elli bluemantics

CURRENT PROJECTS:

- MOSTLY INACTIVE FOR TRAVEL

writing Stray, a long keith-centric klance fic (#stray vld)

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here is a masterlist of my fics

sideblog for reposts/bts: @bluemanticism

#walk with me klance all things about walk with me (my postcanon kl fic)!

#julance2025 for all my julance pieces/content!

When she was a kid, and a court official’s child wanted her doll, her mother silently tugged it from her hands and placed it in theirs.

“We are royalty, Allura,” she had murmured, white hair glistening around her face under strong sunlit rays. “What belongs to us must always belong to our people.”

Her mother had seemed so otherworldly and powerful in that moment, gentle and yet unwavering all at once.

Allura knew she’d do anything to be like her, so she bit back her tears and nodded, swallowing the knot in her throat.

Then, the world changed. No, that wasn’t quite right.

The world died.

It blasted into shards too numerous and fragile to count, thrusting her into a deep sleep, and jolting her back just when she was on the cusp of a blissful, silent infinity. Reopening her eyes was like staring into a fluorescent nightmare. Her beloved home, her planet, had expanded in what felt like a day. She had gone from a figure on a rock, hurtling through space like all other living things, to a woman who was meant to see the universe all at once care deeply for every other creature.

Allura recalled her mother. She remembered sweet gentle hands and a tough, steady spirit. With arms wide open, she gave and gave all she had left, which wasn’t much.

First, she gave her castle. The last ties to her family now rested in the trust of five strange, well-meaning but ignorant humans. While the lions weren’t hers to hand over, that castle was, and each memory of her parents it held refused to fade as new ones of the team began sprouting.

Then, she gave her body. When she did finally enter the throes of battle, her strength and stamina advantages were still no match for the might of entire armies. She hid bruised ribs and sore joints from the team, took the occasional cut and scar from avoiding the pods.

Occasionally, mirrors haunt her. Allura still can feel her old body, the way it used to be soft edges and graceful curves. As a princess, she’d been known to slide effervescently across the dance floor.

As a warrior, she breaks.

It only made sense that she would give her mind as well. Though she prefers not to dwell, the nightmares are there. Occasionally, she trembles at a sound or a scent. Goosebumps follow her at every step.

But she keeps stepping forward anyways. No lingering. No hesitation.

So, when the battle reaches its epic climax, when the sounds of clanging and screams drown out every murmuring thing, when Allura can see into that infinity and all its gentle, unwavering light—

—she makes a choice. Isn’t she allowed to be selfish, for once? At last?

Because…

Because for all his foolishness. All his pompous, ridiculous commentary. All his lanky, uncoordinated movements and trite remarks and annoying habits.

Lance McClain is a boy who knows how to love. In her final days, after a lifetime of existing for others, Allura wants. She craves. She hungers for a time, a place, a people who loved her. Lance embodies that, shockingly enough, with his kind eyes and his tall, sure embraces.

Allura knows that her foreshadowed sacrifice will hurt him. When she vanishes from this plane, she wonders if people will call her awful for how she hurt him. Unfortunately, she just can’t help herself.

Despite everything, she’s still scared. And she’d rather have his warm, gentle, loving touch to guide her into that infinity than nothing. She’d like a glimpse of what is promised to her on the other side. Something to make her strong, allow her to slip into false confidence, and stay with her as she takes those final steps.

As she is showered in bright light.

As she hears the otherworldly and powerful.

As the sunlight shimmers down on her.

She turns her face to the warmth, remembering the taste of tears in her honor, knowing she was and will be forever loved. It is peace and it is relief.

Bc if it’s a fic I will read the hell out of that so fast you won’t have time to blink, I kid you not.

Hello! Unfortunately, I’m not planning on expanding it right now. I tend to write a lot of random ficlets when I’m in the mood to (see: projecting emotionally). But you can definitely find similar concepts in my pinned post, which has a link to other ficlets.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A space pilot!

An astronaut?

A space pilot, Mama. It’s not the same.

Even when people told him the odds (less than a 0.5% shot of making it out of orbit), even when his grades weren’t perfect and even when his school nemesis, Matteo, doubted him, he clung to hope. Desperately, he held it between small fists.

The Garrison answered. It was a dream come true.

Or maybe it was a nightmare. Because unlike his imaginings, Lance wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t the noble knight swooping in on a slim jet built for speed. He was a cargo pilot—a glorified delivery man at best, and at worst, pure cannon fodder. A pawn.

Maybe he hadn’t expected those goals to appear magically out of thin air, but suddenly, there Blue was. Glorious, shining, like a sword in a stone. She represented more, that despite the unlikely odds, Lance could have a destiny. He could be a knight or a savior or a hero.

Fuck, was that too far?

Those first few months in space were challenging. Learning how to hold a gun felt so at odds with what he’d grown up with, a trigger between his fingers and an enemy ahead of him clashing violently with memories of a spade in his palm and his mom’s flower garden.

He told himself that he was fine. This is what he’d wanted, after all. Lance starved his shame with forced pride, choked it and buried it and covered it with metal walls stronger than loose soil packed by gentle hands. After all, he was useful. There was a team, and that team praised his skill, occasionally. It was enough.

