Work Text:
"To my twenties," Lance toasted, alone, and downed the contents of the glass in one breath. It burned his throat, but it didn't give him the pleasant sensation of a lighter head as he had hoped.
What a great way to celebrate his birthday- postponed. Hunk had remembered it. He had tried to make him a cake. But then there was an attack; they were almost dead, and no one wanted to celebrate anything afterwards.
The princess had even wished him well! He obviously had to ruin everything, annoying her, but hey, it wouldn't have been him if she hadn't asked for at least a happy birthday kiss.
(Keith hadn't even called...)
Anyway! Now he was twenty years old! On Earth he couldn't even drink yet, but they were in space; who cared? It had been an exhausting week, between Galra's attacks, anxiety, paranoia about the possibility that someone had betrayed them, diplomacy... There hadn't really been time to think about his birthday, or him in general.
After such a week, Lance needed a break. To delude himself that he could have something semi-normal, for once. And what could be more normal than getting drunk to celebrate?
Of course, it would have been better not to do it alone, but he didn't want to disturb anyone; they were all so busy with useful things (unlike him), and really, it was just a thing for him; it was okay to be alone.
He would have had more chances to pick up a pretty girl like that!
"One more of the blue ones! And make it a double!" Lance shouted, though his voice barely carried over the rhythmic, thrumming pulse of the music.
He was perched on a stool that felt more like a piece of industrial machinery than furniture, staring into a room that felt like the inside of a bruised plum. The lighting in this neutral-zone dive was so dim that the patrons seemed more like silhouettes than sentient beings, their forms blurring into a chaotic mass of waving limbs and flashing bioluminescence. On the dance floor, a group of six-armed cephalopods were entwined in a dizzying, spinning dance, their iridescent skin flickering in time with the bass. Lance watched them, a pang of genuine envy tightening in his chest. They weren't worrying about Galra fleets or the crushing weight of expectations; they were just existing in the vibration of the moment.
He leaned back, trying to project a level of confidence he didn't actually feel, scanning the crowd for any sign of a pretty face—alien or otherwise. He wanted to be the kind of guy who could just slide into a crowd like this and emerge with a phone number and a story to tell. He wanted to be the life of the party, the charming rogue who could turn a lonely birthday into a legendary night of conquest. He shifted his weight, preparing to launch himself into the fray with a grin and a poorly timed pick-up line.
"You keep drinking that sludge, and you'll be dead before you even hit thirty."
The voice was deep and gravelly, vibrating right against the back of Lance's neck. Lance nearly vaulted off his stool, his heart hammering against his ribs as he spun around. Standing beside him was a man who looked as if he had been carved from a cliffside, wearing a weathered flight jacket and an expression of profound scepticism. He looked humanoid, and he seemed to have a scar on his face, not that Lance could distinguish his face well; the lights of the club did not help. However, he noticed his black hair - like Keith's - and this made him want to drink even more.
Lance blinked, recovering his composure and smoothing out his shirt. "Excuse me? I'm celebrating. I'm twenty!"
"Oh... Happy birthday?"
Lance made a vague gesture with his hand. "It's not today, but I've been pretty busy and..."
"And you celebrate it alone?"
Lance hid a grimace. "I'm not alone. I'm with you, no?"
He seemed to notice a nod of understanding on the other's face. "Yes, you're with me. Can I offer you something, Lance?"
"Go ahead... Wait, do you know who I am?"
That alerted him, but the stranger somehow managed to calm him down. "It's hard not to know. You are one of the paladins of Voltron... The blue one, right?"
"I'm currently piloting the Red Lion," not a real correction, not when his armour clearly showed those who still felt bound, "But yes, it's me... mullet."
"Mullet?"
He chuckled, hearing the slight panic in the other's voice - a small compensation for the fright taken by Lance earlier - and replied, "You didn't tell me your name. You know who I am, but I don't know who you are."
The man sat down next to him, only nodding to the bartender. He was silent for a few more seconds, then replied, "Yorak. My name is Yorak."
Lance muttered, "Yorak, huh? Your parents had to hate you."
"My mother chose it. She thought it was a strong name."
"Definitely, I won't forget it."
"I'm counting on that," Yorak retorted, as he was served the same drink Lance had ordered earlier.
