[ he's about to move her hands away, as her hand cups his cheek, and an odd lump in his throat forms at her fingers gently brushing against where his altean markings would be, were they back in oriande. should be, lotor thinks bitterly to himself, but that portion of his heritage has long been withheld, from him. he was not worthy then, and he was not worthy now. whatever was to become of his destiny was thwarted -- by zarkon, by haggar, by voltron, and (perhaps most agonizingly) by himself. he was meant to devolve into madness, just like his forefathers and foremothers before him, and there was nothing to be done about that except accept it.
and he had tried to accept it, he had. but it was hard, when the other members of voltron were here. tiptoeing around the truth. out of any of them, lotor only felt vaguely comfortable speaking to shiro, and even that had ended in a spiteful refusal to speak from lotor, to a man who likely was just trying to help. just like allura is trying to help, and just like with shiro, lotor is ready to bite, rather than accept the help. what did accepting help, and relying on others, ever do for him? it ended in ruin, just like this would end in ruin, and entertaining a stupid fantasy of happiness was only going to devastate him. again.
but then allura rests against him, and lotor is almost about to roll his eyes and tell her that he would rather face the demons of oriande again than receive a hug out of pity when her lips find his.
there's a split second of stillness, of freezing, as her mouth moves against his . . . and lotor responds in kind, inhaling briefly at the contact, an arm looping around her waist. it's familiar, and comforting, and remarkably thrilling . . . given their falling out, and her words to him, and his words to her, and their tiptoeing around obvious feelings and resentments and --
. . . and then it's over, leaving lotor feeling the need for more the moment allura pulls away, though her hand is still at his neck, and his arms shift, his hands settling easily at her hips. and his mouth opens, ready to deliver a retort purposefully designed to prove her wrong when he realizes that he has been beat.
and, reluctantly (with his cheeks tinging a slightly darker shade of purple, much to his frustration), he responds: ]
no subject
and he had tried to accept it, he had. but it was hard, when the other members of voltron were here. tiptoeing around the truth. out of any of them, lotor only felt vaguely comfortable speaking to shiro, and even that had ended in a spiteful refusal to speak from lotor, to a man who likely was just trying to help. just like allura is trying to help, and just like with shiro, lotor is ready to bite, rather than accept the help. what did accepting help, and relying on others, ever do for him? it ended in ruin, just like this would end in ruin, and entertaining a stupid fantasy of happiness was only going to devastate him. again.
but then allura rests against him, and lotor is almost about to roll his eyes and tell her that he would rather face the demons of oriande again than receive a hug out of pity when her lips find his.
there's a split second of stillness, of freezing, as her mouth moves against his . . . and lotor responds in kind, inhaling briefly at the contact, an arm looping around her waist. it's familiar, and comforting, and remarkably thrilling . . . given their falling out, and her words to him, and his words to her, and their tiptoeing around obvious feelings and resentments and --
. . . and then it's over, leaving lotor feeling the need for more the moment allura pulls away, though her hand is still at his neck, and his arms shift, his hands settling easily at her hips. and his mouth opens, ready to deliver a retort purposefully designed to prove her wrong when he realizes that he has been beat.
and, reluctantly (with his cheeks tinging a slightly darker shade of purple, much to his frustration), he responds: ]
No.
[ UGH ]