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autisticlancemcclain · 8 months

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One Saturday morning, as Keith and Lance descend the stairs on their way to the kitchen — as Keith practically carries a still half-asleep Lance, that is — Marcela whips towards them, points a scolding finger in their direction, and says, “I am tired of checking in on you two at night and seeing my son, sprawling over half the bed, while poor Keith clings to the edge. No more.”

Keith’s heart drops to his toes, pounding all the way down. His ears billow out and then fade slowly, like someone turned the volume down. He feels like a beyblade someone just spun and dropped onto the pavement, dizzy and sharp and sparking, trembling to a stop. For several horrifying moments he’s convinced that this may very well be it, and he’s shocked by his own surprise. He’s usually so prepared for the eventual end of someone’s affection, for the patience to run out, for the boot to kick him on the way out the door. It’s startling to realise how far he’s let his defences drop with the Esposita-McClains.

Dangerous.

But then Keith processes the entirety of her sentence, hears past “I’m tired of” and “Keith” in the same sentence. He sees her narrowed eyes and chiding finger and playful exasperation pointed at Lance’s guilty grin, not at Keith, and he realises she is exasperated by the fact that Lance takes up the whole bed every night Keith sleeps over, not that Keith sleeps over at all.

He unclenches his fist from the hem of Lance’s shirt. He’s not sure if Lance does it on purpose, but he leans farther into Keith, and the pressure helps ground him, helps him breathe again.

“I really don’t mind,” Keith mumbles. He keeps his eyes averted, unwilling to meet her knowing ones. “Lance isn’t that bad.”

Marcela snorts, ruffling his hair as she walks by to set the milk on the table. “Please, Keith. He’s a nightmare to sleep with and he knows it. He had to have those little toddler rails on the sides of his bed until he was seven years old because he kept falling off.”

Lance makes a noise of protest at the embarrassing anecdote. Keith smiles, patting his back slightly.

“He does drool.”

“And kick,” says Lance’s older sister Veronica, ducking into the kitchen to grab an apple. Rachel, his other sister, is right behind her, and she pipes up too.

“He also grinds his teeth!”

“And mutters freaky things. He said he was going to curse me once.”

“Oh, yeah, and there was the deal with the sleeping sitting up!”

“And there was —”

“Alright, girls,” Marcela interrupts, leaning over to hold down the hand Lance has clenched around a fork before he has a chance to launch breakfast at his sisters. She looks to have intervened in the nick of time, which makes Keith smile into his cereal. “Let’s not make your brother homicidal.”

Both girls leave the kitchen snickering. Lance’s face promises revenge. For their sake, Keith hopes they find a way to lock their room door, but somehow he doubts it. A part of him is intrigued about whatever scheme Lance will inevitably rope him into.

“I really am fine, though,” Keith repeats once calm has returned to the morning again. “I once had to sleep in a home that usually had more kids than beds, so Lance’s kicking is a significant improvement from a sleeping bag on the kitchen floor.”

He hadn’t meant for his comment to be upsetting. It wasn’t great, sure, but he’d had a roof over his head and food to eat, and he’d only been there for a couple days. The whole situation was funny in hindsight, hilarity inherent in the absurdity of his neon green sleeping bag next to the magnet-covered fridge, and that’s how he’d meant the comment. A joke.

But Marcela looks horrified, and Lance leans over to rest his head on Keith’s shoulder and wrap their hands together, and Keith realises he’s most definitely made a mistake.

“Kidding,” he tries anyway, but the damage is done. The determination in Marcela’s eyes becomes even more apparent, and she nods twice as if reassuring herself. Keith could kick himself.

“Be ready in twenty minutes,” she says resolutely. “We’re going out.”

———

In twenty minutes they’re in the car. Lance almost has his voice back by then, too, which is great, because Keith feels like he’s going to lose his — he’s expecting a fancy air mattress, really. At most he’s expecting to be delegated to his own space in the pull out couch or something. And even that is more than he ever thought he’d get. It’s not that he doesn’t think he deserves it, or anything like that. He knows that some of his living situations have been less than ideal, in the past few years.

But he…he’s not part of this family. He’s not supposed to be, anyway. He’s someone Lance dragged home someday, someone Lance latched onto and then everyone else seemed to follow his example. Keith knows his current foster family gets a cheque for an amount he’s too afraid to find out every month. He knows the state government pays people to home and house and feed him because no one else will. That’s how it’s been since that’s what it had to be.

He cannot understand what logic has inspired Marcela and Lance and all the Esposita-McClains, really, to home and house and feed him. He doesn’t understand.

