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@victorlimadelta
"Seriously... what the fuck is a 'Voltron'? Is it like some type of gay sex club I don't know about?" It seemed like the lot of them were into some very kinky things and doing nothing to hide their interests.
"Well, the crew is basically a meet-cute gay polycule, so at this point, I'm disinclined to refute your claim."
“It’s a gay sex club, and I wasn’t invited.” Pouts.
“I’m the comfortable thing you can slip into. Just saying.”
“You are so uptight that if I stuck a lump of coal up your ass, in two weeks it would be a diamond. Not comfortable at all. Clenched like the Devil’s cockring.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t be willing to do me? Be so real with me right now.”
“Not in the ass, but what that mouth do?”
“I’m the comfortable thing you can slip into. Just saying.”
“You are so uptight that if I stuck a lump of coal up your ass, in two weeks it would be a diamond. Not comfortable at all. Clenched like the Devil’s cockring.”
“Hamster ova is so promiscuous that it will accept human sperm and I gotta say, I vibe with that.”
“If you want someone to get you pregnant, all you have to do is ask me.”
“This is why I self-medicate. It’s terrifying.”
"But doesn't self-medicating alter your perception of reality? Why do that, if it's terrifying to think of who's pulling the strings?"
“Self-medicating—the way I do it—makes my brain too busy to think about this stuff.”
Once you start, your brain can’t stop. Or else the thoughts come back again.
“You should try it. Get laid every once in a while. Stop gazing at your own navel and start gazing at some other guy’s while you—”
"In reality, everything is an illusion. Everything we see and feel are manifestations of some underlying reality. And yet still, we don't know where consciousness comes from. We can operate on a brain, and we can do tests on it, but we can't figure out where our thoughts originate from. There's no way of knowing if someone or something greater than ourselves is pressing the buttons behind each of our individual realities. But we needn't worry about it. In the end, it doesn't matter. Or does it?"
“This is why I self-medicate. It’s terrifying.”
“Katie, he meant like a house. I’m covering your ears. Takashi, please don’t try to put your dick piercing in the power outlet again.”
"What dick piercing? What?"
“Just the tip.”
“their walls, shiro. like in their--wait, what?”
"Wait, that's not what you meant?"
“Katie, he meant like a house. I’m covering your ears. Takashi, please don’t try to put your dick piercing in the power outlet again.”
“don’t you have trouble fitting? you’re not very small.”
"With enough lube and patience, anything is possi— wait, what?"
“their walls, shiro. like in their--wait, what?”
"You're in their DMs. I'm in their walls. We are not the same."
“don’t you have trouble fitting? you’re not very small.”
your first kill together as a couple is an important relationship milestone
https://twitter.com/saalon/status/1521286882327515137/video/1
Biblically accurate Italians.
victorlimadelta:
“’Kashi,” Matt says, serious despite the nickname, “if I can’t fix them, if I can’t help them, and they might as well be strangers to me—then how can I help my friends and family, the people I actually care about?” Because yes, the alien-itarian lifestyle works out well, he has a purpose to his life and a way to address a literally universal (universe-wide) trauma in trying to rebuild after the collapse of the Galra Empire, but at the end of the day, everything’s already happened and there’s no undoing it. He still has nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks. He still can’t sleep, can’t cope, can’t breathe. And that’s not unique to him, not by a long shot. “How can I fix myself if I can’t fix them? I’m doing everything I can, but I must be doing it wrong, or—I’d feel better by now. Right?” He lets his hand linger at the back of Shiro’s neck, right where his shorn hair cuts off, and ruffles the tight crop of it as a sensory distraction.
