Archive of Our Own

“The only real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”

Marcel Proust

Kuro wins his next fight. And the one after that. And the one after that.

Keith remains true to his word and makes good of his promise to accordingly reward the champion for his victories. After each new match, he orders the guards to have Kuro brought up to his own quarters. He does not care for being fucked on the cold ground of the prisoner's cell again.

He does care for being fucked, though, on the floor, in his bed, or wherever Kuro decides to take him that day, after making ample use of the amenities Keith's quarters have to offer.

Kuro always makes a deliberate display of how at ease he supposedly feels in Keith's presence and in the prince's private rooms. He sits his bare ass down wherever he pleases, lounges with his legs casually spread. He grabs food off of plates and chews with his mouth open, lets his gaze roam freely, almost carelessly if it weren't for the sharp intelligence that lingers in his eyes at any given moment.

It's just for pretend, really, but then again, all of this is.

“Bathe with me,” Keith orders because after his fights Kuro stinks of sweat and blood and fear and Keith is not going to put his mouth on him before all of that is washed off.

Kuro does not hesitate to climb into the tub with him, his movements all wide and slow, a heavy grace after the torture he has put his body through. He never admits to it, of course, but even if he does not truly care for fucking Keith he must at least enjoy these simpler pleasures that are denied the other prisoners. Good food and hot water. A few moments of relative comfort.

Kuro steps into the steam like a revelation, moves through the water as it ripples around him.

Keith is sitting at the opposite side of the tub, watching him approach and appreciating the way his muscles glide underneath his skin. It's truly a sight to behold, time and time again.

Kuro comes to a halt in front of Keith, just inches away. He is still standing while Keith is seated, so Keith has to tilt his head back to look up at him.

Today, Kuro is all abs and abrasions. The hot water must sting on his abused skin and Keith tingles in sympathy. He wants to touch him, so he swirls his hand through the water until he finds the wayward wash cloth he had used earlier, sitting up straighter, leaning in.

The first contact is always the most terrifying in the best of ways. It's like approaching a wild creature, not quite hoping to tame it but wanting to boast of having bested it anyway. Wondering whether this time or the next it will bite off your hand. Whether it will crush you between its jaws.

Kuro does not bite, not yet, just endures the caress, and Keith paints his leisured gaze along the by now familiar body.

Reverently, he drags the cloth over the plane of Kuro's chest, along his collar bones, his white scars. Biting his lower lip, he allows his thumbnail to catch on a dark nipple, hard under his touches.

Quite reminiscent of that first time when he had watched Kuro wash himself in his cell. There had been the force field separating them as well as Keith's pride and their difference in status. Only the force field is gone now, but somehow they have managed to bridge the distance between them anyway.

Emboldened, Keith moves his hand under the water's surface, closing his palm and the cloth around Kuro's half-hard length. Keith glances back up, almost coy, but Kuro just watches him with an indifferent expression.

He always does this, acts like he doesn't much care either way. But then again, Keith too tries to uphold the facade, tries not to act too needy, until Kuro eventually drags it out of him anyway.

They do that dance every single time, that circling each other like feral animals that dare the other to take the first step, and they have yet to tire of it.

Keith tightens his grip and a muscle in Kuro's jaw twitches. Then the game truly begins.

With pinched fingers, Kuro grabs up some sliced fruit from the platter by the side of the tub. He puts it into his mouth, grinds his jaw once. Then he is leaning forward, downward, grabbing Keith by the chin and angling him up so he can kiss him, can push the half-chewed fruit between his lips. The juice is sweet and tart on Keith's tongue, the perfect contrast, just as he likes it.

He barely suppresses a gasp when he is suddenly grabbed, lifted up by two strong hands where his ass meets his thighs. After being submerged in hot water for so long the rush of cold air sends pinpricks across his naked skin, but Kuro just turns them around and then settles back down where Keith had been sitting before, comfortably leaning his back against the side of the tub.

Keith is glad he's already prepared himself for this because a moment later Kuro pulls him farther into his lap and pushes his groin up, his length grinding between Keith's legs, searching. Steadily keeping his eyes on Kuro's, Keith reaches back, lifts himself up a little and then guides Kuro's cock inside of him, half instinct, half habit, before inching down, unflinching, bottoming out.

“Move,” Kuro tells him flatly, the first thing he has said tonight, and Keith obeys, mostly because he wants to move anyways, but also just because he wants to obey.

So he rolls his hips, always needing a moment to get used to the girth, the mild discomfort, but then he quickly finds his rhythm. The warm water sploshes between them, a luxury amid the stars, and sparks burst behind his eyelids when he finds the right angle before, on the next downward slide, he loses it again. He huffs, frustrated, tries again, splays his legs wider, the muscles on the insides of his calves protesting.

While Keith feels himself getting impatient, Kuro merely seems bored in an almost polite fashion, his eyelids drooping and the fingers of his prosthesis drumming out a repetitive beat against the side of the tub, because he is a bastard and knows exactly which buttons to press to get Keith riled up.