Lance frowned. Was that a flirt? It seemed to him that it was. Or it was just Yorak bragging. Which, it was also possible. Not that it mattered; Lance was straight, and Yorak was definitely a boy. If there were substantial biological differences between their breeds...
He shook his head. "So, what are you doing here, Yorak with a strong name? Has anyone caught your eye?"
"Mhm... I would say so," the man said, not taking his eyes off Lance, "A happy coincidence. I had not come to meet anyone. I had... time to lose, so to speak, after a small incident."
"Incident?"
"It happens when one of your friends is a scientist. They never pay attention to their inventions, and then you find yourself involved."
Lance nodded. Yes, he understood. He had lost count of the times Rover or one of Pidge's other contraptions had almost fried him. Although he wasn't entirely sure about the accidental part.
"So," Yorak continued, "I went around, counted the minutes, chased the time... And when I came here, I said to myself, why not? I could also make up for some foolishness I did when I was young."
"You don't look that old."
"No, I'm not. Luckily for me, you're not that young either; otherwise I'd be in trouble."
Lance at that point almost choked on his saliva. That was definitely a flirt. Okay, calm down. It didn't have to mean anything. He did it a lot of times!
He swallowed. "How bold of you, Yorak. "
"I can be even bolder."
"I'd like to see you try," he teased, and it didn't have to mean anything. Usually, it was like that. When he did it, the girl on duty would chuckle, or send him to hell. It had never gone beyond that.
Yorak, however, intended to do so.
Yorak didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, the movement fluid and deliberate, closing the gap until the scent of ozone and old leather overwhelmed the sickly sweet aroma of the blue drinks. Lance froze, his breath hitching as he felt the coarse, short hairs of Yorak’s neckline tickle the sensitive skin of his own neck. The man’s breath was a warm contrast to the air-conditioned chill of the club, ghosting over his skin in a way that made a sudden, violent shiver race down Lance’s spine.
"You want to see?" Yorak murmured, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a low vibration that Lance felt in his chest. He didn't pull away; instead, he pressed closer, his lips barely grazing the shell of Lance's ear. "I could start by showing you exactly how bold I can be. I could take you somewhere where the music isn't the only thing thumping in the room."
Before Lance could formulate a witty retort or a panicked excuse, Yorak tilted his head and pressed a firm, lingering kiss just below Lance’s jawline. The contact was electric, grounding and dizzying all at once. Lance’s hands gripped the edge of the industrial stool, his knuckles turning white. He had spent years perfecting the art of the flirt (not really, if you listen to Pidge, Nyma, Allura or anyone else besides him), but he had always been the one holding the cards, the one directing the dance. Being the target of such focused, raw intent was a different kind of adrenaline, one that made his stomach flip more than any Galra dogfight ever had.
“You talk a lot, Lance,” Yorak whispered, his voice now a low, predatory rumble that seemed to vibrate through Lance’s very bones. He didn’t pull away; instead, he shifted his position, his lips grazing the lobe of Lance’s ear. “All that confidence, all those words… I think I could teach you how to use that mouth for things that don’t involve talking.”
Lance let out a sharp, involuntary gasp that sounded more like a hiccup, a nervous giggle bubbling up in his throat. He tried to lean back, but the industrial stool offered no escape, and Yorak was a wall of solid muscle pinning him in place. “Is that so?” Lance managed to squeak, though his voice had climbed an octave.
“Mhm,” Yorak hummed, the sound vibrating against Lance’s skin. “And as for the talking… I can think of a few other things you could do with my fingers. Things that would make you forget your own name, let alone the name of the Lion you pilot.”
As the words sank in, Lance felt a sudden, treacherous surge of heat pool in his lower belly. A slow, steady pressure began to build, and before he could process the sensation, he realised he was sporting a very prominent, very insistent erection. He froze, panic flashing through him. He was wearing trousers, sure, but they weren't exactly armour plating. He tried to shift his hips, attempting to subtly angle himself away, but the movement only served to draw more attention to the friction.
Yorak noticed. Of course he noticed.