He’s not expecting a forty minute drive to Ikea. He doesn’t understand why so much is being extended for him. He’s not expecting the determination in Marcela’s face and the way she holds Keith in one hand and Lance in the other, tightly, as if both are her children, until Lance whines and pulls himself free to come hold Keith’s other hand, as if he’s the commodity.

Keith doesn’t understand.

This is not how things are supposed to go.

This is never how things end up going. Not ever in a million years or even less.

“We should get a bunk bed!” Lance says excitedly, pulling Keith out of his thoughts and in a random direction. Marcela squeezes Keith’s hand once and lets go to allow it, stepping to the side to grab on of the boxy blue shopping carts.

Lance brightens even further when she brings over the cart, hopping onto the end of it and gesturing for Keith to do the same. Keith looks at the cart, then at Lance, then at the wheels, then at the total lack of space beside him, and imagines Marcela hitting the tiniest bump as they cram onto the little ledge and then them going flying.

He wisely chooses to walk over and grab the handlebar next to Marcela. She extends her pinky to rest next to Keith, which makes several emotions that he refuses to identify rise up in his throat.

“Let’s maybe consider our other options,” Marcela suggests as she pushes the cart farther. “You remember when we stayed over at your primo’s house when we first moved? You hit the ceiling every single morning because you could never remember that it was there. I don’t think bunk beds are for you, mijo.”

“And the toddler rail thing,” Keith adds. He’d meant it seriously — Lance has genuinely fallen a few times and Keith has had to drag him back up — but Lance huff-laughs in the way that he does when Keith teases him and he’s annoyed that he finds it funny, and Marcela straight up laughs. Keith meets Lance’s eyes and smiles to soften the unintentional dig.

“Fine,” Lance laments, dramatically leaning backwards on the rail. “We’ll just get boring normal beds I guess. Ooooou, we should get some bookshelves! Then Keith has somewhere to put all his nerd things.”

Marcela turns the shopping cart so quickly it screeches and nearly flings Lance right off, speeding towards the shelving area. Keith hurries to keep up.

“Excellent idea, Lancito. Bribing him to stay for longer. You’re so smart.”

Lance preens. Keith looks rapidly between them both, trying to find the joke, but there isn’t one. They, genuinely and truly, want to redesign Lance’s entire room to entice Keith to stay. However much it will cost, and Keith knows it will be a lot, they are doing more than what is reasonable to ensure they (not just Lance! All of them! The household!) can spend more time with Keith.

It’s baffling.

Try as he might, Keith simply cannot find a motive. He watches, gobsmacked, as Lance and Marcela hem and haw their way through the biggest furniture outlet chain in the world, comparing sturdy wooden shelving and colourful bean bag chairs and dorky spaceship themed beds, redesigning a whole room from scratch.

He startles out of his thoughts at Marcela’s beckoning, walking over to the display table she and Lance are illegally sitting at (there is a giant FOR VISUAL DISPLAY ONLY sign on it that they have ignored), half hunched over her cell and a pad of paper. “Keith, rojo, come here. We need you to sketch out the basics of Lance’s room so we know what fits. Marco is measuring the walls and everything right now. Don’t worry about anything that’s already in there, I think we’re taking it all out to paint it anyway. You like blue, right?”

Keith swallows roughly. He does like blue. He’s never painted his own room before.

“Yeah,” he manages, finally squishing down next to Lance on his chair.

Following Marco’s directions, he sketches out the foundations of the bedroom, marking the big window and weirdly narrow door and closet that Lance never uses because he has it piled full of stuff he doesn’t use but can’t bring himself to give away. The sketch is then used as a sort of map as they wander around the outlet, holding it up to various pieces of furniture and assessing how they would fit. It takes Keith some time, but after several hours of Lance’s energy and Marcela’s excitement, Keith starts to get hyped.

“Gasp!“ Lance says out loud, because he is a dork. He reaches a flapping hand over to Keith’s without looking, slapping him on the shoulder several times before finally managing to grip onto his sleeve. “Keith! Keith! Look!”

Keith squints in the direction Lance is emoting at. “A couch,” he says slowly, trying to figure out what warrants the intense excitement.

Honestly, it might be the couch. Lance got super excited about bar stools, earlier, so anything really goes.

“No no, farther!”

Keith squints harder. “The countertops?”

“Farther!”

“The…vases?”

“No! Farther!” Finally Lance gets frustrated enough to step behind Keith, gently pressing his palms to Keith’s cheeks and guiding his head in the right direction. “Now squint really hard and get excited with me.”

