#herebel

[impfiltration-archive]

@herebel || Continued from here

“I can’t really be offended.”

“I understand how important fashion is for ugly people like you.”

[curselifts-blog]

for @herebel continued from ✇ 

Alwyn counts the days by scratching marks into the steel walls. Days turn to weeks—weeks turn to months. He battles well in the ring. . .some say he’s made for it. If it was any place but a Galra ship he might have reveled in it. All the fighting catches up with him though. . .the fighting and the lack of proper nutrition. They treat him worse than he’s seen people treat dogs. Sadly, he doubts the Galra even know what a dog is. A foolish thought. He has plenty of those while locked away. 

He’s thumping his head against the wall of the cell when the blast occurs. Even from afar he can smell the burn of electronics and ship parts. The way his heart rate picks up is an unneeded response. The reptilian part of the brain doesn’t care that he’s heard explosions countless times before. The animalistic part of him is ready to pounce—ready to suffer as he’s been suffering for months. A darker part of him reminds himself that rescue might not come for him. No, this may end instead with the whole ship going up in flames.

Alwyn presses himself against the back of his cage, readying himself for the worst. The Galra might get to him first, might decide that a dead prisoner is better than no prisoner. It might be paranoia. It might be a well educated guess. The Galra are nothing if not cruel. Yet there’s a voice—a voice that sounds sweet as honey when he compares it to the voices he’s heard for the past months. Alwyn swallows thickly—for a moment his eyes burn. & here he thought death would be the only alternative for him. “I’m in here!” He calls out, shameless in his desperation. There’s no shame in wanting freedom—there’s no shame in wanting to go back home. . .that is, if his home hasn’t been destroyed to begin with.

When the door opens Alwyn has to stop himself from gasping. He’s handsome. . .he’s the hero he’s been dreaming of! No, he’s better than that. Alwyn knows that face from training all those years ago. The star student that went on to become a rebel fighter: Matt Holt. Matt’s voice shakes him from his thoughts. He may be wearing rags and unarmed, but he’s not useless. He can still fight! He can still win. “By your lead, then.” Glacial blue eyes narrow. He’s been waiting for this for a long, long time.  A childish part of him reaches for Matt’s hand. Takes it and holds onto it tight. He’s been starved for contact other than fighting—maybe it’s selfish, but then again, Matt doesn’t protest. 

“I know who you are—you  were a legend at the academy.” Alwyn flashes a grin. “Alwyn Lescou.” He’s famous for less interesting things. . .more so for his family’s designs in weaponry & their fortune. Not that matters now. Riches hardly matter when the city you love is now ash & ruin. “Can’t say I’m known for anything interesting.” He was top of his class when it came to flying. That’s his claim to fame, but he still hasn’t bested any of Takashi’s records. Not that it matters to him too much. . .living ‘neath the shadow of a man such as Voltron’s leader is hardly a bad thing.

Galran soldiers come into view and his hand drops back to his side immediately. It’ll be mostly up to Matt to dispatch them. Until Alwyn can make a grab for a weapon he’s basically useless. Too weak to do much in terms of hand to hand combat. When he watches Matt Holt fight it’s like he’s watching a song. Fluid and graceful—these steps are well practiced and deadly. Alwyn doesn’t let himself get too distracted though. As soon as one of the soldiers is down he’s diving for that weapon. He hears the crack of steel against steel and flinches at the noise. Alwyn does not see Matt Holt get hurt, but he sure as hell hears it. 

When Matt looks back at Alwyn he winks—a cheeky move—but all three shots he fires off hit their mark. Ah, yes, there’s his other claim to fame. He’s a damn good shot when he needs to be. “Can’t let you have all the fun, can I Holt?” It’s probably a bad thing that killing these fuckers feels so damn good. He recognizes one of them he downed—the man that beat him bloody when he first arrived in the Galra encampment. He feels not an ounce of guilt for this. They deserve it, he reminds himself. Oh, they fucking deserve it. 

Alwyn drinks in the look on Matt’s face. Revels in it. The blood dripping down his face, the way he looks at him—it’s intoxicating. “Oh?” Alwyn grins. He wouldn’t mind a kiss. Wouldn’t mind some affection. He steps forward to meet Matt, still gripping the gun with one hand, but the other snakes around Matt’s waist greedily. It’s been a long time since he’s kissed anyone. In fact, it has been years. Tongue can taste the blood on Matt’s lips. Not that he minds. He pulls Matt flush against him. It’s a greedy move, but one he doubts that Matt will mind. He even lets his eyes shut, focusing in on how soft Matt’s lips feel against his own. Dizziness hits him, a wave of desire, but they won’t have time for much more than this.

Later, he thinks, he’ll repay Matthew Holt in full for his rescue. Later, he thinks, he’ll do a little more than cover him in kisses.

For now their lips part and Alwyn is left breathless. His face is streaked with Matt’s blood and for a moment he truly feels beautiful. “Wow—wow.” His grin widens until white teeth flash. “That was beautiful. You’re beautiful.” Alwyn pauses, listens but finds there are no sounds of enemies. It’s only them for now. “Can we do that again, like, soon?”