Without breaking eye contact, Yorak’s hand drifted downward, sliding past the edge of the bar counter. His large, calloused hand landed with deliberate precision right on the fly of Lance’s trousers. He didn’t grab; he simply rested his palm there, feeling the heat and the hardness through the fabric. Lance felt like he had been struck by lightning, his breath hitching in a way that had nothing to do with the instinct to fight or run.
"You're reacting quite well," Yorak murmured, his voice a dark, velvet caress against Lance's ear. "I can feel how much you like this."
Yorak began to slowly caress him, a rhythmic, teasing motion of his thumb that sent sparks of electricity shooting straight to Lance's toes. The world around them faded into a blurred smear of colour. There was only the weight of Yorak’s hand and the low, dirty promises being whispered into his skin.
Just as Lance thought his heart might actually burst from his chest, Yorak’s other hand reached around and firmly gripped his backside, pulling him flush against his own solid frame. The sudden, possessive squeeze caught Lance off guard, causing a small, muffled moan to escape his lips. He expected to feel a flash of indignation, but instead, he felt a wave of genuine, surprising heat. He didn't mind the touch; in fact, he found himself leaning into the hold, his eyes fluttering shut.
“You have such a pretty face, Lance,” Yorak murmured, his voice now a low, hungry vibration. “I can only imagine how those sounds you're making would change if I were playing with that cute little hole of yours.” He punctuated the sentence with a firm, possessive squeeze of Lance's backside, his fingers digging into the muscle with a level of familiarity that should have been alarming, but instead felt like a match being struck in a dark room.
The sensation was a tease, a cruel promise that left Lance feeling like his skin was humming with a current of high-voltage electricity. The heat in his gut had shifted from a flicker to a blaze, and the sudden lack of further progress felt like a physical blow. Lance, never one to be out-maneuvered in a game of confidence—even when he was shaking—felt a surge of stubbornness override his panic. He tilted his head back, looking up at Yorak with a challenging, hooded gaze.
“A lot of big talk for a guy who’s still just using his hands,” Lance breathed, his voice trembling but daring. “All I hear are words, Yorak. I’m not seeing any actual action.”
"Is that so?" Yorak murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly register that seemed to resonate in the very marrow of Lance’s bones. "You want the facts? I will give you facts."
Yorak didn’t say more. Instead, his hand shifted from a caress to a firm, commanding grip on Lance’s wrist, hauling him off the stool with a suddenness that left Lance stumbling. He didn't lead him toward the exit, but deeper into the bruised-plum depths of the club, navigating the crowd with a predatory efficiency. They bypassed the dance floor and the flashing lights, slipping through a heavy velvet curtain that dampened the thrum of the bass into a distant, rhythmic heartbeat. This was the VIP corridor, a place of polished obsidian floors and dim, recessed lighting that felt more like a series of luxurious tombs than a lounge.
He didn't stop until they reached a room that felt like a sanctuary for secrets. The space was swallowed by shadows, illuminated only by a thin sliver of light bleeding from the hallway. In the center sat a wide, low-slung sofa upholstered in a material that felt like crushed velvet and midnight. Without a word, Yorak guided Lance toward it, the pressure of his hand on the small of Lance's back leaving no room for hesitation. Before Lance could even think to make a joke about the "VIP treatment," he felt himself being pressed backward, his spine hitting the soft cushions as Yorak leaned over him, blocking out the rest of the world.
The air in the room was thick, tasting of expensive incense and old adrenaline. With a fluid, practised motion, Yorak’s hands moved to the waistband of Lance’s trousers. The sound of the zipper was deafening in the sudden quiet of the room. As Yorak peeled away the fabric and the underwear beneath, the cool air of the room hit Lance’s skin, making him shudder. He lay there, legs slightly parted, feeling a sudden, jarring sense of exposure.
For a split second, the shadows shifted. As Yorak leaned over him, the harsh line of the man's jaw and the intensity in his gaze flickered, and Lance saw Keith. It was a sudden, violent collision of associations. The image vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the raw, focused intent in Yorak’s eyes, but the ghost of the thought left Lance breathless. Then, Yorak’s mouth found his, a kiss that tasted of salt and ambition, and Lance forgot how to breathe. The world narrowed down to the point of contact, a sudden vacuum where only the pressure of Yorak’s lips existed.
