Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in the Atlas briefing room was thick with a tension you could chew on. Keith leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his black Paladin uniform pulling tight across his shoulders. His focus was locked on the star chart hologram, but his attention was entirely on the man slouched in the chair next to him.

 

Lance let out a long, low whistle, cutting through the grim silence. "So, let me get this straight. We're gonna assassinate a guy at a club? This is what we've come to? Feels like we should be handing out flyers for a bake sale, not planning a hit."

 

"He's not 'a guy', Lance," Shiro said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He stood at the head of the table, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. "He's a former Druid named Vorlak. He's the brains behind Honerva's new fleet. Sam's intel is solid."

 

On the comms screen, Sam Holt's face was grim. "This isn't a mission we want. It's a mission we need. Honerva is moving faster than we anticipated. Taking out Vorlak disrupts her entire supply chain. It buys us time we don't have."

 

From her seat, Allura stirred. She was pale, the vibrant glow she usually carried dimmed to an ember. The act of absorbing that dark entity from the Kral Zera had left a fissure in her light, and the collapse that followed had scared the hell out of all of them. "I should be there," she insisted, her voice thin but stubborn. "I  could—"

 

"You could what, Princess? Faint on the guy?" Pidge interrupted, not unkindly. "You're on bed rest. Doctor's orders. My orders. Everyone's orders. You're sitting this one out."

 

Allura sank back, frustration etched on her face. Lance reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "We've got this," he murmured.

 

"Okay," Shiro said, clapping his hands together. "The meet is at a place called The Obsidian Nexus on Kyrossia-9. It's a club. A... particular kind of club. Vorlak has a regular spot there. Our contact says it's the only place he lets his guard down."

 

Hunk groaned, putting his head in his hands. "Oh, great. A club. I'm sure it's lovely. Do they have appetizers? Because if I'm going to be an accessory to murder, I'd at least like some little weenies in a blanket."

 

"This is serious, Hunk," Shiro said, though a corner of his mouth twitched.

 

"I am being serious! My stress-eating needs require planning!"

 

"Right," Shiro continued, steering the conversation back on track. "We need someone inside to get close to Vorlak. The weapon is a sonic dagger. It needs skin contact. So, we need a distraction."

 

A heavy silence fell over the room. The unspoken question hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable.

 

"Right," Lance said, breaking the tension. "So, who's volunteering to be the eye candy?"

 

The process of elimination was swift and brutally honest.

 

"Pidge, you're too young," Shiro started.

 

"I'm literally a decorated Paladin of Voltron who has hacked galactic empires, but sure, let the ID be the dealbreaker," Pidge retorted, though she looked secretly relieved.

 

"Plus, you'd probably try to hack the DJ's console instead of flirting," Lance added.

 

"Hey, gathering intel is a valid tactic!"

 

"Hunk, you're out," Shiro said. "You get twitchy under pressure."

 

"Twitchy? I'd be a full-blown nervous system malfunction waiting to happen! I'm with Pidge, I'll hack something from a safe distance."

 

Shiro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, that leaves... me, Lance, Keith, James, and Kinkade."

 

Everyone immediately looked at Shiro.

 

"What?" he said, a little defensively. "I can be distracting."

 

Lance burst out laughing. "Shiro, man, I love you, but your 'flirting' is basically a performance review. You'd ask him about his five-year plan and his leadership strengths."

 

Keith snorted. "He's not wrong."

 

"Hey! I can be charming!" Shiro insisted.

 

"Remember that time you tried to bond with that diplomat from Puig?" Pidge asked. "You complimented the 'efficient design of her ship's hull.' She thought you were insulting her."

 

Shiro deflated. "Fine. Point taken."

 

James Griffin cleared his throat from the back of the room. "Sir, Kinkade and I we were brought for this mission to have more hands on deck, so we’re better suited for external surveillance. We can cover the exits, provide overwatch. We're... not exactly the subtle type for blending in inside."

 

Kinkade gave a single, sharp nod. "We're muscle. Outside."

 

That left Lance and Keith. They looked at each other. Lance's eyebrow crept up in a challenge. Keith's eyes narrowed in a silent refusal.

 

"Well, well," Lance said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Looks like it's you and me, mullet."

 

"No," Keith said, the word flat and final.

 

"It's the logical choice," Sam's voice came through the comms. "The profile suggests Vorlak has a type. Charismatic, skinny, agile, and... well, visually appealing. Lance fits the bill."

 

Lance preened. "See? They need the whole package. The charm, the smile, the hips that don't quit—"

 

"What the quiznack?” Keith snapped, pushing off the wall. His anger was a sudden, hot presence in the room. "You are not sending him in there alone to play temptress for some psychotic Druid."

 

"Keith—" Shiro started.

 

"It's a bad plan! What kind of club is this, anyway?"

 

Pidge, who had been typing furiously, suddenly stopped. She looked up, her cheeks turning pink. "Uh. Yeah. About that. It's, um... it's a strip club. A high-end one, but... yeah."

 

The room went utterly silent.

 

"Over my dead body," Keith growled, his hands clenching into fists. "You are not sending my boyfriend into an alien strip club."

 

The raw possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through Lance, even as he rolled his eyes. "Babe, dial it back. I can handle myself."

 

"Can you? Against a guy who probably uses Paladin armor for toothpicks?"

 

"I'm not going to fight him, I'm going to dance for him! There's a difference! It's called finesse!"