Shiro likes that. He likes it when Matt touches that spot, and he likes the nickname— he likes being cared for. Without skipping a beat, he rests his forehead against Matt’s, and they’re almost brow to brow, nose and nose. He knows how Matt must be feeling, because he feels it, too— neither of them had come out of the arena unscathed. “That’s not how it works. You know that.” But they’d had a deal and Shiro hadn’t held up on it— not yet. Apprehension had stopped him from seeking out counseling, and he’d been too caught up in foreign affairs to do much of anything. Slowly, he winds his hand through Matt’s hair, curling his fingers around individual clumps, feeling for the sake of feeling. “We both need a little help to get through this. I’d say we all do. We can’t just go around trying to fix everyone else’s problems if we don’t fix ourselves too.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Matt brushes off the implication, but he relaxes into the scalp touching. A clump of three orange-jacketed cadets pass them, one makes a sneering sort of comment, and Matt snipes back “it’s not gay to hug your friends, asshole!” Well, for them it kind of is, because they’re two dudes and neither of them are straight and it isn’t just a hug if you’re playing with your bro’s hair, but still. Matt doesn’t let go. Sometimes it’s like Shiro is a tether to a past life, or an alternate future, where nothing bad ever happened and they can be best friends forever, but… this is what they’re stuck with. “Let’s just… focus on helping each other out. Sound good?” And he doesn’t mean it to sound skeevy, it just always seems to, when it comes from him. “We can order in, play some sims, I don’t know. Something. I missed spending time with you Earth-side.”
victorlimadelta:
The softness of his full name has Matt sighing, closing his eyes; he relaxes, tipping his face into Shiro’s touch. It feels good, but not in a charged way—feels tender, warm instead of hot, comfort instead of carnal. “Not sure any of us can say that anymore,” he says, not to ruin the mood or anything but because it’s true. Matt himself is different: taller, no glasses, lean muscle, long hair, a battle-won scar on his face and a knee that buckles if he overexerts himself. Something’s changed inside, too. Yes, he still has a scientist’s innate curiosity, but layered over it is a soldier’s conviction, and one has to be stronger for the other to survive. And the two of them haven’t had contact, much less seen each other, for over a deca-phoeb before now.
“I haven’t been the same, since—.” The sentence ends there. Shiro knows what he means. “I keep going to these far-flung star-forsaken pockets of the universe, trying to—I don’t know—undo what happened to me by helping somebody else. And it just makes me realize how much people need, just to survive, let alone thrive. How different people need different things, and how sometimes people can’t even describe what they need, they just know they don’t have it and they’re desperate for it. And they’re hurting, and I can’t fix it. All I can do is get them resources, and even that might not be enough.”
“Maybe not enough for you, but it has to be enough for them, because when one person’s resources are finite, they’ve done all they can,” Shiro says, tightening his arm just that little bit more, this time around Matt’s waist. He likes what Matt’s become, even if he’s rugged from years of exertion— he wishes he could change their circumstances, but he realizes he can’t undo the past, and he realizes Matt’s suffrage is only natural, given what’s happened to him— happened to them both. “I think we’re both looking for the same thing, just differently. And I think you’re not wrong for doing what you’re doing. You can still be bright-eyed and see the way the universe looks from a disjointed lens.”
Just like all the scars marring Shiro’s body, Matt has matching ones, and Matt even has a similar prosthetic— not built quite like Shiro’s, yet all the same just as robotic and foreign to his body, enough to cause persistent pain. Matt smells like machine fluid and dirt and sweat and aero fuel— he smells just like he remembers he’d smelled, back when they were cadets, laced with the stringent musk of space.
“People are going to be hurt and there’s going to be nothing you can do about it, Matt. That’s just how it is. I’m not saying you have to be okay with it, just that you should see it another way— you’re doing what you can, and that has to be enough for you, too, in the end. You’ve got to realize that our efforts aren’t in vain, even if we’re only giving a little. If we give all we have, we’ll have nothing left. And those people— I haven’t seen a single one ungrateful for your help. You’re doing good work out there.”
“’Kashi,” Matt says, serious despite the nickname, “if I can’t fix them, if I can’t help them, and they might as well be strangers to me—then how can I help my friends and family, the people I actually care about?” Because yes, the alien-itarian lifestyle works out well, he has a purpose to his life and a way to address a literally universal (universe-wide) trauma in trying to rebuild after the collapse of the Galra Empire, but at the end of the day, everything’s already happened and there’s no undoing it. He still has nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks. He still can’t sleep, can’t cope, can’t breathe. And that’s not unique to him, not by a long shot. “How can I fix myself if I can’t fix them? I’m doing everything I can, but I must be doing it wrong, or—I’d feel better by now. Right?” He lets his hand linger at the back of Shiro’s neck, right where his shorn hair cuts off, and ruffles the tight crop of it as a sensory distraction.
victorlimadelta:
Matt tucks his forehead into the side of Shiro’s neck. Maybe it’s childish of him, to feel so comforted by a half-hearted hug, but it means a lot. “I lost you,” comes out mumbled and small. “I lost you twice.” Once to the Arena for a year, once to the Warp for three. “I’m glad you came back.” But what if he didn’t? Matt’s heart squeezes just as tight as Shiro’s arm, and he hides his burning face in Shiro’s shirt. “Just—I know you didn’t come back for me. Like, because I asked. And you… you changed. Your hair, your arm. Both times. It’s still you, right? Still just you?”