Yorak didn’t waste time with gentleness. He slid downward, his movements efficient and hungry, until he was positioned between Lance’s thighs. When Yorak’s tongue first made contact with his hole, Lance’s back arched off the velvet sofa, a strangled sound escaping his throat. Yorak worked over him with a predatory patience, alternating between the wet heat of his mouth and the deliberate, teasing pressure of his fingers. He found the centre of Lance’s pleasure and claimed it, his fingers sliding inside with a firm, rhythmic precision that left Lance feeling completely undone. The sounds Lance made were no longer the confident quips of a flirt; they were raw, embarrassing moans that echoed in the small room. He came once, then twice, and a third time—his body shaking in violent waves—before he even realised he had lost count.
By the time Yorak looked up, his eyes were shimmering with a faint, predatory yellow glow that seemed to pulse in time with the distant bass of the club. He didn’t say a word as he stripped himself, and when Lance saw the sheer scale of Yorak's dick, any remaining thoughts of Keith vanished. He could only stare, his breath hitching in a series of tiny, desperate squeaks.
"Time to fuck this pretty little hole, Lance," Yorak said, kissing him.
Yorak didn't give him a chance to recover from the shock of the view. He lunged forward, his weight crushing Lance into the velvet depths of the sofa as he guided his length to the entrance of Lance’s slick, over-stimulated heat. The first push was slow, an intrusive, stretching pressure that made Lance’s eyes roll back into his head. He let out a high, sharp squeak—half-surprise, half-ecstasy—as the massive head of Yorak’s cock began to force its way past the tight ring of his muscle. It felt less like sex and more like being claimed, the sheer scale of the man reshaping Lance’s interior to fit a mould that shouldn't have been possible.
Then came the rhythm, and with it, the annihilation of everything but the present moment. Each thrust was a seismic event, a heavy, wet thud that rattled Lance’s teeth and sent jolts of electricity shooting up his spine. Lance moaned with every single impact, the sounds breaking into ragged, desperate gasps as he clung to Yorak’s broad shoulders for stability. He felt himself being stretched, filled, and utterly claimed, his body trembling under the relentless force of a man who moved with the precision of a machine and the hunger of a predator. The world became a blur of friction and heat, the velvet beneath him scratching against his skin while the man above him drove him deeper and deeper into the cushions.
They stayed in that feverish loop for what felt like hours, the air in the small room growing thick and humid. The distant pulse of the club’s bass became a secondary heartbeat, syncing up with the wet, slapping sound of their bodies colliding. Lance’s vision swam, the darkness of the room dancing with static sparks every time Yorak hit his prostate with the precision of a guided missile. He was completely spent, his muscles twitching in a state of overstimulation, yet he found himself arching upward, begging for more without ever finding the words to say it.
Yorak’s pace shifted from a rhythmic drive to a desperate, crushing urgency. He gripped Lance’s hips, lifting him slightly off the velvet to drive himself deeper, his massive girth stretching Lance’s walls until the boundary between pleasure and a delicious, overwhelming pressure blurred into one. With a final, guttural roar that sounded more like a landslide than a voice, Yorak stiffened. He bucked forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and unleashed a torrent of heat that flooded Lance’s interior.
The sensation was staggering. Lance felt the thick, hot pulses of the come filling him to the brim, creating a heavy, aching fullness that made him feel like he was being anchored to the sofa. As Yorak finally slumped against him, the excess overflowed, sliding down the insides of Lance’s thighs in slow, viscous streaks. The heat of it lingered, a warm brand marking the space where they had been joined. Lance lay there, his chest heaving, his lungs burning as he sucked in the scent of ozone and sex, his mind a complete blank of static and satisfaction.
His first time...and he did it in the Vip Room of an alien club! And it was with a man!
He wasn't even freaking out enough about the part where he got a man fucked, and he didn't know why it was because of Yorak, or why, well, he wasn't 100% straight.
(He definitely wasn't, but denial was a river in Egypt.)
He tried to sit up, and Yorak, more gently than Lance expected, grabbed his hair to make him stand up.
"We're not done yet," she said, her voice bare, raw, hungry, "I told you I'd teach you how to use that mouth for something else, Lance. Let me make this birthday unforgettable."
Quiznack. It was so hot.