Keith tries. He sees grey blobs and says nothing, allowing the silence to speak for him.

“The stuffies, Keith! They’re sharks and hippos! Mama, Keith needs glasses.”

“I know,” she says at the same time that Keith says “No, I don’t.”

They stare at each other for several moments.

“As soon as you’re on the insurance,” she says levelly.

“I will feed them to a creek,” Keith promises.

He has never been this stubborn to Marcela before. He didn’t even mean to. If he had known he was going to say it he would have kept his mouth shut, but the words kind of bubbled out of him. He waits for her eyes to harden, her shoulders to square, for the annoyance to become evident at his insolence.

But she only snorts, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “I got Marco to wear them. I got Lisa to wear them. I got my mule of a husband to wear them. If you need them, you will not out-stubborn me, toro.”

Keith shrugs. If she’s that hellbent on getting to know him, she’ll learn, he supposes.

By the time the time they break their intense eye contact, they realize that Lance has already wandered off towards the stuffed animals, and hasten to follow him (he gets lost easy). Lance is already halfway into this big bucket, digging for something specific.

“This is for you,” he says when he finally unearths himself, handing a hippo to Keith. “Smaller than the others, like you, and the fluff is a little matted but it’s softer than the others. The shark is for me because it was stuck on the hippo like I’m stuck on you.” He playfully checks Keith’s hip, giggling at his own joke, but Keith’s eyes are totally glued onto the wonky little hippo plushie in his hands. He holds it loosely, afraid of crushing it, and stares intensely at the matted fluff on the one side, the tangled mess of the little poof at the tail. He tries three times to swallow and fails each time, lump in his throat taking up too much space.

“We’re too old for stuffies,” he finally manages. He gives himself away by how tightly he holds the soft things in his hands.

Lance snorts. “Yeah, well, you’re a massive dweeb, so I think we’re fine.”

“I think they’ll be wonderful additions to your room,” Marcela says with finality, and that is that.

———

By the time they make it out of the maze that is Ikea, pack up the car, and set out on the ride home, it’s well after eight thirty. And Keith isn’t a baby, and neither is Lance, and they have a later bed time than that, but…

They’ve been walking around all day. There has been a lot of expended energy.

They’re tired.

Keith remembers being finagled into playing double-o seven with Lance in the back seat. He remembers losing. He remembers poking Lance in the cheek as he yawned just to hear him squawk.

He remembers nothing but the feeling of Lance’s warmth pressed against his, after that, and the seatbelt digging into his neck, and the numbness of his legs. Then he remembers nothing until he felt the familiar bump of the Esposita-McClain driveway, until he cracked open his eyes to see that they were home and closed them quickly again, hoping he wouldn’t be made to get up, still mostly asleep.

“Should we bother setting up the new beds?” comes a whispered voice, deeper and male.

“No, no,” comes another, higher and softer. “They can sleep together for tonight. You take Lancito. I’ll take Keith.”

He is awake enough to feel soft fingers brushing through his hair, then jostling, then heavy breathing beside his ear and the swaying of being carried. He falls fully asleep again against Marcela’s shoulder, leaning his weight onto her fully, forgetting to keep awake for the walk to their room. He stirs slightly again as he’s set down onto something soft, as he feels the familiar tug of Lance’s finger’s against the fabric of his shirt, the sound of his slow breathing.

“Goodnight, estrellitos,” comes the same whispered voice from earlier, and it’s the last thing Keith remembers before he slips away into sleep.

———

other parts in this universe: 1 2 3

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mothmanavenue · 8 months

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Take me back when our world was one block wide

I dared you to kiss me and ran when you tried

Just two kids, you and I

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the-kittens-of-vol-tron · 2 years

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kid Lance au! Maybe where he gets turned into a kid (for one random reason to another) and the team expects him to be loud and hyperactive, but he's rlly shy and sweet instead?

Dad Coran >:)

:000000

I've never written something like this before.

-----

"Coran....what happened?" Allura asked, her eyebrow twitching a bit in anger as she stared at the situation.

Coran held a small device up to his face, squinting at the numbers. "It seems my calculations were a bit off. This thing is over 10,000 years old."

"The device or your brain?" Pidge tilted their head trying to understand what they were seeing.

Hunk began to chew his nails, not really sure what to do. Shiro pinched the bridge of his nose, Keith looking between the situation and the door; clearly ready to book it.

