“Voyager, there are no bridges; one builds them as one walks.”

Gloria E. Anzaldúa

The crowd is a roaring mass, a violent monster all of its own. The shouts and cheers fuse and transform into something bigger than themselves. The atmosphere feels alive, and Keith can feel its pulse beating against his own, upsetting the rhythm and taking him hostage.

He is short of breath, his gaze fixed on the arena, where the two opponents are circling each other once more. The height difference between them is almost grotesque, and Keith had thought the outcome predestined before the match had even begun. Now he is proven wrong.

“Watch closely, little brother,” Lotor murmurs beside him, and Keith would never follow any of his orders, but he couldn’t tear away his gaze if he wanted to.

The fighters had both started out with weapons, but those had been long since discarded, instead alternatively darting away or wrestling with each other. The smaller one is more agile and has surprising stamina. He's breathing hard, his chest and shoulders heaving, but he seems far from done.

“Curious,” Lotor says now and actually does sound vaguely intrigued, his arrogant chin perched on the knuckles of his hand. “That ugly creature does remind me of your mother.”

Keith knows better than to let any surprise show on his face, because Lotor is always trying - and too often succeeding - in getting a rise out of him.

The truth is that, as Keith had never met his mother, he is unable to judge Lotor’s claim. He doesn’t even know whether the supposed resembles lies in looks or merely in spirit. Visually, he doesn’t think he and the alien have a whole lot in common: the fighter has two arms, two feet, two eyes like the Galra do, but his skin is pale and his ears small and rounded. 

He is, however, a fair bit smaller than the average Galra, and what little hair he has is black like the night — much like Keith’s own. 

And perhaps Lotor is just trying to rile him up again but, despite himself, Keith finds himself finding even closer attention to the fight below them. 

Their father cares little for cheap amusements, so the duty to attend these events falls to his sons instead, dressed in rich fabrics and overseeing everything high up in their gallery, part of the mob and yet not. The people welcome and side-eye them, these sons of Zarkon, and Keith cannot fault them. Little good has ever come out of spoiled royalty.

Lotor himself is very much the bane of Keith's existence, and he has become even more intolerable since their father decided that Lotor should become Paladin of the Red Lion of Voltron, the only one that was currently in their possession. So far, Lotor hadn't had much success in getting the lion to accept him, but that didn't stop him from gloating endlessly.

He was a purebred Galra, Zarkon's heir and prince to the ever-growing empire, and it showed in every aspect of his being, his smug smiles and the derisive way he turned his nose up in the presence of everyone else.

Keith, in comparison, was a bastard. Naturalized on grounds of his skills as a fighter, but a halfblood nonetheless. His mother had been one of Zarkon's concubines, daughter of a foreign race. She had fought her fate till the very last second, even as she was ripped apart giving birth to her unwanted child. Zarkon, allegedly, had admired her strength of will enough that he had granted her permission to name their son, which was a high honor indeed. 

So she had named him Keith, a spiteful gesture as the name was difficult to pronounce for those used to the harsh tongue of the Galra, and then she had breathed her last.

In the arena, too, one of the finalists expires.

The shorter of the two loosens his chokehold on the other's neck, the Galran prosthesis glinting as he pulls away, letting the lifeless body fall at his feet.

Around them, the crowd erupts into thunder.

Champion, they chant in elation, exuberance, ecstasy. Champion!

“A base creature yet a passable fighter,” Lotor comments lightly. “Much like you.”

As before, Keith does not bother with a reply. His gaze remains fixed on the arena.

The new Champion drips red blood into the sand.

 𒈓

Keith is in denial about what draws him down to the lower levels, to where the prison cells are clustered together. Maybe it's curiosity, or maybe it's spite. Maybe he wants to prove something to Lotor or just to himself. Maybe there is no word to quite describe the churning feeling in his gut, that urge that forces him to move.

Guards salute him left and right, but Keith just stalks past them until he reaches the hallway in which the high-caliber gladiators are kept. Here, the cells are bigger, more spread out. It does not do to have fighters interact with each other, not if they might plan their upcoming battles and therefore somehow rig the outcome.

