.

.

There's reasons for biology. We all functional on a similiar wavelength.

Pidge is just thankful she wasn't born an Omega.

Betas like her are more or less invisible to society, untroubled by Heats or Ruts, compatible with other Betas or deciding to make it riskier by pursuing relationships with non Betas.

"You're adorable," Lance declares, his features paled and dotted in electric-blue dots from her computerized holo-grid. He dangles off the end of the steeled beam ridge, grinning directly into Pidge's breathing space and waiting for her to kiss him. They have kissed before, here and there — because it was comforting, because he was lonely, because she just wanted to know.

Wanted to know if Lance and her had that biological chemistry inherently longing for each other.

(So they kept kissing, especially when Pidge ran out of excuses not to.)

Lance's mouth softens against hers, as she huffs and goes on her tiptoes, bumping lips. Neither of them pull away, skin-to-skin. He hums out, delirious, elated, sliding his hands beneath Pidge's flannel and caressing his thumbpads over Pidge's sensitive rib-cage.

"Dipshit," Pidge mutters out, writhing in Lance's arms and swallowing down giggles.

One time, she brought on Lance's rut cycle super earlier than normal, just by sitting on top of his lap and tonguing Lance's ear roughly, nibbling on the lobe. He had to be confined to his bunker with Hunk (another older Beta) for at least a quintant and a half. So that's the thing.

Lance is an Alpha. Society taught them he needed an Omega. Pidge doesn't believe they need to be having sex to have a fulfilling relationship of videogame dates and snark.

(Kissing, yes — she's never giving up Lance's warm kisses on her collarbone and throat.)

During one of the Voltron Coalition gatherings, on a different planet, Lance begins looking nervous and shrinking away from her. Pidge can't smell it like him, but there's too many Omegas in the area.

Lance's eyes darken away from blue. He shudders visibly. Allura notices (an Omega, though very much alien and incompatible) and speaks with the organizer. Asides from the paladins, the guests are all species of Feerdien — short, curvy purple aliens with humanoid parts like four eyes and a tentacle-nose and chins. Their flesh seems squishy and gelatinous, almost fully transparent.

The Feerdien organizer tuts sympathetically, arranging a private room in one of the upper levels of the mainhold castle. Lance will have an escort to help him through his cycle when it intensifies, Allura tells Pidge in the hallway, doing her best to not sound embarrassed or apprehensive.

Lance can barely stand, manhandled and carried out by Keith and Shiro (also Betas). She's not leaving him this time. Pidge hasn't seen Lance so wrecked by his own Alpa status like this.

Her pheromones apparently help neutralize the more violent urges, whether or not it's because she's a Beta or just Pidge to him. Lance growls and thrashes wildly as soon as he catches the scent of an Omega ready for him, bounding into the private room without saying anything. Keith and Shiro ask if Pidge needs anything, and she shakes her head, preparing mentally to go into the room as well.

There's enough lowlight to glimpse what's happening. A purple, gelatinous Feerdien croons and screeches out happily, thrusting down repeatedly on Lance's hips. It's more of a gooey blob than anything, oozing a sticky-thick substance all over Lance's exposed, brown skin.

She can witness as Lance's cock shifts through its transparent-purple, massive body, fucking in, out, in, jerking in erratically, as he means to burrow as deep as possible.

Pidge feels herself throbbing with need, but keeps a respectful distance.

Like a gravitational pull, Lance's blacked-out blue eyes dart to her. He shudder-groans, reaching. There's no outward complaint from the Feerdien escort as Pidge draws nearer, clutching onto Lance's fingers and reddening under his dazed, lustful attention, panting along with him.

Ooze trails over Lance's abdomen. His cock fattens inside the Omega-alien, Lance's knot filling. Pidge is only half-aware of her own actions, as she guides Lance's fingers towards the seam of her legs, pushing and dragging his fingertips over the location of Pidge's clit needing stimulation. He shouts, open-mouthed and wordless, pulsing a load of come right into the Omega-alien's channel.

A whimper escapes her. Lance's fingers try a new angle, digging in through the cloth. "Stop," Pidge breathes out, relieved as he has enough sense like this to obey his Beta.

His.

Pidge's mouth goes dry.

Yes, his, she thinks solemnly — this is how it has to be. Good, bad, or ugly.

.

.


Voltron isn't mine. KEEP THE PLANCE SMUT WEEK GOING! I GOTTA KEEP IT GOING UNTIL IT'S OVER. I'm actually kinda fond of this one. Not gonna lie. Okay so this covers my "Prostitute/Escort" card space for Voltron Bingo's NSFW Genre and for "Day 5: ABO Dynamics" for the week! HOPE EVERYONE ENJOYS! THANK YOU!