What was the situation? Lance sitting on the floor. But it wasn't just Lance sitting on the floor, it was a kid version of Lance sitting on the floor.

He blinked up at everyone, his clothes falling off his smaller frame. He tilted his head to the side; clearly trying to understand what was happening.

Allura crouched down, placing her hand son her knees. "Hey there Lance, do you know who I am?"

Keith nudged Shiro, "I cannot deal with a hyperactive kid."

Shiro placed his hand on his brother shoulder, "I'm sure Coran can figure this out before dinner."

"Uh negative number 1, this will wear off in about one movement." Coran tapped a couple more buttons on his device.

"A week! Lance will be a child for a week!!" Hunk exclaimed, beginning to pace his anxiety.

All every fell on Lance once more, who was pulling his oversized jacket tighter around him. He didn't answer Allura, simply stared at her with his big eyes.

Allura frowned and stood back up. "Okay so we're down a paladin for a week. That's...we can work with that." She looked at the others, begging with validation with her eyes.

Everyone gave slight nods, clearly still sure about what to do regarding the situation. Allura looked back down at Lance, the back at her team, "how old does he look?"

They all looked at him, "um six? Maybe eight?" Hunk said hesitantly.

"Why don't we ask him?" Coran kneeled down, "how old are you?" He said in a slight puppy dog voice.

Lance looked at him, before a smile bloomed over his face, "moustache!"

"Why I do have a moustache, but how old are you?"

Lance blinked up at him, and stuck out his hands, “this many!”

The team silently counted his fingers, “so he’s seven,” Keith finally spoke.

The first day was the weirdest by far. Coran had found some smaller clothes, given them to Lance who got dressed. He still wore his jacket around the castle, despite the fact he was basically swimming in it.

The team kept their distance, unsure of what to do with him. Keith made sure to keep two rooms between him and Lance at all times. Shiro and Allura watched from a distance, both of the ready to step in if Lance was doing something to hurt himself.

Hunk panic baked, while Pidge tried to see of she could figure out how to age him back up quicker.

Lance was on the couch, swinging his legs back and forth while he he played on a device that Pidge handed him.

"When do you think he's going to...you know freak out? Run around? Destroy our bedrooms?" Keith poked his head in, speaking softly to Shiro and Allura.

Shiro hummed, "I don't know. He's been very calm."

"Are children on your planet usually hyperactive?" Allura asked hesitantly.

"Usually. And Lance, being...well Lance I'm surprised he hasn't ran around yet."

Hunk called for dinner a bit later, and Lance padded towards the dinning room, holding Coran's hand the entire time. Dinner was a bit awkward, everyone was watching Lance intently, waiting for some fit or fussing.

But Lance sat still, used his silverware, and except getting food down his shirt and some of his face, he was well behaved.

"Here let me help you," Coran pulled out a napkin and wiped Lance's face.

"Thanks mister!"

Coran smiled, "anytime my boy."

Lance hopped down from the chair, grabbing his empty plate. He looked around, his eyebrows furred together in thought.

“Do you need something Lance?” Hunk asked, rubbing his hands together nervously.

Lance looked up at him, lifting his empty plate a bit higher, “where?”

“Where? Um,” it quickly clicked with Hunk what the boy was getting ate. “Oh! In the sink, let me show you.” Hunk stood from the table, grabbing his own plate and led Lance into the kitchen.

“Whoa! This is huge!” Lance looked around the room in awe.

Hunk couldn’t help but chuckle, “this is the kitchen,” he grabbed Lance’s plate, and placed it in the sink, “this is the food goo machine. It attacked me once.”

Lance fell into a fit of laughter. Lance offered to help wash dished, and Hunk left to grab a chair for him to stand on. Hunk dried and put everything away while Lance scrubbed each dish, his tonged poking out of his lips in concentration.

“All done,” Lance hopped off the chair, flapping his arms to slide his sleeves down.

“Thanks Lance, you were a big help.”

“Mama always has me help with dishes,” he gave a toothy grin.

Lance ended up in the common room once more, completely engross with a random Altean movie that was playing. He hugged the spare couch pillow, his eyes trying to catch every movement of the action scene.

“Someone has to put him to bed right? That’s what you do to kids?” Shiro asked, clearly overwhelmed by the idea of tucking a kid in.

Hunk nodded, “tuck him in, maybe read him a story, kids need a lot more sleep than we do.”

Keith, Shiro, and Pidge made a slight face; neither of them had spent anytime around younger kids.

“So we should put him to bed soon?” Allura asked, looking around her paladins towards Lance.

