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shatterinseconds · 3 years ago

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Julance ‘21 day 19

Lance grabs Keith’s face in his hands, to hold him steady, to make sure he doesn’t try to run. His bangs are matted to his face from sweat and dirt; too many scrapes are scattered across his skin. He limps with a sprained ankle, though they’re standing still for now, and while it’s covered, Lance knows there must be a smattering of dark bruises forming on Keith’s back from when he was thrown into a wall. After pushing Lance out of the way.

Keith should feel lucky his spine didn’t snap.

The rest of their team graciously decided to give them the space they needed, having seen the fury in Lance’s eyes. And the way his jaw tightened as he constantly watched Keith and held onto him tight the entire trip back to the castle.

Maybe Lance should save the discussion for when Keith’s healed, a little more stable on his feet, but if he holds it in any longer, he’ll burst.

Lance wipes a bit of dirt off Keith’s cheek before he finally speaks. His voice is low even though they’re the only ones in the hangar. “Don’t do that to me. You give me a heart attack every time.”

“You don’t control me,” Keith says, voice rough. His mouth pinches as he shifts his body to stand more soundly on his good foot.

“I also don’t ask you to sacrifice yourself for me. I was handling it.”

“They were going to kill you!”

“You could have died too!” Lance practically yells. His hands wrap in Keith’s hair, bringing him forward until their foreheads touch. “I--I can’t have you dying for me.”

“And I don’t want you to die,” Keith says softly, eyes closed now. His breathing is a little more even.

Lance huffs out a short, humorless laugh. “Checkmate, I guess.”

Keith sighs, shaking his head. “What do you want me to say, Lance? That I’m fine with watching the person I love die or get seriously injured when I could’ve prevented it?”

Mouth parting to argue, Lance quickly thinks better of it and concedes. “No, and I would be such a hypocrite if I said anything else.”

Keith stares at him for a long moment before moving in to hug him. Hands splayed on Lance’s back, his warmth spreads throughout Lance’s body even with all their armor on, and Lance’s breath catches for a moment in surprise. Keith ducks his head into the crook of Lance’s neck, his breath dancing across Lance’s skin.

“I’m not sorry I pushed you out of the way,” Keith begins honestly after a moment. “I’ll never be sorry for saving you. No matter how injured it gets me, even if it causes me my life. But I know how you feel because I get the same way when the situation is reversed. I just don’t know what to do about it.”

“The problem,” Lance mumbles into Keith’s hair. Even though they’ve just been through a battle, Lance can still detect the faint scent of his shampoo. It calms him. “Is that we’re both self-sacrificing idiots. One of us needs to be more selfish.”

Lance’s heart stutters when he feels Keith’s laugh against his skin, and a soft smile appears on his face, though Keith can’t see it. That feels good.

Stepping back, Keith holds out his pinky. “How about a promise to be more careful in battle instead.”

It’s a flaky promise to make, Lance knows--and he sure Keith does too--but it provides some baseline foundation now. It may break in a week, a month, a year. In some battle where Keith--or anyone on their team--is about to die and Lance jumps this time. Lance isn’t stupid. War is unpredictable and violent. He knows he won’t always be able to protect Keith just as Keith may not be able to protect him. But Lance will take the time he has now, be grateful for all the battles they walk away from. Because no matter what happens or what injuries they may obtain, those are the real victories.

And if Lance can’t handle it, then he shouldn’t have allowed himself to fall in love with someone in the middle of a war.

Lance hooks his pinky with Keith’s. “Promise,” he says, looking straight in his eyes. “Now, let’s get you to a healing pod.”

Keith smiles, but Lance can tell it’s pained--the painkillers Coran administered must be wearing off now. “Yeah, that would be great.” Keith drapes an arm over Lance’s shoulder, heavily leaning against him for support, and Lance wraps an arm around his waist. It’s a slow walk to the med-bay, but they make it.

They’re both scarred and a little bent but not broken. They survived today and that is something to celebrate.

#klance #voltron #vld #julance #julance2021 #klance fic #keith x lance #my writing #once again i thought i would write something fluffy for this prompt #i did not lmao

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fuckthisshitimin · 3 years ago

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For the soulmate requests: 44. “You are deaf until you meet your soulmate, whose voice is the first thing you hear.” - with Plance 💚💙

A voice like water

Pidge always could hear, as long as she remembered. Sometimes you would hear her say “yes, I’m a genius like that” or “I don’t need to find another person, I’m enough for myself already”, but she knows it’s not that simple. Nothing ever is. Every thing in this world has an explanation, and she is determined to find hers.

