for a happy birthday to queenallura on tumblr from me. (of course, late, as always.)
notes: it's not the most fantastic piece i've ever written, but i certainly hoped for it to be
Enveloped between the sheets and tangled in his arms, she moves her body closer to him and begins to settle into sleep, but just as she is about to fall into her dreams, she realizes that his mind is still occupied by thoughts and that his eyes are still wide awake and so she opens her eyes to look up at him.
He immediately meets them and asks, on a quiet breath—
"Does it bother you?"
The metal does not bother her. The cold never has and never will.
But sometimes, she lies.
She tells him that he is no less of a human or no more of anything else—even if she hesitates when she sees him enraged and uncontrolled because she notices that the purple glow of his circuits burn brighter when he's unbridled in power and desperation—even if she wakes up in the middle of the night when she hears the whirring of his mechanical joints even when he's lying still and asleep, as if there's something else within his gears.
She tells him that she never wonders what is in the memories that he's already forgotten—even if she's wary that there's more to his right hand than druid experimentation—even if she knows there's a reason why they sent him back to Earth right at that time, right at that place, right so that he could end up donning the Black Lion as his steed—and she hasn't been able to put all the pieces together.
She reaches down to where his metal arm is slipping off her waist and wraps it tighter around her, and if he feels her shudder her his touch—goosebumps prickling over her skin—she giggles and gives him a sultry smile and tells him it's because she simply can't wait for his hand to further downward.
"Does it bother you?"
Her answer is the same as always—"Never."
.
.
Halfway unclothed and completely turned on, she pulls the fabric over his shoulders and off his head and slides her hands down his chest, but just as her touch passes just below his waistline, she realizes that he's not biting his lip because he can't handle the tension but because he's worried about the sight.
He lifts his eyes to look at her and asks, his lust having broken in a snap—
"Do they bother you?"
She can read them if she wants to—the scars that stretch over his body.
So instead, she lies.
She tells him the writing is in Galra and that she can't decipher a single character of the alien language—even if she knows the alphabet with her eyes closed—even if she can interpret the raised skin of his scars with just the gentlest caress of her fingers.
She tells him that his scars are a thing of the past and that they don't mean a thing in the present, even if she can very clearly see the prophecies scrawled over his chest and arms—even if there's important information and numbers and sequences at the back of his neck that sometimes guides the next direction she takes the ship—even if she knows that the answer to defeating Zarkon and winning back the universe may lie right at the center line of his back.
She presses her lips over his scars like she can sugar coat his past with gumdrop kisses, and if he notices when she stares too long—her eyes wide—at his bare torso, she pretends that she isn't horrified by the graphic language permanently marking him and that she is only just entranced by his uncensored muscles leading down down down…
"Does they bother you?"
Her answer is the same as always—"Never."
And she wraps her legs around his torso and arches her back.
.
.
Throughout interrupted kisses and innocent giggles, she confesses already-confessed words of adoration to him after he repeats the same things back, but when his chuckles turn to quiet rustles in his chest and the crinkles behind his eyes turn down, she remembers that love isn't always fun and games.
"Don't leave me, Allura."
At this, she pauses—because she's already determined she'll be the first to go when the enemy comes to attack them with the force of a hundred men more than they can handle—because she's promised him that what has happened is only history even though she knows that the past will inevitably shape their futures—because she's promised him that she'll let him protect her when she knows she's already put herself at the frontline of the battle and will always place her body before his.
She'll keep him in the dark of her lies (not lies, it's love) and promises (not promises, just pessimism) and yes, she feels terrible about it all—but how can she tell the truth to someone already so broken?—how can she tell the truth when she doesn't know if hiding it is lying or if lying about it is hiding?—how can she tell the truth if this is the most peaceful than she's ever seen him and she loves him so much she would rather die than see him in any other way?
"Don't leave me, Allura."
And her answer is the same as always—
"Never."
thir13enth