Hunk nodded, "yeah it's like 7pm."

Coran stepped forward, "I can take care of him. You all relax." He made his way towards the younger boy. "What do you say my boy, time for bed?"

Lance looked up at him, blinking at him, almost as if he was trying to understand why he was so familiar. "Bedtime?"

Coran nodded, turning off the TV in the process. "Come on, I'll walk you to your room."

Lance hooped off the couch, grabbing Coran's hand as they walked down the hallway. "Hey mister?"

Coran glanced down at him, "yes?"

"Where's my mama?"

The ginger man felt a frown tug at his lips but he fought it down. "She's home. You're on a...vacation."

"Oh...like a space camp?!"

"Yeah...like a space camp." Coran brought him to his room, grabbing him clothes for him to change into and he tucked him in. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Story?"

"A story? Hmmmm what kind of story do you like?"

"Adventure."

Coran nodded his head, "okay. Let me think for a moment." He sat on the edge of the bed, Lance staring up at him with excited eyes. A story eventually came to Coran's mind, a story Coran used to tell his own son when he was younger. "About 300 years ago there was a boy named..."

Lance fell asleep soon after.

---

Having a kid version of Lance around was a huge shift for the team. Lance was loud, a constant chatter box, he always had something to talk about. He wasn't a morning person, he was always ready for a fight, him and Keith jabbed at each other. He tied the room together, he made the team who they were.

But this version of Lance? Huge contrast. Younger Lance was quiet, reserved in a sense. He seemed shy around anyone that wasn't Hunk or Coran. He stayed in his own areas, asking Hunk and Coran for clarification or random questions about what they were doing.

He stayed in front of the TV when the team was training or on a mission to scout out a planet for an alliance. Lance stumbled upon Blue one day, the lion making a bit if a ruckus at the age of her paladin.

"Lance, what are you doing down here?!" Hunk ran into the hanger, the other's on his tail.

Lance looked back at his friend, pointing up at the giant metal lion. "Blue!"

"Yeah, yeah she is."

Lance looked back at the lion, "I like her!"

"She likes you two buddy. You're her paladin." Hunk crouched down next to him.

"Paladin?"

Hunk took a deep breath, trying to find the correct way to explain what a paladin was to a seven year old. "It uh...it's a job." He glanced back at his teammate for help.

"We fight bad guys to save the universe." Pidged offered.

Lance looked back at her, "and you fly in a giant lion?!"

The team nodded in agreement in their own ways.

Lance ran over to Coran, wrapping his arms around him. "Coran! Look at the lion! She's pretty!"

Coran patted his head, "they're four more lions."

Lance looked at him with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. He pulled on Coran's hand until he was leaned down to be at his eyelevel. "Show me? Pleaseeeeeeeee."

"Okay okay," he looked up at the other paladins, waiting for them to give the okay. "Let's go."

Later that night Lance was sitting back on the couch, singing a song under his breath as he swung his legs while playing a game. Shiro sat on the other couch, reading a book while Hunk worked on the small project next to him.

"What you singing Lance?" Shiro asked him.

Lance looked up at him, stopping the motion of his legs. "A song my mama sings."

"How does it go?"

"Um, it's in Spanish. Do you know Spanish?" Lance tilted his head as he asked his question.

Shiro shook his head, "no but I can learn a song."

Lance spent the next half hour teaching Hunk and Shiro the words to the song, giggling a bit if they pronounced something wrong. Coran and Allura filtered in afterward and Lance taught them the same song.

It was the most Lance talked to everyone the entire time.

Everyone seemed to forget that Lance was suppose to go back to his original age until he did. Coran knocked on his door, fully prepared to help him get ready for the door. "Good morning- Lance!?"

"Yeah that's my name. What's up?"

Coran blinked at him, measuring him with his arms, ignoring the other boys confused noises.

"Coran! What are you doing?!"

"Measuring you," Coran stood up, "you're back to your normal size!"

Lance blinked at him, "why wouldn't I be?"

"Do you not remember?"

"Remember what Coran?"

Coran sighed, "let's talk to the team."

"Um okay," Lance went back into his room, reappearing with his signature green jacket. They both headed down to the dinning room. "Coran?"

"Yes my boy."

"Why were they're like, small clothes in my room?"

Coran fought back a chuckle, "we'll explain over breakfast."

-----

So I wasn't sure what to do with this but I hope it turned out okay? I'm not very good at writing shy characters,,,,

Thank you <33333

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heynhay · 5 months

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found it!