And when she thinks deeply, so deeply she isn’t sure if she is thinking of dreaming, she remembers a voice that sings like the rain, that cries like the waves and that screams like a waterfall.

She learned to use a radio when she was four, to disassemble one when she was five and by the time she was six she could built a simple radio monitor from scratch. Her father enrolled her in piano lessons, and when she ponders it, she realizes she does not know a world without music, and she suddenly feels sorry for all those who haven’t met their soulmate yet, or the fewer who will never hear, even if they do meet the Right One.

After radios, she moved on to bicycles, and then cars, and later again, computers. The mechanics are similar. You just have to understand their logic.

The logic behind the water-like voice is still unfound to her though, and as much as her mother can say it was but a childhood dreams, one of those who feel so real the memory forget it was a dream, she knows there is more to it. And she will prove it.

Pidge is fifteen, and if she learnt anything from TV shows and coming-of-age novels, it is that it’s a great age to start a life-changing adventure. So she packs her computer, her portable radio, her headphones, cold chocolate milk, peanut butter cookies and cucumber salad, she writes a note to her brother and parents, and she rides her bike in the middle of the summer night.

She knows the country roads, because this is where she grew up, and it feels weird to think this is her way of moving on, when she is really just riding back to where she was a child.

The sea looks agitated, even from the distance, and as the wind makes it so hard to pedal, Pidge knows she is close.

Iodine fills the air, and the wind that hits her cheeks is salty. She pedals harder, one last effort before her goal.

Beneath her waves crash into the cliff, violent and angry, so strong the splashes almost reach her feet, and she breathes in, and out, and in again. And she screams. This is all she can do with all the voice she has, scream into the wind, hoping something would answer, but the wind swallows the echoes of her outburst, her bursting laughter when she thinks she may not have thought this through correctly.

But it’s all too familiar. The cliff and the sea, the waters, too muddy, too dangerous to even think about swimming in, the pointy rocks and the salt on her lips.

This is where she gained the ability to hear. She is certain of that.

No human could swim in those waters. The numerous deaths here testify of that.

So when you rule out the impossible, you have to acknowledge that the improbable might not be so silly, that every odd thing is worth investigating, so she sits there, her legs swinging into the void, eyes focused on the sea.

“Do you believe in mermaids?”

She asks the sea, but no answer comes. She opens her backpack, digging out her radio and a recording device. She sets it up, adjusting it to the wind, trying to pick up on something slightly out of the ordinary. Anything would do.

But she knows experiments take time. Something she might call abnormal today might be quite usual for this place, and something she would not find worth noticing today might prove to be significant later. She’s been waiting for fifteen years. She can wait another day. Another week, another month, even another year.

“It’s dangerous here. Especially at night.”

Pidge already went through her chocolate milk and peanut butter cookies. All that’s left is the cucumber salad, but it’s cold and the strong wind has her aching for something warm and filling.

At first, she thinks she has been imagining the voice, but the graph on her computer screen is formal, there was something. The wind makes every sound confusing, and determining its origin hard, so she squints harder at the sea. The waters look black now, hardly reflecting the clouds in a mesmerizing dance.

“Oh, right, most young humans can’t hear.”

Something lights up behind her, and she turn to see a ghostly silhouette. White hair, long and curly, are playing with the wind, and a kind face, hardly lit by the oil lamp they are carrying, looks at Pidge. It’s probably the prettiest person Pidge has ever seen. She sits there, incapable of moving, mesmerized, until the woman signs with one hand.

Are you lost?

“Who are you?”

The woman jumps slightly, visibly taken aback, but her tone is calm when she answers. Now, Pidge can hear she has some sort of accent.

“I am Allura. I live in the house just a bit higher. You shouldn’t stay here; the cliff is dangerous when it’s dark.”

Pidge gathers her stuff, putting them back in her bag before throwing it over her shoulder. It’s hard to tell where the cliff stops, indeed.

“Well, you’re here yourself.”

“I saw you from the distance. My dear, you’re so small. How old are you?”