 

"Boys!" Shiro barked. "Keith, he's right. He's the best man for the job. But you're right, too. He shouldn't be alone. You'll be on the inside as well, posing as security at the main entrance."

 

"That's worse!" Keith argued. "So I get to stand by the door and watch while Lance gets dragged into some back room? No. Absolutely not."

 

"Then what do you suggest?" Sam asked, his tone leaving no room for argument.

 

Keith's glare was incendiary. He looked from Shiro to the hologram and back. "I go in as a patron. A rich, bored one. I get a table with a view. I'm closer that way. I can have his back if things go south."

 

Lance let out a disbelieving laugh. "You? As a club-goer? Keith, you think small talk is a form of torture. You'll stick out like a sore thumb."

 

"I can be tortured and broody type you guys always think I am!” Keith argues.

 

He was met with bored stares from the rest of the eyes in the room.

 

“Think?” Hunk snickered as Pidge cackled causing Keith to roll his eyes.

 

“I can pay lots of money for people to leave me alone! It's not a stretch." He crossed his arms, his jaw set. "I'm not letting him go in there without me being able to see him."

 

The determination in his voice was absolute. Shiro and Sam exchanged a look.

 

"He's got a point," Shiro conceded. "Two sets of eyes inside are better than one. Sam, the aliases?"

 

Sam nodded. "Lance, you'll be 'Lior'. It suggests elegance. Keith, you're 'Kael'. An independent trader from the Typhon system. Keep it simple."

 

The plan was set. James and Kinkade were the outside lookouts. Lance, as 'Lior', would be the new dancer aiming for Vorlak's attention. Keith, as 'Kael', would be the wealthy patron, the inside guard.

 

"Remember," Shiro said, his gaze sweeping over them. "This is a precision strike. In and out. Clean. We get this done, we buy ourselves a fighting chance. Dismissed."

 

“Our lives lie on Lance’s ass… Who knew?” Pidge chuckles as she gets up from her seat.

 

The team filed out, the mood somber. Lance lingered by the door, waiting for Keith, who was still staring daggers at the now-blank space where the club's hologram had been.

 

"You know," Lance said, walking over to him. "For a guy who hates this plan, you were pretty hot with the whole 'my boyfriend' thing. Kinda turned on right now, not gonna lie."

 

Keith finally turned to face him. The anger was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling worry. "Lance," he said, his voice rough. "This isn't a game. This guy... he's dangerous. And the thought of you in there, with him..."

 

"Hey," Lance murmured, stepping into Keith's space. He placed a hand on Keith's chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. "I'll be fine. I'm a Paladin. I've faced down way worse than some creep in a club."

 

Keith's hands came up, one tangling in the hair at the nape of Lance's neck, the other sliding down to the small of his back, his grip firm. "I know," he whispered, resting his forehead against Lance's. "I just... I don’t want to lose you. Not to a stupid thing like this."

 

"You're not going to lose me," Lance promised, his voice soft but sure. "You'll be right there. My grumpy, overprotective sugar daddy. We're a team."

 

Keith let out a shaky laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He pulled back just enough to look Lance in the eyes, his hand still resting possessively on the curve of Lance's backside.

 

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "And for the record," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You're not that skinny."

 

Lance grinned, tension breaking. "See? You can flirt." He laced his fingers with Keith's, pulling him toward the door. "C'mon. We need to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. I need to practice my moves."

 

Keith groaned, letting himself be led away. "I'm already gonna need so much therapy after this."

 

But as they walked down the corridor, shoulders brushing, Lance knew the truth. Keith would follow him anywhere. And that, more than anything, made the whole terrifying mess feel like it might just be okay.

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

The shuttle ride down to Kyrossia-9 was a tense, silent affair, a stark contrast to the usual chaos of the Castle—or now, the Atlas. The small vessel was chosen for its anonymity, a bland-looking cargo runner that wouldn't attract a second glance. Bringing the Atlas or even the Lions was like sending up a firework that screamed "VOLTRON IS HERE."

 

Hunk piloted with a white-knuckled grip, muttering about atmospheric turbulence and his stomach. Pidge was buried in her console, her fingers a blur. "Okay, I'm in the Nexus's external camera system. Place is... swanky. Lots of chrome and mood lighting. And a lot of very large, very armed individuals who look like they chew on engine parts for fun."

 

"Comforting," Lance muttered from the back, staring out the viewport at the approaching neon-drenched skyline.

 

Keith, sitting rigidly beside him, didn't respond. His focus was absolute, a predator scanning for threats. He was already in character, his usual leathers swapped for a dark, high-collared tunic that was unbuttoned just enough to suggest a careless wealth. His hair was a losing battle; Romelle had attempted to gel it back into something sleek, but stubborn strands had already escaped, falling across his forehead. He looked less like a polished merchant and more like a space pirate who'd just won a bar fight and stolen a nicer shirt.

 

In the main cabin, the "aesthetic team" was in full swing. Allura, despite her fatigue, was directing operations with a commander's eye, while Romelle applied makeup with an artist's precision.

 

"Hold still, James," Romelle chided, dabbing a concealer on a small scar on the MFE pilot's jaw. "You are supposed to look like a wealthy patron, not like you just came from the sparring deck."

 

James Griffin sat stiffly, looking deeply uncomfortable in a garish, patterned jacket Shiro had produced from some deep, questionable corner of the Atlas's stores. "I feel like a used-speedership salesman."

 

"Perfect," Shiro said, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's the look. Unremarkable, slightly sleazy. You, Kinkade, and I are the background noise. We blend into the crowd of other creeps."