#My foray into Leakira……#but who are we kidding this is just slightly grungier klance #klance #Voltron #vld #Keith kogane #Lance McClain #leakira #art #my art

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spawnnfrog · 4 months

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Robin... meet Robin.

I want to make a sequel with the other Robins—like Maps, Duke, Matt, that one mechanic one... just all of them! But there's so many like woah. Why am I so into characters meeting different iterations of themselves like first Link meet Links aus and now Robin???

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deckoftrickcards · 15 days

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made a lil thing on my sisters ipad

#voltron #keith kogane #klance #lance mcclain #vld #voltron legendary defender #klance fanart #vld fanart #keith x lance #i wanna keep my sisters ipad #orphan keith my beloved #yes i know his mom is alive he’s an orphan in spirit #he was in foster care and had a shit time i like making him suffer #foster care problem kid keith ur so special to me #lance had no idea this dude was an orphan

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kagooleo · 6 months

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the gangs all here!!!

#kagarts #rival silver #trainer kris #trainer ethan #trainer lyra #johto #pokemon gsc #pokemon hgss #I think it’s fascinating seeing so many interpretations of this bunch #on who is champion or what each of them do in postgame/timeskip scenarios #it’s really cool seeing so many variations of each like. hell yeah man #here’s a lot of factoids on designs sorry for the wall of text in advaaaaaance #lance picked silver’s main cape color and chose white so he would appear less intimidating and approachable when teaching kids about dragons #lugia matchy too for that dragon connection there #kris’ gear revolves around biking and the lil tassles were an attempt at suicune ribbons #she has aspects from all the lion dogs in her full fit (she gets a helmet and jet/boostpack)#channeling kamen rider and bomb rush cyberfunk/jet set radio to give her a more future vibe #ethan I personally wanted to channel the ken sugimori chill vibe of how he was drawn #very old school (college fit); with a bit of early age grunge #friend to all birds and does a bit of nature/wildlife photography (based on the hgss picture taking feature!)#also loves the pokeathlon #he gets a ho-oh pattern/colorset for his tracksuit #lyra in this interpretation is the champion and got to battle red #protag to protag communication happened and she wants to set a better example for trainers going forward #a great teacher who wants to encourage the next set of trainers to set out on their own journeys #she’ll be the champion until she has to pass that torch on #but she also cares for the ilex shrine as per family tradition (even taking that with her into her champion outfit! celebi dresssss :D)

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gehtsis · 7 months

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haven't talked about this pantsy red headed dork in a hot minute so i made this outta boredom

#rival silver #rival wally #natural harmonia gropius #champion lance #team rocket giovanni #pokemon #i think wally and silver should also be besties. sick victorian era child and redheaded kid who has a big ass gator #a weasel and a weird bird.#friendship is real #(also because i think wally would at least try to give genuine advice here. ethan and lyra would just tell him to murk giovanni)

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mydairpercabeth · 3 months

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Percy: I didn’t steal it (the masterbolt) neither did any of my friends. We found it, and we got it back. We tried to get it to you on time

Zeus: You failed.

Percy: Yes. I did.

The writers had Percy’s characterization DOWN in the Olympus scene. When he first approaches Zeus he shares the credit with Annabeth and Grover. He says “we” found the bolt, “we” stopped Ares, “we” uncovered Kronos plan. But when Zeus states their failure of getting the bolt by the deadline, Percy immediately shifts the blame to himself. His loyalty to his friends is so deep that he takes complete responsibility for the quest failing. He doesnt want his friends enduring the wrath of Zeus nor does he want them to be blamed for the war.

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nikogane · 7 days

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draw this as klance

you were always playing roblox

#i feel like lance is a roblox kid and keith is a minecraft kid #lance definitely plays roblox w his siblings #and keith would fuckin. destroy every world he made with fucked up commands #klance #dumbass post

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pansy-picnics · 7 months

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“it takes a village to raise a child.”

every time someone calls them new dream kids i will make sure a civilian mysteriously goes missing from a disney park

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autisticlancemcclain · 6 months

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part one

———

Over the next several weeks, Marcela continues to keep an eye on the boy. (Takashi. She knows his name is Takashi, and that he is an adult by legal standards. But she can’t get over how — how young he is. She can’t get over the scars on his face and the straight-backed robotic way he walks and the haunted look in his eyes. She hates America, often, and she hates the world, for letting children — encouraging them — to sign up for something they can never understand. He has been alive for less than one quarter of his lifespan. He is just a boy.)