Pidge just shrugs, walking to her bike to get it up. “Old enough. It was nice meeting you, Allura.”

“You are shivering like crazy. Where are you going?”

“There’s a hotel a bit more in the land, I’ll sleep there.”

“Nonsense. It’s miles away, and the wind isn’t stopping any time soon. I have a spare bedroom; you can sleep there.”

Pidge squints at her, looking for anything suspicious. This person, this Allura, is the perfect image of purity, no malevolent will comes out of her, and that is enough to make her suspicious. “Why are you offering?”

“Do you want an honest response?”

“I guess?”

“Because you look like hell, you’re obviously freezing and very young, and I’m pissed at your parents for letting that happen. Also, my wife is away for the night and she left so much to eat in the fridge I wonder if she knows I do not have such an appetite.”

Pidge blinks, taking in the answer. It doesn’t sound like a lie, and honestly, Pidge wants to believe her. She wants to believe her so hard it’s unnatural. She’s not a naturally trusting person. The lady crosses her arms, quirking a defiant eyebrow. “But since you’re so obviously a minor, I could also call the police to escort you home.”

At least, if Pidge ends up killed and eaten by this lady, now she can say it wasn’t her fault for trusting the wrong person. She shrugs, keeping a firm hold on her bicycle as they walk towards Allura’s house. And Pidge should have known, for there is only one house whose windows face this peculiar cliff. She should have recognized the path they were taking, even through the dark, because the door Allura opens is one Pidge has walked through all her early years. The inside is warm, there is a fire lit and the kitchen smells like hot cocoa.

“That’s the only thing I can make,” Allura says, “because it is the only thing my uncle could make, and he taught me everything I know. So, I have soup, or fried bananas and rice. Oh, that should be maafe.”

“How long have you lived here?” Pidge takes off her jacket in the entrance, taking in the new decoration. The stairs are the same, carpeted in green velvet-like fabric. Her family pictures on the wall are obviously gone, replaces with a painting of the sea, and multiple vinyl album covers.

“Almost six years. Rice and bananas it is. Help yourself to hot chocolate, I’ll make your bed.”

“I can make it myself. Which bedroom?”

“It’s just beneath the roof, up the stairs you’ll find a–”

“Door that looks like a closet door,” Pidge cuts, remembering. She used to sleep there as a child, too. She felt like her bedroom was a secret hide-out no one would ever know about. She felt like Anne-Frank, except she wouldn’t die at the end. “but it’s really another set of stairs. I used to live here. A long, long time ago.”

“You’re a little young to look this nostalgic.”

“It is what half-forgotten memories coming back to life will make you feel, right?”

“I guess. I’ll set the table near the fireplace. Don’t sneak around for too long or the food’ll get cold.”

“So, what are you running away from?”

It comes out of the blue. They have been enjoying their dinner with vague small-talk about this place and shared knowledge of this house, and when the hot chocolate – that they finally decided to have in place of dessert – came to the table, Allura seemingly decided she was done beating around the bush. Pidge, on the other end, was fine with vague conversations.

“The inescapable march of time, death and boredom.”

“I was hoping for something a little more… personal.”

Hey face is inquisitive, and Pidge recognizes the burning curiosity in Allura’s eyes for she felt it more than once. Rarely towards someone, but still.

“I’m not running from anything. I’m looking for someone.”

“Did you lose your father in a tragic accident but can’t help thinking he’s still out there?” That’s a very wild and very specific take on who Pidge might be looking for, and she shakes her head, not quite sure what she should answer. Allura sighs, before smiling gently. “Sorry, I think I’m just projecting. In the astral way, you know.”

“You are the weirdest person I ever met. And I don’t mean it in a bad way.”

“My beliefs might not be common, but I am a very rational person.”

“A rational person that believes in the irrational?”

“If you can’t explain something, doesn’t mean it has no explanation. You probably just haven’t found it yet.”

“You’re a scientist.” That would explain how familiar the woman feels, even when she acts in a light-hearted way Pidge isn’t used to.

“I like to think I am, yes. If by scientist you mean someone who craves to understand how the strings of this world and others are pulled, I definitely am.”