 

Kinkade, already dressed in a similarly loud outfit, merely grunted, adjusting his collar with a look of profound suffering.

 

Keith finally broke his silence, his eyes still locked on Lance. "Why does he have to go in first? Alone."

 

"It's standard procedure for this kind of infiltration, Keith," Shiro explained patiently for what felt like the tenth time. "Lance needs to arrive as a new performer. He has to get familiar with the backstage area, change there, and get briefed by the contact. He can't just walk in with the rest of the crowd."

 

"He'll be vulnerable," Keith argued, his voice low.

 

"He'll be fine," Allura said, her tone gentle but firm. "He is a Paladin. He can handle himself for an hour in a dressing room."

 

From the cockpit, Hunk's voice crackled over the internal comms. "Yeah, Keith, relax. It's not like he's going to a Denuvian barbeque. It's just a den of sin and potential murder. He'll be great!"

 

Pidge snickered. "I've hacked him into the performer roster. He's scheduled for a slot right when Vorlak usually arrives. Stage name is 'Lior'. Ooh, fancy."

 

Keith just scowled, his jaw tight.

 

Once they landed in a grimy private dock, the team huddled for a final briefing. Shiro handed out tiny, flesh-colored comm pieces. "These are subdermal, just behind your ear. Tap twice to activate, three times to mute. The range is short, so we'll be relying on Pidge and Hunk to boost the signal from the shuttle. Your primary objective is the mission. If things go south, do not engage publicly. We cannot afford a scene. Remember, Honerva's eyes are everywhere. We are ghosts."

 

Nods all around. The gravity of the situation settled over them like a shroud.

 

Keith grabbed Lance's arm as he turned to leave with the contact. "Be careful," he said, the words rough with unspoken fear.

 

Lance offered him a cocky grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "When am I not? See you soon, Kael. Don't get too jealous." He winked, then followed a shrouded figure out of the dock and into the swirling, neon-lit crowds of Kyrossia-9.

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

The Obsidian Nexus was exactly as advertised: a temple of decadence. The air was thick with the smell of expensive alien perfumes, ozone, and something sharper, muskier. Pulsing, low-frequency music vibrated through the floor, a physical sensation more than a sound. The lighting was a deep, hypnotic indigo, broken by spotlights that swept across the main stage, currently occupied by a Twi'lek-like being who moved with an impossible, liquid grace.

 

Lance's contact, a young woman who introduced herself as Lova, led him through the thrumming crowd. She was striking—half-Galra, with sharp, intelligent yellow eyes set in a warm, brown-skinned face, and the delicate facial markings of another species he didn't recognize. She moved with an easy confidence, her gaze constantly scanning, assessing.

 

"Keep up, Lior," she said, her voice a low purr that cut through the music. "Eyes are already on you. New meat always causes a stir." She guided him past the main floor, through a heavy curtain, and into a labyrinth of corridors that were noticeably quieter. "Back here is the green room, dressing rooms, and the private chambers. Vorlak's usual spot is the balcony overlooking the stage. He likes to watch the new talent from a distance first. Your set is in forty-five minutes. That's your window."

 

She pushed open a door to a small, surprisingly clean dressing room. It was lit by a ring of bright lights around a mirror, a stark contrast to the moody club outside. She tossed a bundle of fabric at him. "Here. This should fit. The color will work with your complexion."

 

Lance unfolded it. It was a top and bottom, both made of a delicate, stretchy burgundy lace. The shirt was long-sleeved, sheer, and the shorts were... very short.

 

He held them up, raising an eyebrow. "A little... revealing, don't you think?"

 

Love gave him a flat look. "You're here to be looked at. This," she gestured to the outfit, "ensures they keep looking. Now, sit." She pointed to the chair in front of the mirror.

 

As Lance changed behind a screen, he could hear her rummaging through a makeup kit. He emerged, feeling intensely exposed. The lace clung to him in a way that left very little to the imagination. Nyma didn't comment, just pushed him into the chair and got to work. Her hands were deft and cool. She didn't go for heavy foundation, instead using a light, shimmery powder that made his skin glow under the lights. She smudged a dark, glittering kohl around his eyes, making the blue of his irises pop, and dusted a hint of sparkling highlighter along his cheekbones and the line of his collarbone.

 

"It's not about hiding you," she explained, her focus absolute. "It's about enhancing what's already there. Making you look... expensive. Ethereal."

 

"You're good at this," Lance remarked, watching his reflection transform. He looked less like himself and more like a fantasy.

 

"It pays the bills," she said simply. "And it keeps me close to people like Vorlak." She finished, stepping back to admire her work. "There. Now you look like you're worth the exorbitant cover charge." She leaned against the vanity, crossing her arms. "So. Your team. The others. When are they getting here?"

 

Lance checked the chrono on the wall. "Probably in about an hour. They're coming in as patrons."

 

Nyma's sharp eyes studied him in the mirror. "You seem nervous. More than most new performers. Is it the mission? Or is it something else?"

 

Lance let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He tapped his comm twice, activating it for the team in the shuttle to hear. He needed them to know this, to understand the stakes weren't just tactical for him. "It's... my boyfriend. He's one of the ones coming in. I just... I don't want him to see this and feel... I don't know. Weird about it. Or get the wrong idea."

