Letterblade

Something echoes over the loudspeakers as Hunk stumbles out onto packed sand amongst four great towers that rise like claws. The tailing end of an announcement. “…ladin of Voltron! Finally fighting on the right side!”

(So there’s this thing where I’m in a zine for the first time ever, yeah? It’s called If You Need Me, their blog with all the info is @vldwhumpzine, and you can order your copy here until at least February 4th. All monies go to A21, a project working to abolish slavery and human trafficking worldwide.)

The stands are packed. The stands are laughing. Jeering. Hollering for his slow and bloody death.

(Pick it up for a whole pile of awesomely H/C fic and art—with fics up to five thousand words so we can really dig into the pain. As you may have noticed, I took the chance to write some wall-to-wall Hunk whump: drama, angst, torture, arena fighting, threats of sexual assault, learning some of Shiro’s secrets, and salting all the way. Look to the PDF for the bonus extended version with more fallout with Shiro!)

Panic rises in Hunk’s throat. His body’s lead, his blood’s ice. It’s not like that, he wants to say, but his voice won’t sound and they can’t hear him anyway and there’s purple face after purple face in the stands, ragged and raging.

(Note: this takes place sometime after this s8 fix-it, and the long and short of it is that Allura is living full-time in Lance’s head now. More consensual mind control than classic hypnosis, but somehow I don’t think you’ll mind!)

Lance is in the bath, tired, a little high from a day of tearing around New Altea with a very happy passenger, when he realizes he’s at least half hard.

He’s about halfway through his usual full-body stretch and ball-fondle while contemplating jerking off when his brain catches up to him and he realizes he’d just contemplated jerking off in front of his girlfriend. The undignified squawk he makes as he pulls his legs up echoes around the little room, and he reaches for the still-wet washcloth he’d used earlier, cooled off now, and slaps it over his face with a groan. “Sorry. Jesus. Sorry.”

Don’t stop on my account. It’s an amused murmur somewhere across the back of his scalp, and he sags further in the bath with a shudder of embarrassment.

“It’s…you don’t just…like that.”

Is this a human thing?

“I…guess?” He can feel her curiosity against him, subverbal, and okay, the thing where he can just kind of unload a concept at her without having to jam it into words when his mouth isn’t making words at a reasonable speed is really convenient. Guilt about wanking in a relationship, embarrassment about doing it in front of anybody, the gnarl of both together.

She answers in kind. Reasonable to attend to your own needs unless there was a specific choice to restrict or surrender that power—and that thought sends a strange coil through Lance’s belly which he’ll deal with later. A sex act like any other, singular or mutual, done for a wide variety of reasons—including embarrassment. Lance wrangles his head around it all, peels the washcloth off his face, discovers he’s fully at attention and bobbing in the water.

And chews his lip. “Okay, that all makes some sense, but…but I don’t want you to be left out.”

Well… It’s contemplative noise, a coil of her own excitement in answer, and his nerves light up softly across his shoulders, giving him the ghost sensation of bare, damp skin pressed against his. I don’t think I have to be. Would you be willing to…?

A nudge at his arms. A question.

Lance feels his eyes widen and—yeah, that’s a thing—his cock twitch. And takes a deep breath, rests his head back against the edge of the tub that feels like Allura’s chest, and whispers, “Yes.”

She takes control of his arms sweet and smooth as water, her will flowing down his nerves, and he quivers a little in surrender, breath going ragged. His arms float up, moving without him, and he watches them scull ripples in the water, slide down his chest and belly. He’s deep in the water, he thinks, and goes to readjust his seat, and can’t, and panics just a little, heart tripping faster.

I’ve got you, Allura tells him, with a wall of tenderness behind it as solid as earth, and his body rearranges itself like a puppet on strings, scooting a little further up in the bath so there’s no chance of his head dipping under. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.

“I trust you,” Lance breathes, and takes a few deep slow breaths. His cock hasn’t faltered, and he looks at it with a curious sense of distance, unable to touch.

May I dull the sensation in your arms? Allura asks gently. That comes with a wash of comfort—it’s all right to say no—intention—so that it will feel like another person’s hands.

Lance takes a few deep, shaky breaths, and sinks further into surrender—if not the bath—and breathes, “Yeah, let’s try it.”

She rummages carefully, methodically. His arms tingle, and then that fades, along with the warmth from the bath, the water moving against his skin.

A hand slides down his thigh.

He lets out a startled gasp, trying to squirm a little into the touch, but Allura keeps his ankles and shoulders snug, true to her word to keep him safe in the bath. “Oh, w-wow—that’s—yeah, that’s okay, god I love you…” He can wobble his knees back and forth, wriggle a little, but he’s bound at her will and the hands touching him don’t feel like his, and sheer, helpless arousal makes him try to grind his hips against nothing but water.

Close your eyes, Allura breathes, and it feels almost like she is whispering in his ear. He obeys, unhesitating.

She slides a little extra control over his face, and he realizes he can’t open them again, even if he wanted to. She leaves him his mouth, leaves him the little gasps that are coming out of him now as he squirms. The illusion deepens, now, with his eyes closed. Just a nudge from her, and his imagination fills in that his arms are bound, that somebody else is running long warm fingers over his skin. Circling the head of his cock.

“C-can you—feel this?” he blurts, voice thready, as two fingers tease down the sensitive underside, not quite stroking yet.

Yes. Oh, yes. I can feel everything. Dipping lower, tracing his balls, and she can feel that little thrill of oh-crap-my-balls, can’t she, she can feel all of this—wrapping snug round the base of his cock and he moans outright, echoing damp in the bathroom. Just relax. I’ll take care of you.

“I’m…I’m not gonna…” His voice cracks as she gives his cock a long, slow stroke. He knows his right hand a little too well by now, but it’s moving differently, she’s playing with him differently, it’s messing with his head in the best way, and he moans and mouths at thin air.

I know. Let it come. Take the edge off. I won’t be done with you so quickly, my love.