Pidge smiles, and the woman answers fondly. Pidge bites her lip, feeling the urge to say something. She doesn’t know if she’s impressed by Allura’s wit or if this is what developing a crush feels like, but she doesn’t want to stop talking. So she drops her mini-bomb, the one she’s been keeping preciously secret.

“I’m looking for my soulmate, and I think they might not be human.”

She stops to study the elder’s reaction, but Allura’s smile just grows wider. She doesn’t look surprised nor phased. She says: “So, you are a scientist conducting an experiment yourself?”

“I like to think I am.”

Allura agreed to lend her the room in exchange of updates on her “soulmate experiment” and a little help in the kitchen, since her wife called to say she would be away for longer than expected. It is weird, to be back here, but Pidge can only see Allura’s openness as a sign this is how it’s supposed to be. Another not-so-rational belief. It looks like Pidge is collecting them as of now.

She spent the day after the one she arrived at the cliff, registering every sound she could, and the next one comparing the samples and going through her apps to find the best way to classify it.

After her long days, she comes home to Allura, help cook dinner. She’s not a very good cook either so they stick to basic and quick meals, but after them they always drink hot chocolate before the chimney and talk about their day. Pidge learnt that Allura is a fantasy writer, but that she doesn’t consider her novels as much as fantasy but more as what ifs, possibilities this world isn’t currently exploring but might be someday, or could have been. They have a routine starting to settle, and Pidge is good with routine. This is the way she’s the more efficient. She thinks better if she knows what she is doing with her time, precisely.

It is not much, but after a week, Pidge thinks she is picking up a pattern that she can’t find examining feeds from other cliffs of this coast, or feeds from totally different coasts. She finds similar patterns on the internet, mostly around beaches that have the reputation to be haunted by dead sailors, or meeting places between humans and merpeople. Allura asks her if she believes in mermaids. She answers you can’t prove that something doesn’t exist, and what you can’t prove wrong, you can’t rule out.

At the end of the second week, Pidge hears something. Not on her screen, not on any of her devices, but with her own ears, something so familiar she cries on the cliff, unable to stop staring at the waters in hope of seeing something, to no use.

That day, Allura asks her the same question again. And Pidge answers she thinks she does.

Her headphones on her ears, eyes on the screen and fingers typing restlessly, she compares the feed from yesterday to what her monitor is picking up on at the moment. It’s gone. Whatever she heard, it’s not here today, and she doesn’t know if she has the patience to wait another two weeks. She said she could wait, but obviously, she had been lying to herself.

She doesn’t hear footsteps, but she sees them on the graph, and she assumes it’s Allura before a voice talks.

“You have a very peculiar way to listen to the sea.”

She jolts, turning around to see a man she is sure she has never met before. Yet, he feels familiar.

“Christ, don’t sneak on people like that!”

“What are you doing?”

“Tracking alien signals. Who are you?”

“An alien.”

She takes off her headphones, getting up to look at him better. He’s so taller than her it’s upsetting. She doesn’t know why exactly. But she’s upset. And curious. And she feels like her ears are bleeding. Her blood is pounding in her head. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

He’s smiling, and there is a storm inside her that is so sudden she can’t find it in her to hide it. He’s here. It’s her home. He looks about her age, so she probably knows him somehow. “I think I do. How long have you been here? I lived there,” she points at her old house, “did we go to school together or something?”

“I don’t think so. I’d remember a face like yours.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Was that unclear?”

“Are you friends with Mario? If you are it’s not fucking funny,” she sighs, gathering her stuff. The sun is setting, she might as well go home for today. She’s got enough material.

“Wait, wait, what makes you think that? Who’s Mario?” He grabs her arm, and she fights back immediately. He looks surprised when he lets go, then upset, then sheepish. “I’m sorry. I just. I didn’t mean to chase you from your alien-tracking spot.”

She squints a little, then sits back. She doesn’t expect him to sit with her, but he does.

“If you’re not here to make fun of me, what do you want?”

“I was trying to flirt with you, but since that’s not working I was hoping we could be friends. I’m Lance.”

She looks at him, and his face is too close, yet not close enough for her to decipher the look in his eyes. She doesn’t get it. Yet she doesn’t want him to leave. He is a disturbance, but foremost, an anomaly. Anomaly are worth exploring. “Why flirt with me when you have a soulmate already?”

“Do you ever not ask questions?”