She’s careful not to overbear him, to keep some distance, but at least once a week she’ll make a plate and send it his way, or have Luis weed his garden as well as theirs. She’ll even kick the football into his yard when she’s playing with Lance and Rachel, just to give them an excuse to go get it, just to give the boy a reason to get up and answer the door. She’s always been a light sleeper, too, and when she hears his car start up in the middle of the night, far too late for any errands, she’ll press a gentle kiss to her sleeping husband’s temple and slide her feet into her slippers, quietly padding over to the kitchen and watching with a mug of tea until the car pulls back into the driveway. (Some days, that takes hours. Some days the sun rises again before she sees the beam of his headlights bleed back onto their streets. Some days, even, he won’t leave the driveway, sitting instead with his hands clutched on the wheels and his eyes staring, unblinking, at the chipping paint of his garage door, for hours. Those are the worst days. On those days, she makes sure to make something sweet and warm and comforting, and leave a heaping plate of it on his doorstep. On those days, she swallows the lump in her throat and hugs her children tightly and they grip the seams of her shirt and say nothing, not even whining or squirming when she pulls them away from their games. On those days she misses her brother so much it aches in her teeth.)

On one particularly hot day, she’s reorganising the kitchen cabinets and only paying half attention. The rest of her is staring out the window above the sink, because the boy walked into his backyard two hours ago and stood ramrod straight in the middle of the clover and has not moved since and worried does not begin to cover it.

“Maaaaaaaaamá,” whines a voice behind her. Marcela jumps, whirling around, pressing her hand to her heaving chest when she sees who it is.

“Leandro,” she scolds, turning back to her half-hearted sorting of their colourful collection of mugs. “You startled me.”

Her baby doesn’t respond to that, choosing instead to flop dramatically over the kitchen table, cheek smushed on the scratched wood and limbs askew.

“I’m so bored,” he laments, brown eyes big and pouted and pleading. “There’s nothing to do. No one to play with. I am alone and despolate.”

“Desolate,” Marcela corrects, grinning. “You’re a mocoso descarado, you know that?”

He beams at her. She sets the final mug away, then walks over to brush his hair from his face and press a kiss to his forehead.

He leans into her touch, sighing. “How come I couldn’t go with everybody? It’s not fair. I’m very mature. I could have watched the scary movie.”

She hums, taking the seat next to him and gathering him into her arms. He goes willingly, elbowing her in the side in his haste to tuck himself into her lap and under her chin. She rests her cheek on the top of his head and strokes her hands gently down his back.

“You’re very mature, mi vida,” she agrees softly, squeezing. “But maybe no scary movies for the chico mono who gets nightmares when he sleeps without a nightlight and cries when he sees a dried out worm, hm?”

He harrumphs, wounded. She hides a smile in his hair and loves him with her whole body.

“‘M not a baby.”

“There’s nothing babyish about having a big heart. I just want to keep it —” she tickles the spot just above his heart, making him giggle — “safe and sound, okay?”

“Okay.”

She pulls back slightly so she has room to clasp her palms to his cheeks, kissing him smack in between the eyes with an exaggerated ‘mwah’ noise.

“There we go, mijo.”

She settles them back against the chair, rocking them a little. Her baby has grown up so much. It startles her, sometimes, when she checks in on him — on any of her babies — and sees a big, growing kid in a big boy bed, instead of the baby in a crib she’s expecting. Five years is nothing, and five years is hundreds of days worth of knowing and loving him. She hopes her children know how much love bubbles out of her, all for them. How much she treasures every single second she had and has with him.

He squirms, slightly, in her lap, forcing himself still after a couple seconds when he catches himself moving. She glances down to find him fidgeting, twisting his fingers. He’s restless — he’ll get moody soon. He’s been cooped up in the house all day with no one to play with. He’s been an angel, either helping her around the house and entertaining himself, but it’s not fair to him.

Her eyes drift back out the kitchen window, and she gets an idea.

“Lancito,” she starts, straightening out as a plan begins to take form, “you want to play chess?”

He blinks at her.

“You stink at chess,” he says, not unkindly.

It’s true — she does. She understands, objectively, how to play, but she’s never managed to see the board the way Lance or Veronica see it. She doesn’t understand how to play strategically and never has. She can’t picture future moves or anticipate strategy the way chess players can, so she’s always pretty easily beat. Not that it would matter too much if she could play well — Lance has beaten everyone in the house several times over. When he’s allowed to play on the computer, he beats the players there, too. He’s bright, and he has been obsessed with the game since his fingers were big enough to move around the pieces and his Abuela taught him to play.