Then, he had to admit he wasn’t the star. That was difficult. Watching Keith ascend into Black’s cockpit felt like a sick fever dream, an echo of Matteo’s taunting in his ears that he was an annoying try hard.

Crazy how childhood stuff can stick with you, right?

It was good, though, having Keith as leader.

Nah, it was great. Who was he fooling, trying to act like a puzzle piece hadn’t clicked between them? With Keith and the helm and Lance at his side, they conquered so, so much. Lance strategized, Keith acted, Lance supported, Keith swung.

They flowed 10 times more smoothly than they’d ever moved before, a symphony of planning and pushing that made Voltron worthy. Which, in turn, helped Lance feel worthy, too. A dangerous game. A tantalizing, addicting feeling.

Everything went to shit. As it does.

When Keith left, Lance stared bleakly at his footsteps. He watched for traces of him in calls and meals and battles. Convinced himself he didn’t care. Lied to the others that he was fine. Got told off by Shiro, ignored by Hunk and Pidge, dismissed by Allura.

He’d been fucking around before, with Keith. Lance had lived his hero fantasy out too much. It wasn’t worthiness he’d felt before; it was delusions of grandeur. Fuck Keith for making him feel like he was important, then heading out without so much as a glance back.

Lance wondered if Keith was having a grand time with his new team. He imagined them laughing together, fighting more fiercely in ways that Keith would be proud to work alongside. Pictures spun in his head of Keith finally feeling comfortable, feeling like he belonged somewhere, in this place without Lance.

Bitterness coursed through him like a slow, ugly tar, tugging at his nerves and fraying him at the edges. With steady, rigid hands, he picked up his bayard and walked toward the training room.

Heed us, heed us, heed us.

Keith never felt worthy of his armor, not since the day Shiro bestowed it upon him, cape flowing behind him on ever-present winds of glory. His smile had been beaming, that day, prideful and sure.

Heed us, heed us, heed us.

Its metal taunts him, now. Every shink is damning. The weight of the blade at his hip feels leaden. When he breathes out, he wonders if the mist coming from his mouth is imagined.

Heed us.

It sounds like his father, like Shiro, like Pidge and Lance and Hunk. Like an unknown woman, her voice strong and gentle in comforting opposites.

Heed us, Keith Kogane.

Something is brewing.

Thanks a billion always 💗💗

Hey, man, that’s not good for you.

“I have no reason to stop.” Keith shrugs. His lips curl at the taste, but he sucks in again, lets ash and numbness spread to his humming brain.

What about me?

“What about you? You left.”

The sun is too bright. It’s rare, these days, that Keith stays awake during the day. Shiro keeps despairing at his nocturnal schedule. Every argument about it sounds tired, and yet, Keith is still here. In an empty field. During the daytime.

Grass pushes against the wind, stirring around his knees.

I thought that was your job. Leaving, I mean.

“Shut the fuck up.” He can’t muster the energy to sound like he means it.

I don’t think our chats are good for you, anymore.

Keith blinks, panic suddenly seizing him. He spins around, hands clenching around nothing. Desperately, his eyes look for a lifeline, coming up empty.

“You don’t mean that.”

For once, I think I know exactly what I mean, Keith.

“I— I want you to stay.”

Didn’t we cover this, already?

Keith shoves the cigarette into the ground, uncaring of the soil that dirties his hands. Now, he’s filled with a tension even the nicotine can’t loose, his muscles all coiled and his teeth tingling with an unnameable feeling.

“Fuck off. I don’t need this anyways. I don’t need anything. So fuck off, and stop pretending like you leaving is some painful shit you’re doing to me. Cause it’s not. I’m fine.”

You sound totally fine.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Keith roars.

Miraculously, silence answers him. Quiet, save for the too-loud sun and the noisy wind and the grasses that practically shout.

Keith grabs the box out of his pocket and plucks out another cigarette. With shaking, muddied hands, he lights it up and lets it flare with small embers for a few beats.

He takes one half-drag before he stomps that one out, too.

God, he’s tired.

I hope you’ve been doing well. I apologize for literally vanishing and ghosting the internet— honestly, I got very overwhelmed recently by my real life. Moving abroad for a few months has been hectic in all the best and worst ways. I’ve been traveling lots, getting sick, and I’ve also been working through some mental health and anxiety challenges that come with all those things.

I’ll be back eventually! But for now, I’m focusing on my brain, my experience abroad, and applying for internships.

Yep!! I’m so excited to message people after the form closes, the ideas so far are wonderful :-)

He holds Lance, and he is gentle.

There’s a glimmer of knowing in Lance’s deep blue eyes. It’s strange; for all the parading and strutting he does, Lance always seems to keep certain things for himself. They peek through when he gazes into Keith’s mind, silently shining.

Lance rests a hand on Keith’s wrist. The rough slide of his calloused index finger on its bone is enough to break Keith, even as it moves delicately and slowly. 

In his tender, methodical reverence, Lance tears Keith open and makes him anew.

Still watching him from under dark lashes, Lance tilts his head just slightly. He presses his lips into the thin lines that mark Keith’s palm, butterfly-soft and fleeting.

“You’ll come back.”

A prayer more than a promise.

Keith doesn’t answer. He doesn’t try to fool himself that he is deserving of this sweet, maybe even loving touch. This isn’t what he was honed for, sharpened for, made for.