.
.
Katie thinks she's gonna vomit. All over Lance's brand new, red rose-print sneakers.
He barely notices. Katie doesn't know if he would even notice a rhino charging through the whole neon-lit arcade with the way Lance has been eyeing Allura from a distance (as well as every tall, busty girl who gazes towards Lance's oogling or passes him by with their friends).
There's too much noise and lights, the bass-boost pounding in her skull. The bright green and blue laser-lights spill from the ceiling and rain down on them, flashing in their eyes.
"You wanna try?" Lance asks, more like shouting.
He holds out the zombie-killing gun to the arcade machine to Katie, offering a slow and purposeful grin. A boy from Cuba — tonight he showed up to their local hang-out in a bleach-splattered denim jean jacket with a pastel galaxy tee underneath, high-waisted and skinny jeans and rose-tinted sunglasses with gold rims.
Somehow it all is just very Lance.
It's not her style at all when Katie would rather be in the knitted, dark green sweater that covers her hands and a loosely fitted and black skirt with no hose. (No bra either because why bother when you got no tits, and the tits that are there hurt like hell?)
She's known him since Katie was twelve and still in her pigtails and braces. Lance moved in across the street in the middle of winter, parading around in baseball caps and joggers, fiercely daring Katie to outrace him on their bikes before dinner. They would share wads of gum and milkshakes and occasionally their deepest and darkest secrets. Now she's eighteen and Lance just turned twenty, holding off any college degree to work on his uncle's horse farm and another part-time job at the coffee shop so he can travel back to Cuba for a while.
His blue eyes are pretty when they're on her, bright like jewels, and Katie feels another hot surge of nausea hit into her. She whirls around, saying nothing, and heads for the restroom.
It feels like a hangover, except it's not — Katie hasn't touched alcohol since Rizavi's unsupervised party in the richer and more isolated part of town. Mistakes were definitely immortalized and made without proper judgment. Katie found them out from a giddy, smiling Romelle. She may have got black-out drunk and slept with Lance, according to the sneakily taken photos taken on Romelle's phone.
Both of them curled up on a downstairs mattress to a guest room, Lance's dick hanging out in the open and Katie topless against the sheets, her bare, crooked leg dangling off the edge of the bed.
Under threats of murder from an enraged and humiliated Katie, Romelle swore she did not make copies and deletes the photos in front of her. Just to be sure, Katie hacks Romelle's encoded, bubble-pink phone along with her home desktop. Thank god, she really does give a shit about keeping her friends' privacy.
The bathroom stall smells like citrus disinfectant and perfume and nachos. Katie bends over, pudhing her hair aside and waiting to upchuck. When nothing happens, she sits down on the toilet seat with a heaving, aggravated sigh and opens up her bag resting at her feet. There's no way in hell that she's taking the cheap pregnancy test at home. Not when her mom would definitely find it.
It reeks like pee when she's done. More waiting.
Katie's teeth worry over her bottom, pinkening lip. The instructions say it could take close to a full twenty minutes before there's a clear reading.
C'mon, c'mon… …
A little, blue plus sign morphs into existence.
Fuck.
She groans in defeat, tossing the plastic stick into a tampon-garbage can installed to the wall and heading for the bathroom sink to wash her hands. It has to be three or four weeks when this started, at least. God, maybe Katie can have an accident or something, then…
Guilt seeps in. That's dark as hell.
But is this really happening? Katie doesn't even remember waking up during the party. Or most of the party. She remembers the taste of beer and tequila, and Lance's jewel-bright eyes. Romelle apparently drove her back to her house after discovering her, cleaning her up and dressing Katie in one of Romelle's older, granny nightgowns. She woke her up for eggs and orange juice after 3pm.
But does Lance know?
Katie doubts it since he has been so at ease with her, hooking his arm around Katie's waist and poking her cheek lightly when he teases, and holy shit, it's the fucking worse. It really is.
Crushes are the dumbest thing to ever exist. Next to tequila shots.
Now she's goddamn queasy and cranky and definitely pregnant with her best friend's kid. Neither of them are responsible enough to wear elbow-pads and knee-pads on Keith's borrowed skateboards when Lance nearly collided into her at the park, or to even prevent themselves from violently choking, sucking and blowing straw-bubbles in their glasses of chocolate milk at Lance's house.