The matches do not always end in death. Today had been an exception, a glorious way to end the tournament. The Champion had still killed without hesitation.

“Dismissed,” Keith tells the guards that had most likely just returned the Champion to his cell. He does not spare them another glance, but they scamper down the hallway without protest. Lotor may be the heir, but Keith has a certain reputation as well.

As expected, the cell is harshly lit and sparsely furnished, closed off by a force field that offers no escape and little privacy.

The Champion himself is crouched on a small stool in the corner, filling a bucket with water from the faucet before up-turning it above his head. The water douses him, washes the brown blood and sand off him in dirty rivulets. Not all evidence of his fight goes down the drain, though. His naked body is covered in cuts and bruises, abrasions from where he was dragged over the ground, hematoma purpling his skin like a cheap imitation of Galran beauty.

He must have heard Keith dismiss the guards, but he does not even glance up, just fills the bucket once more, starts a more thorough wash, cards his fingers through his cropped hair, picks at his nostrils and in his ears to get all the dirt out.

Keith feels irked at being ignored so, but he just watches as the Champion scrubs away at his armpits and his crotch. He watches the bulging muscle and the width of his shoulders. The bowed line of his neck.

This is not how a victor should hold himself. He should still be thrumming with pride and with bloodlust. He should be demanding food and drink and whores.

While watching the fight, Keith had found his own blood growing hot. This man had defeated a being much stronger than himself. He had done so with cunning and daring and downright ferocity. How did he now clad himself in silence and sobriety?

“Champion,” Keith speaks.

Yet the Champion does not react in any way to his new title, just keeps his head down, splashes water at his face.

Keith purses his lips. Then, his impatience gets the better of him. He puts his palm to the control panel on the wall. Immediately, the system recognizes him and obeys when he punches in the order to lower the force field.

As soon as he steps into the cell, the field flickers back to life, caging them both inside. Still, the champion acts as if his stupid bucket and personal hygiene were more important than a Galran prince.

“Stand up,” Keith says and resists the urge to add a 'That's an order'.

Something about the champion makes him feel… not inferior perhaps, but younger. Foolish and reckless. Or, he admits with some chagrin, even more reckless than usual.

The champion, fortunately, is not an idiot. He knows better than to ignore a direct order. So he puts the bucket down by the faucet and slowly rises to his full height.

He is not as tall as Keith had anticipated from the way he took down his opponent, but still just a little taller than Keith himself, and much broader to boot. Another reminder of how Keith is always lacking in too many regards.

From up close, the man is galranoid enough, Keith supposes. His claws and fangs are blunt, his body diminutive compared to most of their race. His eyes are black and white, as is his sparse hair. Only his right arm is of Galran origin, a smooth prosthesis created at Zarkon's behest by the cruel art of the druids.

But if this creature is truly of his mother's race, then is that the reason Keith finds himself so intrigued by him? If Zarkon had found a woman worthy of his harem, then maybe their species was not quite as despicable as Lotor always liked to claim.

The champion seems unashamed of being eyed so openly but, then again, he's probably had worse. Not to mention that he is doing fair share of watching, oddly obvious in contrast of how he had refused to even acknowledge Keith's presence before.

“Tell me,” Keith says. “What is your planet called?”

“Earth,” the champion replies simply. His voice is roughened from the efforts of his fight, but there is a quality to it that hints at its natural smoothness. It's a good voice, a calm voice. Keith wants to make him scream.

“Oh?” Keith says. “Then of which race are you?”

“I am human,” the champion says, and now there is a quiver, a shadow of doubt.

Keith hums, eyeing him some more. “We might have had one of yours here before.”

“Perhaps,” the champion says enigmatically, and then follows it up with, “You're not like the other Galra.”

“No,” Keith agrees, canting his chin up. “I am better.”

“You are shorter,” the champion taunts, and Keith's eyes flash dangerously.

“Do you wish to die?” he asks, but the man just gives a shrug, nothing but a careless roll of his shoulders in the face of Death.