 

Lova’s expression softened marginally. She gave a small, knowing smile. "Ah. So that's it." She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Look, use it. A little jealousy can be a good thing. Let him see what everyone else wants but can't have. It'll make the victory sweeter for both of you when you walk out of here together. Have a little fun with it. Tease him. Then you can both go home and... have a much better time." She winked.

 

Lance felt a genuine smile tug at his lips for the first time since they'd landed. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe you're right."

 

"Of course I am," she said, straightening up. "Now, get your head in the game, Lior. In forty minutes, you're on. And your boyfriend is going to get the show of his life."

 

Back in the shuttle, Keith’s scowl deepened, but there was a new, fierce light in his eyes. He looked at Shiro. "Let's go. Now."

Chapter Text

The transition from the grimy dock to the opulent, throbbing heart of The Obsidian Nexus was like stepping into another dimension. The music was a physical force, a deep, primal beat that vibrated in Keith’s bones. The air was thick with smoke and the cloying scent of exotic intoxicants. Shiro led their little group—himself, Keith, James, and Kinkade—with a practiced ease that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else.

As they moved through the crowd of leering patrons and shimmering performers, Shiro’s eyes scanned the room. They met Lova’s from across the bar. A single, almost imperceptible nod passed between them. Contact established.

Keith’s gaze, however, was locked on the balcony. It was shrouded in deeper shadow, a vantage point for predators. He could just make out the plush couches, empty for now. *That’s his spot.*

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice was a low murmur in his ear, barely audible over the music. “Eyes down. You’re a rich asshole, not a scout. Remember the objective. Lure him down. The couches right in front of the stage are the kill zone.”

Before Keith could respond, a dancer with iridescent scales and multiple arms glided past, trailing a finger down his chest. “A new face,” she purred. “Lonely?”

Keith instinctively recoiled, his expression twisting into a scowl as he reached into his breast pocket and took out some Kyrossian cash and tucked it in her bra.

She looked from her bra to his deep purple irises. “Oh you want the special?”

“No, I want you to scram.” He bored his eyes into her.

“How about we—“

“He’s fine,” Shiro said smoothly, stepping slightly between them. “Just enjoying the view.”

As the dancer moved on, Pidge’s voice crackled in their comms. “Wow, Keith. Real stretch for the acting chops there. Just be your usual, charming, antisocial self.”

Keith gritted his teeth, forcing himself to lean back against a pillar and adopt a posture of bored indifference. A moment later, a new voice, bright and clear, filled their subdermal receivers.

“Testing, testing. Paladin-party-people, you read me?” Lance’s voice was a shot of adrenaline straight to Keith’s heart.

“We read you, Lior,” Shiro responded, his voice all business. “Remember, the lure has to be discreet. Anything too direct will spook him. You’re a new attraction; he has to feel like he’s discovering you.”

From his hidden vantage point backstage, Lance smirked. He could just make out Shiro’s form through the heavy curtains. “Don’t worry, dad. I’ve got this.” He tapped his comm twice, muting it. He needed to focus.

Lova appeared at his side as the current performance ended. The music shifted, building into a new, sultry rhythm. “This is your cue. Remember, most of the dancers just stay on the stage. It’s safer. Almost no one gets off and mingles with the crowd. Those guys can get… handsy. Be careful.”

Lance took a deep breath, the confidence he’d worn like a costume now feeling a little tighter, a little more real. A flicker of embarrassment heated his cheeks, but he shoved it down. “I’m always careful,” he said, and stepped into the blaze of the stage lights.

The crowd erupted. The lights were blinding, turning the sea of faces into a dark, roaring blur. Except for one.

Keith was right there, front and center, just as Lova had promised he would be. He was slouched on a low couch, one hand resting on his knee, the other slung across the back of the seat. A half-finished drink sat on the tiny table before him. He looked the picture of bored wealth, but as Lance’s eyes met his, Keith’s composure cracked for a fraction of a second. His eyes widened, a quick, hungry sweep from Lance’s glitter-dusted face, down the sheer burgundy lace clinging to his torso, and all the way to his boots. Then the mask slammed back into place.

Lance’s smirk returned, wider and more genuine. He gave a slow, deliberate wink to the crowd before turning his attention to them, moving with a fluid grace that was part training, part pure, unadulterated performance. He worked the stage, blowing kisses, running a hand through his hair, his hips moving in time with the hypnotic beat.

Keith’s knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the couch. He could hear the murmurs around him, the lewd comments, the offers being shouted at the stage. A hot, possessive jealousy coiled in his gut, so potent he could taste it. He had to remain Kael. Kael didn’t care.

Lance, meanwhile, was subtly scanning the balconies. There. A massive, hulking form draped in dark robes had just settled into the prime seat. Vorlak. He leaned in, pretending to adjust his boot, and whispered, “Target acquired. Balcony, due north. The big one looking like a disappointed gargoyle.”

“Copy that,” Shiro’s voice was calm. “Bring him down to the couches. Find a way.”

Lova’s warning echoed in his head. “Almost no one gets off the stage.” It took courage. It was a risk. A dangerous, stupid, brilliant risk.

He had an idea.

With a final, smoldering look to the center of the crowd, Lance slowly, seductively, walked down the short set of stairs at the side of the stage and stepped onto the main floor.

A collective, excited murmur rippled through the patrons.

“Lance, what are you doing?” Shiro’s voice was sharp in his ear.

“Trust me,” Lance murmured, his comm active again before tapping his ear turning it off again.

He moved along the line of couches, a predator on the prowl. He’d trail a finger along a shoulder here, wink at a blushing patron there, but his path was deliberate. He was a magnet, and Keith was his north.