The return to the castle was a quiet affair. Lance felt his legs still limp, too sober for his taste, and with a twinge at the base of his back that he didn't want to think about.
This was not how he had imagined his first time would go. Not that he was unhappy! You could feel that there was a lot of... wow, he wasn't even sure he could find the words to describe how he felt.
The way Yorak had used his tongue with him...
He shuddered. That guy had ruined him. How could he live up to a girl now? Or try to think of someone else doing that to him? Maybe it was endorphins.
The first time was that experience that, well, it seemed like it could no longer be repeated, and then you discovered that it is not so.
It will be a disappointment that day, but something told Lance that it would take a while before he arrived.
Anyway, he was hungry. There must still be something in the kitchen, right? Or he could have cooked something himself.
Heck, he could even eat some green slop of Coran at the moment.
He was convinced that there was no one awake. He had lost track of time, to be honest.
So when he saw that Hunk was already in the kitchen, the two paladins stared at each other, dumbfounded. Not a fly flew.
Anyone, judging by Lance's status, would have understood what he had done. But Hunk was too awkward to say it, and Lance wasn't as brazen as he wanted to make out to be.
They stared at each other. They were at an impasse.
Then Pidge came in, yawned, noticed Lance and blurted out, "Holy shit. You fucked."
"Language!" Hunk blurted out automatically, but she didn't listen to him. "No, that's ... a girl was sorry enough to agree to do it with Lance!”
"He wasn't sorry for me..." he said, piqued, realising too late what he had said. Damn endorphins.
The surprise, if there was one, was brief. Pidge spoke again, "Oh, you found a guy who was desperate enough to accept cheap pick-up phrases."
He felt stung to the core. "I was minding my own business; he was the one flirting with me!"
And kissing his neck, whispering dirty things in his ear. However, he would never have told her this, not even under torture.
"So it only took a few compliments for you to find out that you are not entirely straight?" Hunk asked, doubtful.
"As if his hero cult for Shiro wasn't already apparent," Pidge added.
Lance muttered, "He was cute, okay? I don't know, it all happened so quickly. First we were talking and after..."
"I don't want to know," the fifteen-year-old grimaced, "I don't want the details of your newly discovered sex life."
"I wasn't going to tell you! You're fifteen, quiznack!"
"Do you even know his name?" Hunk asked, trying to be supportive, even though he emanated discomfort from all pores.
"He said his name was Yorak."
Pidge raised an eyebrow. "Yorak? It sounds like a Galra name."
"He wasn't Galra. "
"Not that you have a problem with furries..." Whatever joke she was about to make, she died halfway. Pidge's gaze changed; it became more calculating. "So, this Yorak came up to you while you were minding your own business, and you weren't trying to drown your poor ass in alcohol because a dumped girl was you."
"No one dumped anyone!" Lance retorted, irritated, "I was there drinking, I was looking around, and then this guy comes, he recognised me, talked a bit, then he started flirting..."
"Did he recognise you, then?" Pidge interrupted him abruptly, "Did he know you were a paladin?"
"Yes, he knew."
"He knew who you were," Pidge said slowly, "A random man comes up to you, flirts, knows who you are, and you don't find it strange?"
He blushed, "We are paladins, we are famous..."
"Lance, I know all your blood was elsewhere, but come on! It's suspicious as hell."
The Cuban pouted, "No one could want me just because it's me? Does there have to be anything suspicious?"
Am I not enough for that either?, he wanted to ask, but it was too much vulnerability, and he didn't trust either of them with that.
Hunk softened, "Of course not. Pidge is just paranoid."
"Excuse me if it's weird that a guy with a name Galra approaches Lance, knows who he is, flirts and then does shady things with him shortly after! Are you sure he didn't put something on you?"
"I'm pretty sure. Not that there was time... I mean, I could have fallen asleep and he was no longer there, but..."
"Yes, he ghosted you. Typical. But are you sure..."
"Quiznack, Pidge. Not everyone who flirts with me is a criminal or Galra! He was just a guy who got lucky at a bar! He recognised me, so what?"
If he had stopped there, he could have even convinced her and let go of the subject. Pidge could then use it later as material to make jokes about him. Too bad he couldn't control his mouth, "And I saw him naked! He had neither a tail nor Galra marks! His eyes lit up in the dark..."