He has no idea, Keith realizes, and it comes as a surprise. He can't remember a time someone didn't recognize him.

“Do you who I am?” he demands.

The man just cocks an eyebrow. “The bastard prince, from what I've heard.”

So he does know after all. Anger lashes up in Keith like a flame. At the same time, however, a sudden certain kind of hunger possesses him.

He wants to fight this human. He wants to fuck him.

No, he reconsiders, his thoughts oddly distanced from his physical being. He wants to be fucked, to be held down and taken.

He only needs to get them there. And he knows exactly how to go about it.

“What is your name?” he wants to know because there is something intimate about names, something captivating. The champion must think so, too.

“You do not deserve my name,” he says, but his eyes widen when Keith suddenly surges forward and slams him against the wall of the cell.

The champion is exhausted from his previous fight, and Keith does have superior strength. Still, they feel strangely evenly matched as they stare each other down, their faces mere inches apart. The human does not fight back, does not struggle or even raise his hands in defense. He just leans into the violent touch, puts pressure onto Keith's splayed palm on his chest, a subtle reminder that all that is truly keeping him in place is his own compliance.

There is heat forming between their skin, and Keith waits for another heartbeat to pass at the fringes of his fingertips before he swiftly draws his blade and presses the edge of it against the prisoner's jugular.

“What is your name?” he repeats, his voice much quieter and much more ferocious than before.

The champion grits his teeth.

“Kuro,” he finally forces out, and Keith can tell that it must be a lie. But it does not matter.

“Kuro,” he echoes in a lilting tone and slices a thin red trail along the fragile skin, just for the hell of it.

Kuro does not even blink.

“Very well,” Keith says and makes to take a step back. Before he can properly lower his knife, however, Kuro has grabbed him by the wrist, forcefully twisting his arm onto his back till the pain makes his fingers first clench and then unfurl. And, though Kuro cannot see it, Keith smiles quietly as he allows himself to be disarmed.

The knife clatters to the floor, metal on metal, and then its metal on skin as Keith is slammed into the wall, cheek first, his arm still caught in an iron grip and his entire being hyper-aware of the champion's presence behind him.

His mouth is very close to Keith's ear.

“I could kill you,” he warns.

“And you would die for it,” Keith counters, feeding off the shivers that run along his spine.

“Do you really think I care?”

The Champion, Keith realizes, has nothing left to lose. Whether he dies here or in the arena makes no difference to him. There is no more glory to be won, not when he apparently has no interest in any of the commodities that might be offered to someone of his caliber.

This might well be his only chance for revenge. Kill one of the princes and repay the blood that has been spilled in Zarkon's name. Keith wants him so badly he aches.

“Death is no disgrace for a son of Galra,” he growls, and it is worded like a threat, but it comes out like an invitation, raw and breathless.

Behind him, Kuro stills. Very deliberately, Keith pushes back and presses his ass against the champion's crotch, making his intention even more obvious.

“Is this some kind of test?” Kuro demands roughly, and Keith almost laughs out loud.

“Yes,” he hisses with a thrill running down his spine. “How far are you willing to go for your vendetta?”

He is spun around, hits the wall once more. Kuro's face is directly in front of him now, his slanted eyes dark and fiery as he tries to stare him down.

“You cannot taunt me,” he says dangerously.

“No,” Keith agrees. “But I can tempt you.”

And he tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck for the human to do as he pleases: kill him, kiss him, whatever he wants.

The champion decides to bite. His jaw is strong and, though his teeth are blunt, they dig into the side of Keith's neck. Keith's own mouth falls open in response, but he does not allow a single sound to escape.

Kuro pulls back all too quickly, stares at his face as though looking for some answer. He must find it because, after a few silent moments, he gives a bleak smile.

“Fine,” he says and that's it.

Normally, Keith would be wearing his armor, but the festivity of the day had demanded something that was a little less of a reminder of war. He is grateful for it now as Kuro starts tearing away at his robes, rips them off his shoulders, laying him bare like Kuro himself already is, until the heavy fabric pools around their feet.