When he reached Keith’s couch, he didn’t break character. He slid onto the plush cushion beside him before climbing onto his lap, a hair's breadth away. He moved to the music, his body a hair's breadth from Keith’s, one hand coming up to caress Keith’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the hidden comm. His other hand fisted in the fabric of Keith’s tunic, pulling him close.

Keith’s adam’s apple visibly gulps as he looks at lance in his lap up and down slowly.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Keith’s ear. His voice was a low, teasing whisper, meant only for him. “Careful darling, you’re supposed to resist me.”

Keith just stays quiet trying to avoid eye contact before Lance grabs his chin and makes Keith look at him.

“Relax. It’s just part of the act… unless you want to make it something else. You don’t have to say it — your eyes already do.”

From his post near the main entrance, James Griffin’s voice was a tense hiss over the comms. “They’re going to blow the whole op. They’re so damn obvious.”

Shiro was about to agree, his own anxiety spiking, when he caught the whispers from the wealthy merchants next to him.

“Smart,” one of them chuckled, nodding toward Lance and Keith. “Going for the Typhon merchant.”

“Is it? That one’s ice. Throws credits at them to go away.”

“Exactly. If you can crack *that*, the payout is huge. Kid’s got ambition. Easy money.”

Shiro allowed himself a small, private smile. “Stand down, James. It’s playing perfectly. Keith’s reputation is working for us.”

In the shuttle, Hunk snorted. “His *reputation*? He’s been here twenty minutes and he’s already known as the grumpy one who pays people to leave him alone. I’m so proud.”

Pidge cackled. “It’s the most ‘Keith’ thing I’ve ever heard.”

Allura and Romelle’s laughter joined in over the comms, a bright, nervous sound.

Back on the couch, Lance was reveling in it, pushing his luck. He was draped over Keith now, all teasing smiles and whispered provocations, watching the muscle in Keith’s jaw twitch. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it. The massive form of Vorlak was moving, descending from the balcony. He slid, silent and surprisingly graceful, into the couch directly next to theirs.

The music swelled as a new act took the stage, and the crowd’s attention shifted. But Lance remained on Keith, and Vorlak’s predatory gaze remained on them.

“Keith, he’s looking right at you,” Shiro’s voice was an urgent whisper. “Don’t you dare break. You have to resist. You’re not interested. Looking bored is not working anymore, say something.”

Keith’s eyes, dark and unreadable, were locked on Lance. The bored expression was a mask of iron, but the storm beneath was raging.

Then, moving faster than Lance could track, Keith’s hand came down hard on Lance’s ass—a sharp, stinging slap that was more shock than pain.

Lance let out a quiet, involuntary whimper, his eyes flying wide with genuine surprise.

“Are you done?” Keith’s voice was low, cold, and carried perfectly in the small space between them as he squeezes harder. “Go shake this skinny ass for someone who cares.”

The rejection was like a physical blow. Lance stared, stunned, the playful smirk wiped from his face. For a terrifying second, he thought Keith had truly lost it.

But in the comms, a collective, relieved sigh echoed. “Good. Good, Keith,” Shiro breathed.

The bait had been taken.

As Lance sat there, frozen and looking beautifully, artfully wounded, Vorlak leaned over the back of their shared couch. His voice was a deep, grating rumble.

“Such ingratitude,” he said, his yellow eyes fixed on Lance. “To treat such a rare beauty with such disregard.” He gestured a dismissive hand at Keith. “Some men do not know how to appreciate art. I, however, can show a pretty piece of meat like you the appreciation you deserve.”

Lance hesitated, his eyes flicking back to Keith, who was now pointedly looking away, taking a long, slow gulp of his drink, his knuckles bone-white around the glass.

“Keith, stay unbothered,” Allura’s voice was calm but firm in his ear.

Lance, seeing the cue, let his lower lip tremble just slightly. He turned his big, blue, glittering eyes to Vorlak, a perfect picture of a fragile ego seeking validation. He offered a small, flirty smile, laced with vulnerability. “He… he did not like my performance?”

“His loss is my gain,” Vorlak purred, patting the empty space on the couch beside him.

With one last, seemingly heartbroken glance at Keith’s rigid back, Lance rose and slid in next to the massive ex-Druid.

“Come on let me help you regain that confidence.” He slips a hand under Lance’s thigh guiding him to straddle his lap.

Lance followed through a disgusting and fearful feeling sitting at his stomach as we speak, one leg following the other as then trailed his hands up the asshole’s shirt, carefully bitting his lip still acting wounded from Kael’s rejection.

“Look at this” Volrak trailed a hand from his waist all the way down to his behind as he played with it watching it recoil. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Lance grinned a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

‘I do know what I’m talking about’ Keith thought as he huffed and took a gulp of his drink holding all the hot as fire jealousy surging through him right now.

For the next five minutes, Keith had to listen. He had to listen to Lance’s flirtatious laughter, his playful, victimized banter. He had to watch from his periphery as Lance leaned in, all attention on the monster who could snap him in two. Keith took another gulp of his drink, the vile liquid doing nothing to cool the fire in his veins.

“Stay calm, Keith. You’re doing perfectly,” Shiro murmured.

But Keith wasn’t listening. His entire world had narrowed to the sound of Lance’s laughter and the sight of Vorlak’s hand, large enough to crush a skull, resting on the couch mere inches from Lance’s lace-clad hip. His grip on the glass tightened, a delicate hairline crack appearing in the crystal.