“I swear it— my head is still… scrambled about it, but I know I did it for the greater good. I didn’t abandon you and your dad— I had to get out of there and I had to warn Earth about the Galra. I had to tell someone— I think I was just… acting on instinct. At the time, I didn’t know where I quite was, I didn’t have any sense of duration or direction, I only knew that I had to act and act fast. But I’m still me, just… y’know, me with the white hair and the cybernetic arm, like you said—.” Shiro’s flesh hand finds its way to Matt’s face, cradling the square of his jaw, his fingertips print on his lips. “Matt. Matthew. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m right here and I’m still me.”
The softness of his full name has Matt sighing, closing his eyes; he relaxes, tipping his face into Shiro’s touch. It feels good, but not in a charged way—feels tender, warm instead of hot, comfort instead of carnal. “Not sure any of us can say that anymore,” he says, not to ruin the mood or anything but because it’s true. Matt himself is different: taller, no glasses, lean muscle, long hair, a battle-won scar on his face and a knee that buckles if he overexerts himself. Something’s changed inside, too. Yes, he still has a scientist’s innate curiosity, but layered over it is a soldier’s conviction, and one has to be stronger for the other to survive. And the two of them haven’t had contact, much less seen each other, for over a deca-phoeb before now.
“I haven’t been the same, since—.” The sentence ends there. Shiro knows what he means. “I keep going to these far-flung star-forsaken pockets of the universe, trying to—I don’t know—undo what happened to me by helping somebody else. And it just makes me realize how much people need, just to survive, let alone thrive. How different people need different things, and how sometimes people can’t even describe what they need, they just know they don’t have it and they’re desperate for it. And they’re hurting, and I can’t fix it. All I can do is get them resources, and even that might not be enough.”
victorlimadelta:
“You need to stop,” Matt says weakly. The way Shiro talks about him, to him, makes him feel warm, kinda like his skin is too tight for his body or his teeth are tingly. His face is probably doing something horrible, some moony smile with a flush or something equally embarrassing. “I’m just… glad we’re still… y’know. Friends, or whatever.” Maybe that’s the right word after all, but something about it seems superficial in this context. “Despite it all. I mean, we’ve really been through it. All of it. I just thought you would’ve decided you’re too good for us little guys by now. Don’t leave us behind, big guy.” Don’t leave me behind.
“Or whatever? We’re friends, Matt,” Shiro insists, and he jabs at his chest with his elbow, “I told you, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. Always have been, always were. I’m not gonna disappear on you again— it’s not like that anymore, I’m not— well, I don’t have plans to be held captive by another alien race. I’ve come close, but there are protocols in place, just in case something like that ever tries to happen again— and it won’t. I’m sure of it. No matter what happens, I’ll still be right here.” Even as it comes out of his mouth, Shiro really, truly believes it, in his heart— he wants some way to reassure Matt that isn’t just a pledge, but this is all he has for now, this and his left arm wrapped around him, chin on his shoulder. And Shiro doesn’t want to leave him behind— him or anyone else, especially Keith, who he knows has feared the same time and time again. He knows— and he worries, but he tries to stick with his vows. He tries hard. Shiro squeezes him tight.
Matt tucks his forehead into the side of Shiro’s neck. Maybe it’s childish of him, to feel so comforted by a half-hearted hug, but it means a lot. “I lost you,” comes out mumbled and small. “I lost you twice.” Once to the Arena for a year, once to the Warp for three. “I’m glad you came back.” But what if he didn’t? Matt’s heart squeezes just as tight as Shiro’s arm, and he hides his burning face in Shiro’s shirt. “Just—I know you didn’t come back for me. Like, because I asked. And you… you changed. Your hair, your arm. Both times. It’s still you, right? Still just you?”