It is cool in the cell, and the cold prickles across Keith's naked skin. He half expects to be turned around and fucked like this, ruthless and up against the wall, but instead Kuro falls to his knees in front of him. Keith cannot exactly pinpoint the moment he had started to harden throughout their interaction, but now, with the sight of the champion in front of him, his arousal only intensifies.

Without asking for further permission, Kuro starts to lave at him, licks his broad tongue along Keith's cock, but doesn't spend much time there, moves farther down to his balls. Keith's breath hitches at the sensation, the switch from cold to sudden heat, and presses himself against the wall.

He is no stranger to this, but what he is feeling is still different from usual. He does not want easy satisfaction. He needs to be held down. He needs to be filled.

With only a fleeting glance upwards, Kuro seems to read this desire in him, putting one of his large hands to the inside of Keith's thigh, pushing it up, exposing him even more.

There’s a beat during which Keith faintly wonders whether this is really happening, whether he is truly going to let anyone touch him like this, but then he can feel a smooth tongue prodding at his entrance before pushing in. 

The sensation is so odd and yet so good that he barely manages to catch the mewl that threatens to fall from his lips, and then there is nothing but for him to maintain his silence as Kuro licks at him, licks into him.

Keith has to keep himself from sliding down the wall as the champion kneels between his legs and eats him out. The contrast of the hot tongue is delving into him while saliva dries on his skin, cooling in the air, is near maddening.

He feels he could come from just this, eventually, but Kuro must think so, too, and does not care for it. In one smooth movement, he suddenly rises from the floor, leaving Keith bereft and weak in the knees.

Without giving him even a moment to recover his bearings, Kuro kicks his feet out from under him. Keith goes down hard, his hands instinctively coming up to steady himself, but merely landing on Kuro's sharp hip bones. When he looks up, the champion's erect cock is right in front of him.

On curious instinct, he licks his lips. Then he lets his mouth fall open, and Kuro takes the invitation for what it is, guiding his cock into the wet warmth.

Through his lashes, Keith can see Kuro's jaw clench, a tick in the muscle, and he wonders how long it must have been for him, how long he has been imprisoned, when he last felt any heat akin to this. Did he have a lover at home, a spouse? Is he betraying them now? Is he thinking of their face as he begins to shallowly thrust into Keith's mouth?

It does not matter, and Keith does not care. All he needs is this, the bitter taste on his tongue and the slowly growing ache in his jaw. He tries to suck, but it is made impossible as Kuro grabs him by the head and guides his movements, barely giving him room to adjust, the pace steadily picking up.

In reckless abandon, Keith surrenders, lets his face be fucked, even as he starts to feel heady with the loss of control and oxygen, as spit runs from the corners of his mouth and along the column of his throat, the human's salty flavor mixed into it. The quick wash has done little to rid the human of the musky scent of his groin, of the dark curls that lead from his belly button and thicken between his legs.

Keith's hands are on Kuro's buttocks, clawing at the taut muscle, struggling to breathe through his nose and only finding more exhilaration.

Very abruptly, though, Kuro shoves him off, and Keith vaguely understands that he almost made him come. It's a prideful epiphany, a victory, but Keith cannot even bring himself to revel in it, cannot muster a taunting smirk. A strange lightheadedness has overcome him, his fingertips tingling. His limbs move reluctantly, hollowed out yet heavy. It is as though he were no longer truly the owner of his body. The champion is in control.

Without giving him time to recover, Kuro digs his fingers into Keith's hair, pulls him up by it, drags him through the confines of the cell over to the corner where he had been washing up before, and Keith's naked feet scramble to follow before he is roughly shoved down.

He tries to understand their change in location and only does so when he catches sight of Kuro grabbing a clear vial that is sitting next to the stool he had been sitting on before. A soothing lotion meant to at least take the edge off the prisoners' pain and speed up their healing after a fight.

On his hands and knees, Keith knows what fate awaits him. For the first time in his life, he realizes why patience is considered a virtue.