She helps him to the floor, speeding to the fridge and pulling out some leftovers as Lance watches in confusion.

“There’s someone you haven’t played before, though.”

“Nuh-uh.” He starts listing on his fingers. “I beat you, I beat Papá, I beat Luis, I beat Veronica, I beat Marco, like, a hundred times —”

Marcela finishes setting up a — pointedly and deliberately — balanced plate, wrapped with parchment this time because she’s run out of aluminum foil. She spots Lance’s folded up chessboard and grabs it, placing the plate on top and offering it to Lance, who stares at it with furrowed brows.

“I bet you Takashi is a new challenge,” she says enticingly. “Why don’t you go over and ask him to play?”

Lance, bless his little extrovert heart, brightens immediately.

“Oh yeah!”

She walks him to the door, hand on his head to help guide him around the various tripping hazards in the hallway — her family is messy, and Lancito has never been the most coordinated child. He’ll be fine (probably) when he gets outside.

“Okay, make sure you’re either back in a couple hours or you come let me know that you’re staying,” she says, lingering at the front steps. Lance is already skittering across the driveway, not even bothering to wave.

“‘Kay! Bye!”

She watches as he rushes up Takashi’s steps, careful not to spill the plate. The door is open — it really is hot today — and only the screen is left closed. Marcela crosses her fingers, hoping the boy will come when Lancito knocks, and —

She freezes. Her jaw drops. Lance — didn’t knock. The little dork just…opened the door of a relative stranger’s house and just.

Walked in.

“Dios mio,” she mutters to herself, hustling back to the kitchen to continue spying out the window.

She makes it there just in time, not even bothering with the pretence of reorganizing cup ware as she watches her son stride up to the boy, a particular sort of childlike confidence guiding his bare feet, and plant himself in front of him. The boy, strangely, does not seem to notice him, still staring blankly ahead of him.

Lance considers this for a moment. He steps over to the side and sets down the plate of food, walking back to stand squarely in front of the boy. He pokes him. The boy startles.

Marcela scrambles to open the window.

“I need a chess buddy,” Lance declares.

Takashi blinks at him.

“How,” he says, finally, gesturing at Lance as a whole. “What.”

“Chess is a strategy game played by two people,” Lance explains, missing the meaning of Takashi’s statement entirely. Marcela bites her tongue to keep from laughing. “Sit down, I’ll teach you.” Lance sits. He opens his chessboard and begins meticulously setting up the pieces. “I call dibs on playing black.”

Takashi doesn’t move for a long while. For a moment Marcela worries that he won’t let Lance play; or worse, he’s frozen again, uncomprehending of what’s in front of him.

But, slowly, he sits. And he runs his fingertips over the top of the pawns. He swallows, harshly, several times. Something painful works its way across his face before settling into something pensive, soft.

“I would appreciate that,” he says quietly.

He clearly knows how to play. He lets Lance explain, but he has no trouble keeping up with Lance play for play; eventually cornering Lance’s king. Lance glares at him for several minutes after, which Shiro allows with a stoic look in return, until the frown on Lancito’s face suddenly shifts to one of begrudging respect.

“Rematch,” Lance decides, ever the most competitive child Marcela has ever known.

Shiro cracks a smile. “So I can beat you again?”

Lance huffs. “We’ll see, butthead.”

Satisfied that the boys are fine, for once, relieved at the animation returned to Takashi’s spirit, Marcela turns back to organizing the kitchen in earnest. She puts on her favourite CD and dances around the kitchen as she arranges the plates and bowls in a very particular way she knows will drive her husband insane. She loses herself in the monotony of scrubbing the fridge clean for no reason except that it’s Sunday and she’s bored and she has to time to lose herself in tedium, lucky as she is.

Hours later, long after the rest of her family comes in, Lance stomps his way into the living room where Marcela is braiding Rachel’s hair and helping her run lines for her school play.

“I want to trade Marco for Shiro,” he announces. He explains for their benefits: “That’s what Takashi told me I could call him.”

Marcela hides a smile. “You can still visit next door if you keep your brother, you know.”

“Ugh,” Lance says.

Rachel snorts. She knows as well as everyone else in the house that it will be Marco, tonight, who Lance will turn to to help check his room for monsters or sleep with should he have a nightmare. And Marco will sigh and whine and complain and never entertain the idea of not helping.

“I’m glad you and Takashi have become friends,” Marcela offers.

This brings the smile back to Lance’s face.

“Duh,” he says. “It’s Shiro.”

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