And she's beginning to get horny, when Katie glimpses Lance slow-dancing with one of the college girls, face-to-face, pelvis-to-pelvis, out of rhythm to the music. Lance's mouth opens to hers, like he's trying to swallow her, beginning with the girl's plush, purple-glossy lips.
It should be her with him.
Nobody else paying attention when Lance backs her up against the skee-ball lane, rucking off his jean jacket and unbuttoning his pants. Katie imagines herself stripping off her dark green sweater, naked and illuminated in the blue LED lights. Neon-pink and lavender tingeing her features and the tips of her auburn curls.
It would be Lance's hands pushing up her skirt to bunch the canvas-fabric to her hips, running his fingers over her flesh, thumbing aside the bridge of her underwear to sink his moist, firm cockhead into Katie's folds, rubbing himself along them. She tries to fuck herself back on Lance's dick opening her entrance, stretching her so good with its length and thickness, until she's too-full.
She tells him I'm pregnant mid-thrust, when Lance manages to get himself halfway inside her, Katie's legs and ankles crossed tightly around his lower back. The emotion shudders and overwhelms him. He kisses her god, I love you and whispers this and snaps his hips, fucking her deeper, rapid-pace.
Katie's ass bounces against the cold, narrow lane with each rough pounding of his hips, while they're awash in confetti and balloons and neon. Lance pulls out of her abruptly, breathing heavy.
His cum spurts all over Katie's stomach and her chest while he jacks himself off over her. Katie moans at the hot, sticky-wet feeling, exhausted and sore, running her fingertips over her small, soft breasts and throat and her belly, trying to cover herself entirely with Lance's cum.
It's not possible, but Lance grins and mouths over the rosy-colored and overly sensitive tips of Katie's nipples, licking them until they're puffy and stiff and warmer against his lips. She cries out wordlessly, meeting her orgasm after a few minutes with Lance's hand cupping her vaginal opening and grinding down with his palm-heel. He laughs out you feel so good, babe and watches her eagerly when Katie's eyelids flutter shut that's it, cum for me grinding his hand again through the aftershocks, Lance's middle finger slipping inside her and dragging through Katie's slick yeah, I can feel it—
"Holty?"
She jolts back to reality, wide-eyed and flushing. Lance touches over her shoulder, eyeing her with a concerned and deepening frown. "You good, Holty? I was calling your name."
"Mm'fine," Katie mumbles out, before lurching forward and emptying her stomach onto Lance's rose-print jean jacket. Several bystanders jump up and make disgusted faces, yelling. Perspiration drips down her face. A grimacing Lance tosses off his jacket when it's over and steers Katie for the exit, lifting her off her feet bridal-style when she stumbles, taking them out into the alleyway.
The burst of cooling night air helps Katie's gut from churning again.
"I wanna die," she mumbles, dangling her head backwards as Lance releases a low, embarrassed chuckle, but little else, shifting Katie's legs a little and keeping her securely in his arms.
"Don't think that's gonna solve anything…"
Katie's eyes flood with tears, clinging to her eyelashes.
"Lance, I'm pregnant," she says in the tiniest voice imaginable, listening to the echoes of traffic reverberating off the alley-walls, gradually falling into silent, body-quivering sobbing.
She doesn't wanna know what he's thinking or gonna say, pushing her hands over her face and lowered onto the ground comfortably. The sobbing intensifies, Katie's vision blurring him out when Lance sternly hugs her and pets her hair like when her dog Bae Bae died on her high school graduation day. He holds Katie up against him and apologizes, over and over, and over.
Heart-to-heart.
That's where she always wants to be with him.
.
.
Voltron isn't mine. Hello hello I'm back! I'm not doing every day for Plance Smut Week but definitely gonna fit in as much as I can! This was for "Day 4: Baby Fever" and again was not expecting the direction of this fic, but sometimes you gotta just. Do the thing. Gotta land another Voltron Bingo - NSFW Genre bingo card space for "Nipple Play" this time around and yeah, I'm just gonna have a bunch of Plance for this week. Any comments/thoughts are deeply appreciated! Thanks!