Fortunately, Kuro catches the hint, opening the vial and pouring some of the thick fluid over the fingers of his left hand before he reaches out and rubs some between Keith's ass cheeks, spreading it with slow movements and then dipping his thumb inside.

He is surprisingly gently when he prepares Keith, who looks over his shoulder to see the champion intently watching as his finger disappears deeper inside of him, the focus of their pleasure. He takes his time, opening him up, one finger, two, even after his tongue had already carved a path. And Keith is a prince yet seldom has he ever felt so cherished.

This is not what Keith wants, though. He wants hard and fast and hurting. He wants pain.

So he lets out a low warning growl, a reminder of what they are here for. He does not wish to regain his senses. He needs his thoughts to remain sluggish and slow.

And finally, Kuro deems him ready, settles big hands on Keith's to slide along his sides and then pull him back by the hips till ass meets crotch, and all Keith knows is the anticipation of the heavy length resting against him.

Kuro takes himself in hand then, positions his cock. Then, he pushes forward with one hard jab.

Keith gasps, almost gags with it, because while that cock had been stealing his breath before, the pressure of being filled by it from the other end still makes it feel like it is touching the back of his throat.

Despite the lubrication and their mixing fluids, there is still enough friction left to set Keith on edge, their skin catching on each other, knees rubbed raw, as Kuro fucks him from behind at a punishing pace. He twists Keith's arm onto his back as he had done before, the other hand curving around Keith's skull and pushing his face into the cold floor.

From this vantage point, Keith can see his blade lying not too far away where it must have gotten kicked away in their struggle, a reminder of how he could easily defend himself and how he very consciously does not want to, even as his fingers helplessly scramble for purchase.

If the guards came back now, they would be in for quite the surprise, probably uncertain of the proper protocol for this extremely improper scene. Another burst of arousal zaps through Keith at the thought of Lotor seeing him like this, of their father witnessing him being taken in such a manner, and he lets out a loud moan.

A prince of Galra defiled at the hands of a lesser creature. That would serve Zarkon's arrogance well.

In that moment, Kuro pulls out and unceremoniously flips Keith around and onto his back, making Keith’s shoulder blades crunch. It all happens so fast that Keith takes a few ticks to comprehend why he is suddenly seeing the ceiling and the champion's scarred face, a few seconds longer to understand why he can't breathe.

Kuro has put his metal palm on Keith's neck and squeezes, stares him down, even as he pushes back in and starts fucking him anew. Vindictively, Keith tries to clamp his legs closed, a futile attempt, but glorious in how he can already feel how the insides of his thighs will soon be turning black with the bruises forming there as their meteors collide.

Now that they are looking each other in the eye, it seems to loosen Kuro's tongue in a different way.

“Do you know what the guards call you?” he demands roughly, his fingers dangerously twitching around Keith's jugular. “They say you are a whore, like your mother was.”

As always, there are two forces warring inside of Keith – his pride and his spite, fighting for dominance. He does not wish to be insulted, not when it hits so close to home. But at the same time, he cannot deny the thrill those words evoke in him. Kuro is not just fucking a facsimile, a make-belief. Kuro knows whom he is holding captive. This is real. This is real.

There are no bridges, to build or to burn. They have ventured too far. There is no going back.

“They say you need to be taught a lesson or that you will become arrogant like your brother,” Kuro grits out, punctuating it with a particularly vicious thrust. “This is your lesson.”

Keith is struggling, dark spots slowly infringing on his vision, as his trachea spasms in protest. Kuro killed someone like this, just a little while ago. The thought makes everything even more exhilarating. He lets out a moment, chokes on it, and saliva drips from the corner of his quivering lips.

It is only when the strength starts to fade out of Keith's limbs, when the circles of his fingers go slack where they had been gripping Kuro's wrist, that Kuro finally lets go.

Keith gasps, air filling his lungs too quickly and too painfully, and he coughs, drooling as his dry mouth rushes to recover from the ordeal. But then Kuro is already there again, thrusting his tongue between Keith's lips. Somehow this feels more intimate, more invasive than anything before, and they lie and kiss and fuck on the floor until Kuro's flesh hand closes around Keith's cock instead.