The low, grating rumble of Vorlak's voice cut through the sultry music still filtering into the private room. "This... distraction has its limits," he growled, his large hand gesturing vaguely towards the door. "I have a more... intimate viewing chamber. Where we can appreciate your... artistry without the noise."

Lance's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of lace and adrenaline. This was it. The pivot. He forced a slow, seductive smile, letting his eyelashes flutter. "I know just the place," he purred, his voice a low promise. "It's quieter. More... personal." He'd memorized the layout Lova had drilled into him. Third door on the left, past the secondary bar. The room where she'd promised to stash their contingency weapon.

He led the way, his movements fluid despite the tremor in his hands. Vorlak followed, a mountain of shadow and menace, his presence sucking the air from the corridor. Lance pushed the door open, revealing a small, opulently furnished room dominated by a large, low couch and mood lighting that did little to dispel the sense of impending dread.

The door clicked shut, and the sound was terrifyingly final.

Vorlak didn't waste time. He settled onto the couch, the furniture groaning in protest under his weight. "Now," he began, his yellow eyes pinning Lance in place. "Tell me of yourself. Your origins. Your talents."

Lance's mind raced. This was the interrogation disguised as small talk. He leaned against a plush divan, striking a casual pose. "Oh, you know," he demurred, waving a hand dismissively. "A little of this, a little of that. It doesn't really matter, does it? Not after the way that... *ungrateful* man treated me." He infused his voice with a convincing tremor of wounded pride.

Vorlak's lips curled into something that wasn't a smile. "He was a fool. But you are evading the question."

Lance let out a breathy, theatrical sigh. "What a shame, though. He was so... hot. And rich." It was a gamble, poking the beast's ego.

It worked. A flicker of irritation crossed Vorlak's face. In a movement shockingly fast for his size, he lunged forward, his hand snapping out to grab Lance's arm. He yanked, and Lance, playing the fragile dancer, let himself be pulled off balance, stumbling and landing on the floor with a controlled, soft thud. The impact jarred his teeth.

"You will find," Vorlak snarled, leaning over him, his shadow engulfing Lance, "that I am far superior. In every conceivable way."

Lance looked up, allowing a genuine flicker of panic to show in his wide eyes. He was completely at this monster's mercy.

Vorlak's gaze, however, was analytical, not just lustful. His eyes scanned Lance's body, lingering on his shoulders, his arms, his legs. "You have a surprising amount of muscle tone for one who makes his living through... flexibility alone."

The air left Lance's lungs. ‘Shit.’ He forced a sly, coquettish smile, his mind scrambling. "Well," he breathed, pushing himself up on his elbows, "I thought your type was all skin and bones. But then you saw me." He let his gaze travel down his own body suggestively. "I may be skinny, but the features are nice, aren't they? All in the right places." He was walking a razor's edge, trying to redirect the conversation back to seduction and away from his Paladin physique.

For a moment, it seemed to work. Vorlak's expression shifted, the suspicion replaced by a dark, possessive hunger. He reached down, his large hands gripping Lance's hips, and hauled him up from the floor, depositing him roughly onto the couch beside him. The scent of him—ozone, old metal, and something uniquely Galra—was overwhelming. Lance's stomach churned as Vorlak leaned in, his intentions clear.

Disgust, cold and sharp, washed over Lance. He turned his head slightly, the kiss landing on his cheek, rough and demanding. His mind was screaming. *The weapon. Where is the weapon?* Lova had said it would be under the couch. As Vorlak's mouth moved to his neck, Lance let his left hand slide down, his fingers scrambling blindly across the plush carpet, searching, searching for the cold, hard shape of a blade.

His fingers found nothing but dust and carpet fibers.

Panic, real and suffocating, began to claw its way up his throat. He patted more frantically, his movements becoming less discreet.

Suddenly, Vorlak went still. He pulled back, his eyes no longer clouded with desire but sharp with cold, clear understanding. Slowly, deliberately, he reached under the couch himself. When his hand emerged, it was holding a compact, vicious-looking sonic dagger—their contingency weapon.

"Looking for this?" Vorlak's voice was dangerously quiet.

Lance's blood ran cold. He stared, horrified, his carefully constructed persona shattering. "I... I can explain," he stammered, his mind blank. "It's a... a prop! For a more... adventurous routine."

Vorlak backhanded him across the face.

The blow was brutal, snapping Lance's head to the side. White-hot pain exploded in his cheek, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Before he could recover, Vorlak was on him, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him back against the wall. The impact drove the air from his lungs, spots dancing in his vision.

"This is not a funny joke, little insect," Vorlak snarled, his face inches away, his breath hot and foul. "Who are you? Who sent you? Was it the Traitor Prince? The Coalition? Speak, and your death will be quick."

Lance gasped, clawing at the hand around his throat. Fear was a living thing inside him, but beneath it, a familiar, stubborn fire ignited. He stopped struggling and met Vorlak's gaze, his own eyes blazing with defiance.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," Lance choked out, his voice raspy but steady. "And you really, *really* don't want to mess with me."

Vorlak laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You? You are all looks and nothing else. A deadbeat shaking ass for credits, soon to be a dead body dancing for no one."

He increased the pressure on Lance's throat. Blackness began to creep in at the edges of Lance's vision. Desperate, his hand flailed, finding his own ear. With a shaky, weakening hand, he fumbled for his comm, his fingers slipping on the tiny, flesh-colored device. He tapped it twice, activating the open channel. He drew in a ragged, wheezing breath, pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into a single, faint whisper.