“Nope. They found a line in my code that said if(goinToShutUpOrNot) { Not(); }. So?”

“What makes you think I found my soulmate?”

“You’re talking. Duh.”

“Oh, right. But no. I, uh, actually lost her.” His eyes fly towards the see, and she nods. But that’s probably not the answer he was expecting. She joins him in gazing at the sea.

“Sorry.”

And he just chuckles, she can’t see his eyes. His shoulders go up for a sec. He doesn’t look tense. Just nostalgic. It’s a subtle expression, but the second he looks at her again, it’s gone and replaces by a playful smile. “Does that mean I get the right to flirt with you?”

“No,” she answers without even thinking. He shrugs, extending his hands towards the waters, forming a rectangle with his fingers. Like a photographer or something. His back is straight, but his legs move freely, and the way he moves is hard to predict.

And the way he looks. Now that he’s so close, it’s obvious. That there is something off about him, about his whole physical being. His skin is too smooth and his eyes are too deep, like an abyss in the middle of the ocean, and… “Damn, your ears are so pointy.”

He laughs it off, and his fingers move to his ears in a reflective manner. “It’s to hear you better, child.”

“I’m no child,” she answers in a beat. He turns towards her. “Your eyes are so deep.”

He seems pleased that she’s willing to play his little game, he goes: “It’s to look at you better, young lady.”

“I’m no lady either,” she says this time, and she looks at him to find something else. His hands are big, but she doesn’t want to know what he would answer to that. His skin is smooth, but that would be tricky of her. His shoulders, his hair, his legs, his neck. “Your neck… What are those, scars?”

“They’re gills. It’s to breathe underwater, soulmate.”

“I’m no—” she starts, but she can’t finish. Gills? The worst part is it makes sense. She has spent a crazy amount of time wondering if her soulmate could be a merperson. But that? No. No, that is crazy. She is up in a swift movement, jumping far from him. “What the hell? What. The actual. Hell. You’re not a merman. Mermen don’t exist.”

“Hey! You said to Allura you believed in us!”

“Well, saying something and seeing it are two very different things! Wait. You know Allura. You lied to me!”

“I never said I didn’t know her.”

“Which means you could still be lying. Fuck, that’s such an elaborate way of messing with me.”

“Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not—” she stops herself. Of course she is freaking out. How could she not freak out? She is being told that she indeed has a soulmate, and that he is a merman. How messed up is that? And her mother is definitely not going to believe her. Oh shit. “You’re lying. You’re definitely lying. It has to be it.”

“I’ll prove you wrong. Or, I’ll prove your weirdest theory right, to be precise.”

If he sings. If he just sings, she could recognize his voice. She could know he is lying. Or she could know he is indeed the reason she’s been able to ear for so long. He opens his mouth. Takes a deep breath. And jumps off the cliff.

She runs towards the edge, staring at the void beneath her feet, yelling from the top of her lungs “What the fuck?” And then his head pops out, and she almost wants to jump too, just to drown him. But then he swims, and jumps, and there is no way she can mistake anything resembling skin to the shiny blue scales that cover what should be his legs. “OK! You win, you’re a merman! Now, how do you plan on getting back up? What happened to your clothes?”

He laughs, and in this form, his voice is different. It’s tangled in the waves and the wind, it sounds like sparkling water. He shouts, so she can hear: “I did not think this through!”

She groans, before yelling back: “I can stomach that my soulmate is a merman, but do you have to be an idiot, too?”

Relief is washing over her, cutting her legs with tiredness, and yet somehow she can’t stop screaming. He’s idiotic and loud, he reminds her of her brother, in some way, and that is something that would piss her off.

The sound of a suitcase rolling, a door opening. Romelle sighs as soon as she enters the house, cracking her neck and calling. “Allura? Are you home?”

“In the living room!”

She puts her suitcase near the stairs, taking off her coat to join her wife in the couch. “I was away for weeks, you could at least come and greet me.”

“I’ll make yout hot chocolate. But first, look at that.”

“I can’t see, it’s too far. Is it Lance I hear?”

“Exactly. He found his soulmate.”

“The human girl?”

Allura nods, and Romelle closes her eyes focusing on her ears. Their voices are carried by the wind. She can hear them screaming at each other.

“So,” she asks Allura, “What do you think?”

“I think they will get along quite well.”