Keith grunts, grinds down harder, tries to-

Suddenly, Kuro fists a hand in his hair and drags him backward. Keith's fingers scratch at Kuro's shoulders as the water closes over him, scalding his face. Despite the momentary disorientation, instinct allows him to hold his breath, clench his eyes shut. Soon, the pressure on his ears and his lungs becomes unpleasant, then unbearable.

Just when Keith thinks that he cannot take it anymore, that he must surely drown, he is pulled back up. He resurfaces with a gasp, a cough, clenching down hard around Kuro's cock, trying to catch his bearings.

“Pretty little slut,” Kuro whispers conspiratorially and cards Keith's wet hair out of his face, dragging his lips across Keith's open mouth.

Keith whimpers, refocuses and begins riding him anew. He cannot gain enough leverage, though, the pressure in his belly pleasant but maddening with how little it does to urge him toward satisfaction.

That first time, their orgasms had been a mere afterthought, a logical conclusion to the preceding events. The lead-up, though, that's what it had been about. That's still the case, but Keith would hate to miss the feeling of absolute pleasure ripping through his body, rendering his mind a blazing sun, if only for a few precious moments.

“You're so desperate,” Kuro huffs as he watches Keith feebly fucking himself on his cock, and Keith hates when he gets talkative, hates the hot burst of humiliation in his chest when Kuro calls him names while even Lotor would never dare to insult him quite so openly.

When Keith lifts himself too far off and the cock slips out of him, Kuro finally gives an annoyed grunt.

“Turn around,” he instructs and then he already has Keith up against the side of the tub, smoothly pushing back in. Keith's palms slide along the wet-smooth surface before bracing himself against the rim, arching his back to better welcome the thrusts, while Kuro's arms are bracketing him, puffs of air breathed down his neck, cooling water dripping down on him.

They are close, so close, yet the only point of contact is where Kuro's cock is pushing into him inside the water, waves splashing around them like oceans on conquered planets.

And Kuro is as apt at this as he is at fighting. Rough and untrained, but learning a little bit more each time. He doesn't do it for the spectacle but survival. And you never feel quite as alive as when you do when you are battling death.

When they are done, Keith stays draped across the side of the tub, watches as Kuro climbs out and grabs a cloth to methodically dry himself off. And Keith can appreciate this view, the taut muscles of his ass and his rippling back, vaguely entertains the idea of fucking him one day, of having Kuro tie him down and riding him with Keith still having no control. Thinks of forcing Kuro face-down and reversing their roles.

But maybe that would be too easy. Maybe that would be something that is expected of Lotor and his ilk which Keith very much excludes himself from. So for now, he'll just just have to enjoy things as they are.

“Can I leave now?” Kuro asks impertinently once he has slipped back into his prisoner garbs, and Keith feels a tick of annoyance that he would be so eager to get away.

“I'm done with you for tonight,” he allows anyway, feeling gracious for once.

Kuro gives a curt nod and moves for the door, already knowing the drill of returning himself into the guards' hands. In the threshold, however, he stops, lifts his head a little to glance back over his shoulder.

“I have another fight tomorrow,” he says and there's a promise in there and a question and an addict hoping for another fix.

“I guess I have some time to spare,” Keith muses aloud, closing his eyes as he sinks back into the water.

It's a difficult match, this time. They all are, of course, in one way or the other.

But while Kuro is not dwarfed for once, his opponent has the unfair advantage of razor sharp claws.

Unfair, Keith thinks. He's never thought of one of the slave fights as unfair. Boring, maybe. Less than entertaining if the fighters were so unevenly matched.

But Kuro is the champion and he is expected to earn his keep, to constantly prove himself worthy of that title. And that is never easy.

Keith is on his feet, almost leaning across the balustrade, raptly watching the battle beneath.

He could stop the fight, he knows. He has the power to end it here. He could just fling himself into the arena and defeat Kuro's opponent himself.

“Just because you are a base-born bastard does not mean you need to act like one in public,” Lotor mutters behind him.

Keith is about to growl something over his shoulder, tell Lotor to shut his trap and go harass one of his girls, but in that moment the other fighter's claw slices through the air and then through tender flesh.

Kuro yelps, jerks back, the torn fabric of his shirt immediately soaking with blood, black on deep purple. He stumbles, regains his balance, dances out of reach.

Keith's lungs burn and it takes him a moment to realize that he had been holding his breath. Very consciously he exhales, inhales, keeps watching. His fingers clenched around the balustrade do not relax.

What Kuro lacks in physical superiority he makes up for with quick thinking and levelheadedness. He does not grow irrational or reckless during his fights while others are having their ankles broken by hubris.

It's a common weakness among many fighters. It's Keith's. It's the other bastard's in the arena.

Blinded by its short moment of glory, of having drawn first blood and the Champion's blood to boot, the alien grows too bold and therefore too careless. A proud yell, barely a tick of distraction, and then Kuro is already throwing himself forward.

The alien tries to duck aside but the movement is abrupt, gives away too much. Kuro follows, grabs him, doesn't waste any of his momentum as he splays one hand on his opponent's chin and the other around the back of its skull – and then snaps its head around in one sharp twist.