"...help..."

The door exploded inwards.

It didn't open; it shattered, splinters of expensive wood flying across the room. Keith stood in the doorway, his borrowed merchant's tunic looking absurdly civilian on a frame coiled for violence. His eyes, burning with a feral, violet fire, took in the scene in a nanosecond: Lance, pinned against the wall, gasping for air, the blood trickling from his lip.

A guttural roar tore from Keith's throat. He didn't speak, didn't threaten. He just moved.

He crossed the room in two long strides. Vorlak, startled by the sudden intrusion, dropped Lance and turned to face the new threat, but he was too slow. Keith ducked under a wild swing and drove his fist, reinforced by years of combat training, deep into Vorlak's gut. The ex-Druid grunted, doubling over, but his own Druid-enhanced strength allowed him to recover quickly. He grabbed Keith and hurled him across the room.

Keith hit the wall with a sickening thud but rolled with the impact, coming up in a crouch, his eyes never leaving his target. They were a whirlwind of violence—a flurry of brutal, efficient strikes from Keith met with overwhelming, powerful blows from Vorlak. Furniture splintered. A lamp shattered, plunging half the room into deeper shadow.

Gasping for air on the floor, Lance's vision cleared. His eyes darted around, searching. There. The sonic dagger, knocked from Vorlak's grip during the initial struggle, lay glinting near the shattered door. Ignoring the pain screaming through his body, Lance scrambled on his hands and knees, his fingers closing around the cool hilt.

He turned just as Vorlak, enraged, backhanded Keith, sending him stumbling back. The ex-Druid turned his fury back towards Lance, his expression promising a slow, painful death.

"Enough of this farce!" Vorlak bellowed.

Lance didn't hesitate. He raised the dagger, thumbed the activation switch, and fired.

A concentrated blast of invisible sonic energy, inaudible to them but devastating at close range, hit Vorlak square in the chest. It didn't cut or burn; it vibrated, disrupting his nervous system, overloading his synapses. His eyes rolled back in his head, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his massive body convulsed once, twice, and then collapsed to the floor like a felled tree.

Silence, broken only by the ragged panting of the two Paladins and the distant thump of the club's music, descended upon the ruined room.

Keith was at Lance's side in an instant, his hands cupping his face, his thumbs gently wiping the blood from his split lip. His eyes were wide, dark pools of panic barely held in check. "Lance? Talk to me. Are you okay?" The words were rushed, laced with a fear that had been simmering since the briefing room.

Lance winced as Keith's thumb brushed the tender spot, but he forced a lopsided, bloody grin. "What, this?" he rasped, gesturing vaguely at his face. "It'll just make me look more interesting. Adds a little edge to the whole... look." He leaned into Keith's touch, his gaze flickering down to Keith's tense posture. "See something you like?" he murmured, a weak but genuine attempt at his usual bravado.

Keith's focus was fractured. He was trying to assess Lance's injuries, scan the room for more threats, and process the fact that Lance was standing there, bruised and bleeding, in a sheer lace top and booty shorts.

His brain kept short-circuiting. "I'm not—you're—just shut up and let me check you for broken ribs," he grumbled, his voice tight.

Lance’s grin widened. He reached up, his fingers gently threading into the gelled strands of Keith's hair. "Relax. I'm fine. The slicked-back thing is hot, don't get me wrong... but I like the mullet better." With a few playful, deliberate ruffles, he messed up the careful style, letting the familiar strands fall forward onto Keith's forehead.

Keith’s eyes, still dark with worry, narrowed slightly. "I thought you hated the mullet," he muttered, his hands still firmly on Lance’s waist.

Lance’s smile turned into a proper smirk. "What can I say? It grew on me.."

A low, pained groan came from the floor. Vorlak was still conscious, though paralyzed by the sonic blast. His eyes, full of hate and dawning realization, flickered between them. The pretty dancer, now casually disheveling his partner's hair while standing over him, the Black Paladin whose carefully constructed disguise had just been literally ruffled away.

"You..." Vorlak wheezed, blood trickling from his nose. "The Red... and the Black Paladin. Voltron."

Keith and Lance stood side-by-side, looking down at the defeated monster. The disguises were gone, stripped away by violence. In their place was the unshakable resolve of leaders, a united front.

Lance's voice was cold, all pretense gone. "This isn't personal. It's a surgical strike."

Keith's gaze was like tempered steel. "You're a obstacle. A bloody one in the way of peace. And we're removing you."

They stared down at him, a heroic couple standing in the wreckage of a strip club on a backwater planet, the fate of the galaxy once again resting on their shoulders. The mission was a mess, but the target was down. Now, they just had to get out alive.

 

**

 

The moment of quiet defiance was shattered by the blaring of a distant alarm. Red lights began to pulse in the hallway, casting the wrecked room in a hellish glow.

"His personal security is inbound. They must have a bio-monitor," Shiro's voice crackled, sharp and urgent in their comms. "Extraction now. Lova is your guide."

As if summoned, the door—or what was left of it—slid open to reveal Lova. Her face was a mask of cool efficiency, but her eyes widened a fraction at the scene of destruction. "Time to go. The main exits are swarming. This way." She didn't wait for a response, turning and moving swiftly down a service corridor.

Keith didn't hesitate. He grabbed the sonic dagger from Lance's limp hand, then his actual hand, pulling him along. Lance stumbled for a step, his body protesting, before falling into a run beside him. They left Vorlak—paralyzed, bleeding, but seething with silent rage—on the floor of the ruined room.