He strokes him, finishes him, efficient if it weren't for the movement of his own hips growing more erratic. So Keith comes, grunts, squeezes his eyes shut as he rides it out while Kuro just keeps thrusting into him, heedless.

Keith forces his tired eyes open, fights to focus them on Kuro's sweat-shining face, and uses the last of his coherence to clench around Kuro's cock inside of him, to drag the orgasm from it as it had been dragged from Keith: suddenly, jarringly.

Kuro grunts, the sound barely transitioning into a low moan, and then his thrusts lose their violent elegance. He comes inside of Keith who shivers as the sensation.

For a few moments, Kuro remains like this, giving them both the opportunity to catch the breath that had been lost for several different reasons. Then he pulls out, and that does not feel quite as nice, but Keith stifles the grimace that threatens to give away his discomfort.

Kuro settles down next to him, propped up on his metal arm, while his other hand remains between Keith's legs, pushes two of his fingers back inside, lazily moving them. Keith finds himself hypersensitive, the touch bordering on painful, while at the same time he can feel the warm cum drip out of him, soothing and pleasantly revolting at the same time.

Unexpectedly, however, Kuro rolls over to cover him with his big body, dragging him closer and nosing at his hair. It is almost affectionate. Almost welcome.

“Stop that,” Keith says for the first time, and pushes at his head.

Kuro stills, but only for a moment.

“You wanted human and humiliation,” he says eventually. “So you will bear it.”

Keith allows himself a few ticks to fully let that revelation sink in. Perhaps this is what Kuro had wanted all along. Not the rush or the orgasm. Just this simple touch, skin on skin.

Keith's fingertips itch to reach out for his knife. Instead, they card themselves through the cropped hair at the back of Kuro's head, his sharp claws scritching at his scalp. In response, the champion nuzzles even closer, sucks in a shuddering breath. His big shoulders shake for a moment and a tremble runs down his spine, before his embrace tightens even further. 

With his gaze lifted to the bleak ceiling of the cell, Keith gives a private little smirk. 

Now this, he thinks. His sire ought to be seeing this and wail at the shame that had befallen their noble blood. Because a quick dirty fuck was one thing; after all, Zarkon had used enough slaves for his own pleasure. Tenderness, however, is an altogether different matter, and Keith only grants it because, to him, this is merely another act of personal rebellion. 

But just like everything else, the moment cannot last. Keith has places to be, and the cell is too fucking cold for his taste, even with Kuro enveloping him in manifold heat.

He pushes free, elbows Kuro's arms away, swiftly rising from the ground. He does not ignore the various aches in his body, revels in them in fact, but does not let any of it show on his face or in his gait. He crosses the cell, picks up his ruined robes where they had fallen and dresses in their tattered remains. Idly, he wonders whether anyone will notice. Whether anyone will understand.

He touches the control panel on this side of the force field to lower it, an override code that only few can implement, before neatly stepping out of the cell, already thinking of having a bath and a filling dinner. Perhaps he'll postpone the bath, though. Let the smell linger on him and the essence of his fall from grace dry between his thighs.

“Wait,” Kuro calls after him before the field lifts again. Keith halts, considers, glances back to where Kuro has stood up as well, still naked and strangely just as tempting as before.

“What was this?” he wants to know, and his eyes are narrow.

“A reward for our heroic champion,” Keith claims lackadaisically. On a whim, he adds, “Win your next fight, and you can have me again.”

Kuro huffs out a breath, not enough to qualify as laughter but still a sign of wry amusement.

“Maybe I don't want you,” he says.

Keith just smirks. There are no words needed for this.

“The guards were wrong about you, you know,” Kuro points out thoughtfully, and Keith almost thinks he's gonna change his mind about calling him a whore. “You're nothing like your brother,” he says instead, and it's a pleasant surprise.

“No,” Keith agrees and bares his teeth. “As I said, I am better.”

He leaves the prison with his feet bare and his head held high. In his chest, his heart beats evenly.

For the first time in a long time, Keith feels free.

 𒈓