"Wait, did his eyes light up? Like those of a cat?" Pidge pressed him, trying to be sure.
He stammered, "Not quite like those of a Galra."
"Lance... Take off your clothes."
"What?!"
"Take off your clothes," Pidge told him again, "I need the biological traces and DNA. You might have been fucked in some other way..."
"Language..."
"Not now, Hunk. Lance, clothes. “
"This is absurd. Tell her too... Hunk?"
Hunk shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. But it's better to be sure. “
"Oh, come on..."
They argued, a lot, until Shiro arrived, one of the last people he wanted to tell all that story.
And at that point, Lance could no longer refuse.
"Guys, there really wasn't a need," Lance tried to say, but was promptly silent because of the bad looks he received at the same time from Pidge.
"It's not me who got fucked by a possible enemy!"
Thank you, Pidge. As if having to tell everything to Shiro again, with a few more and very embarrassing details, wasn't traumatic enough.
The clothes of his one-night stand were scanned in search of biological traces and DNA, to discover the identity of the mysterious man that eat Lance out like he was a champion.
Lance's blood started circulating again in the wrong places, and the Cuban began to think of totally unsexy things so as not to get an inappropriate erection with Pidge and Hunk nearby.
"You're exaggerating."
"No, we're reacting the right way," Hunk said, passing something to Pidge, "He knew who you were, Lance."
"Anyone who sees the Coalition videos could know who they are!" and seriously, after all they had to endure, they deserved a modicum of notoriety too, right?
"Yes, but he had Galra eyes," the yellow paladin reminded him, giving him chills, "He might have put some bugs on you! Or worse! He could have passed you some alien STDs!"
"Hunk!"
"It's not me who had sex with a stranger without protection! After the test, we will go to the infirmary and..."
A ping from the computer saved Lance from one of the most uncomfortable conversations of his life. He didn't expect that the castle database would actually uncover anything – he meant, it wasn't possible that it had the DNA of all their enemies and allies, come on, they weren't in a movie – but fate would have it that that particular DNA was already in the database from the beginning.
"You gotta be kidding me," he said, not knowing if it was a huge cosmic joke or not.
"Well... at least now we're sure we won't have to worry about any surprise attack," Hunk tried to say, trying to be reassuring, but failing across the board.
For once, Pidge didn't comment, frowning thoughtfully.
The result was nothing they expected.
On the screen, the name KEITH KOGANE was written in large letters.
"It can't be," Lance said again, not sure if he was telling the others or himself, "That man wasn't Keith. I would have recognised him."
"You said the place was a bit dark, though," Pidge pointed out, no note of amusement in her voice, "And you focused on other parts of his body..."
The paladin found himself blushing. Fighting the desire to cover his face in shame, he croaked, "Yes, the enlightenment was what it was, but come on... that guy must have been thirty years old... it couldn't be Keith!"
"Unless..."
"Unless what?"
Pidge pursed, "Come on, you can get there too. All those jokes about time...the incident… his disappearance... he didn't ghost you. He literally disappeared. He has returned to where he belonged..."
"To the future," Hunk realized, shocked, "Oh god, Lance! Keith traveled through time just to fuck..."
Lance put his hand over his mouth. There was no way he would let him say it out loud.
"That wasn't the reason!" he squeaked, feeling flushed, "He said it was an incident and that he had things to do!"
"And he did you."
"Pidge!"
The fifteen-year-old shrugged, carelessly, "That explains why he knew who you were, though. "
"It doesn't make sense. Keith and I... You both know that, don't you? He didn't give me... yes, I don't interest him that way."
He left without even telling me anything, he chose to discover himself, and it's fair, he had the right to, but he didn't call me even once, I don't know where he is, he forgot about me, he left me behind...
He didn't need those intrusive thoughts, thank you very much, "He's certainly not the type to go back in time just to..."
"To fuck your brain out?"
"Pidge!"
"I'm just saying," the girl twirled her finger at him, "DNA doesn't lie. And as Sherlock Holmes said, once the impossible has been eliminated, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Your one-night stand, as much as you want to deny it, is Keith...but from the future."
"Quiznack."