Lova moved like a ghost, leading them through a maze of steaming pipes and humming conduits, the club's glamorous facade giving way to its gritty, industrial guts. They burst out into a cold, dimly lit alley, the neon of the Nexus a garish memory behind them. The MFE shuttle sat humming, its ramp already down. James and Kinkade were at the base, blasters drawn, providing cover.

Lova stopped at the alley's mouth, not stepping into the open. "This is where I get off. Your people are clear." She looked at Lance, then Keith, her gaze lingering on their joined hands. "Good luck in your war."

Lance, panting slightly, managed a genuine, if pained, smile. "Thanks, Lova. For everything. You're a life-saver." He winked, the gesture a little weak but full of sincerity. "Try not to miss me too much."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Don't flatter yourself, Lior." With a final nod, she melted back into the shadows of the alley, gone as quickly as she appeared.

They scrambled up the ramp, which hissed shut behind them. The moment the shuttle lifted off, the atmosphere inside shifted from high-stakes tension to giddy, post-adrenaline relief.

The moment the shuttle's ramp sealed with a definitive hiss, the oppressive, pulsating energy of the club was replaced by the familiar, steady hum of the Atlas's systems. It was like taking a first, clean breath after being in a smoke-filled room.

Lance rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a satisfied sigh. There was no wincing, no clutching his ribs—just the loose-limbed relaxation of a fighter after a good scrap. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you close a deal," he announced, a wide, unforced grin on his face.

"Alright, sound off," Shiro commanded, though the usual tightness in his shoulders was gone.

"Griffin, clear."
"Kinkade, clear."
"Keith, clear. Lance is fine. He just enjoys the sound of his own voice." Keith's report was dry, but he was already unbuckling his own gear, his movements efficient and relaxed as he watched Lance stretch.

Hunk swiveled in the pilot's chair, his face a picture of relief and admiration. "Dude! You were like a ninja! A glittery, lace-wearing ninja! I aged ten years when you got off that stage."

"All part of the plan, my man," Lance said, puffing out his chest. "Distract, disarm, and look damn good doing it."

"It was a high-risk maneuver that paid off due to your improvisation," Shiro affirmed, a clear note of pride in his voice. "You and Keith adapted the plan under pressure. That's command-level thinking."

Pidge didn't look up from her console, a smirk on her face. "So, Keith, you wanna tell us what was so bad that you had to slap his thigh and tell him to get lost? The people demand to know."

Keith's ears turned a brilliant shade of red. He crossed his arms, glaring at the floor. "It was part of the plan."

"Oh, it was a great part of the plan," Pidge continued finally glancing over her shoulder, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Very convincing. You really nailed the whole 'emotionally constipated rich guy' vibe."

Lance laughed, then groaned, clutching his side. "Hey, lay off him. He was playing hard to get. It's a classic technique." He shot Keith a look that was equal parts teasing and fond.

Keith finally cracked a real smile, a flash of white in the shuttle's light. "It's a specialized skill. Unlike some people, I don't have to try so hard." He shot a look at Lance, the challenge clear in his eyes.

Lance clutched his chest in mock agony. "Try? Keith, my performance was effortless. A masterclass in seduction and tactical takedowns. You just sat there and looked pretty."

"I did more than that," Keith retorted, standing up and stretching. The motion pulled his (now unbuttoned) tunic taut across his chest. "I provided the necessary contrast. Your... sparkle... needed a little edge to make it believable." He walked over to the storage locker, pulling out a long, black Atlas jacket. He didn't toss it this time; he held it open. "You're shivering."

"I am not shivering," Lance insisted, even as he turned and slid his arms into the offered sleeves with practiced ease. The heavy fabric settled over his shoulders, instantly replacing the memory of the flimsy lace with the solid, comforting weight of home. "But I'll allow the gesture, thank you babe."

As the formal debrief wrapped up, the atmosphere dissolved into the easy camaraderie of a team that had just pulled off the impossible. Lance leaned against the console next to Keith, their shoulders brushing.

"You know," Lance said, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, "for a guy who just watched his boyfriend grind on a galactic warlord, you're taking it pretty well."

Keith's arm slipped around Lance's waist, pulling him a fraction closer. The touch was casual, possessive, and entirely natural. "I had a good view," Keith murmured, his breath ghosting Lance's ear. "And I'm a very patient man. I know who you're coming home with."

Lance's grin was brilliant. "Damn right you do."

"Are you two quite finished?" Shiro asked, his voice laced with a long-suffering fondness that every leader of this particular group had to develop.

"Not even close," Lance chirped, not moving an inch from Keith's side.

James Griffin shook his head, but he was smiling. "However you two manage to focus enough to get the job done, I'll never know. But it worked. Good job."

Kinkade offered a rare, full sentence. "The way you used his own reputation against him was smart."

Lance accepted the praise with a nod, but his attention was already back on the man beside him. "You know, for the record, you were right. That guy was a total creep."

"I'm always right," Keith said, his hand giving Lance's hip a slight, familiar squeeze. "Now, you owe me for having to sit through that. I'm thinking you can start by helping me get this damn gel out of my hair."

"Anything for my hero," Lance laughed, reaching up to ruffle the already-disheveled mullet as the shuttle docked with their home. The mission was over, the team was safe, and the comfortable, chaotic rhythm of their life together resumed without a single missed beat.