye the dark patch of Fernando's boxer briefs for the first time; Fernando had stroked through her hair to gently tilt her face back up. Lance hadn't collected a physical copy of the tiny piece that Fernando was in as featured Girl of the Year in motorsport; to do that, would have felt cheapened, somehow. Fernando is her own person—her stocky hands, solid and real and cupping the back of Lance's head back then and pulling her hair while she'd laughed, fine, princesa, fine, the sound rumbling against Lance's fingertips on Fernando's rib. Lance put herself to work for licking the wet folds of her cunt in a way that she hadn't ever for a blowjob with a boy.

"I want to," Lance tells her, and Fernando props up her face this time, fingers under her chin; she leans down swiftly for a kiss, quick and sweet.

"Then you'll lay back after, and I'll eat you out, and fuck you for as long as I want," Fernando promises, thumb rubbing Lance's pulse along her jaw, and Lance lets her eyes flutter close. ---

from the ask game: send me a summary of what you wish i'd write

[kcokaine]

"Runt baby" such great detail. You truly are peak oc creator 🙏

Thank you, have more of runt baby