Keith cannot hear the sound, cannot see the bones crack or the light fade from the other alien's eyes. Instead, he can only focus on how Kuro's chest is heaving, how he takes a neat step back to let the body fall.

Then Kuro turns around, facing the crowd on the other side of the arena, stoically letting their cheers wash over him as he always does. This time, there is something different, though. This time, he lifts his Galran arm, fist clenched, raised towards the high ceiling. An unambiguous gesture of victory, his chin canted forward as he catches Keith's gaze.

Like this, it's obvious he is looking up toward the gallery. It must almost seem as though he were swearing fealty to Zarkon, to the crown and his heirs.

Keith knows better, though. Keith knows it's all for him. He just can't tell whether it's genuine.

“Stop smiling, little brother,” Lotor says, “You're making a fool of yourself.”

Logically, Keith knows that Kuro needs rest but logic has always been overruled by his hotheadedness. With the adrenaline coursing through his system, it almost feels like he had been in the arena himself, instead of merely watching the fight. He is so intensely aware of his body and of his needs that he has some guards fetch Kuro before he can even be taken back down to his cell.

When he steps into Keith's quarters, the bandage on his chest is slapdash at best, most likely a sympathetic attempt at kindness from another fighter. The fabric is soaked red already while Kuro himself is deathly pale. As soon as he sees the expectant agitation in Keith's stance, he gives a wry laugh.

“You'll have to make do with my mouth,” he says, “The blood loss is not doing me any favors right now.”

Keith breathes in, deep, through his nose. Logic, he reminds himself.

Kuro almost died. Weakness is not to be rewarded, but every warrior needs rest.

It would not do to have him pass out or die while slaving on top of Keith. A wasteful and not particularly heroic way to go. Not to mention that the severity of his injury screamed for infection. The Galra were barbaric in many ways, but they were also sophisticated in the art of healing.

Keith gives Kuro a schooled once-over, estimating the damage.

“One cycle in the healing pods will do,” he says, “I expect you back as soon as you are done.”

For a moment, Kuro almost looks surprised. Then he reconsiders.

“Are you expecting my thanks?”

“I'm expecting you to be in perfect condition,” Keith replies and then turns away.

For two hours, Keith waits and wonders.

His aggression has quieted and now he feels more exhausted than anything else. His thoughts are clearer. More critical, of himself and his decisions. Of Kuro.

Their illicit affair has dragged on for a few weeks now. Keith has gotten careless about it.

When he had ordered the guards to take Kuro to med bay, they had exchanged looks but not said anything. But let them think what they may. Let them report to his father.

Since Keith was legitimized, he has had little freedom. Before, he had kept his head down and fought for himself. As a prince, there were sudden obligations. Politics. Proper decorum.

Since he cannot get away with punching Lotor in the face, he might as well act out in different ways.

This is not what keeps nagging at him, though. It's his own motivations, and Kuro's.

It would be easy to claim that Keith just enjoys a good fuck and that is all that Kuro is. Easier still to advocate his own perversions, to argue that what he wants is not just the orgasms but the specific kind of arousal he feels when being taken so violently by someone far below his station.

But if that were the case, then he could easily use someone else. Fling himself into one of the cells that were shared by larger numbers of prisoners, aliens from other planets, conquered people that surely would like nothing better than to defile a prince of Galra.

The thought of subjecting himself to their desires, however, has nothing but mild distaste rise up in him. He does not wish to be raped, he knows. He just likes... exploring the possibility. The implications. The manic high the constant shift in power gives him.

Indirectly order Kuro to fuck him. Directly be taken in whatever form Kuro desires. Still order him around a little. Get hurt and humiliated and talked down on. Resist. Hold on. Come. Resurface, gather himself. Find his senses and his strength returned. Rinse and repeat.

Kuro is perfect for this. Kuro is willing and just as depraved.

Lying on his bed, Keith lets his knees fall open, bypassing his already hardening cock and prodding slicked fingertips at his entrance. With his claws he has to be extremely careful, unlike Kuro whose blunt fingers can push into him without any worry for injury.

Keith thinks of that now, tries to figure out the other reason why this human appeals to him so much.

He's the champion, of course, and for his specific pleasures Keith wants the best of what is considered the worst. He wants the king of the beggars, the last man standing among the otherwise vanquished.

There is a certain beauty to him, too, unusual in the eyes of the Galra. To most he would seem puny but, then again, so would Keith. Yet Kuro is handsome in a way, pale and scarred as he is, quite mesmerizing to look at sometimes-

Keith groans, pushes his fingers deeper, because who is he kidding, Kuro's pull is like a black hole, his gravity greater than anything Keith has ever felt. And maybe it's the impure blood in Keith's veins that attracts him to another of his species, but he has no doubt that even among other humans Kuro would find few equals. The two of them were much alike in that regard.

In that moment, the door slides open and Kuro steps in. Momentarily, Keith wonders whether registering his identity to the control system had been a bad idea, but then again it's proved to be rather convenient so far.

Just like now when Keith merely has to let his head loll to the side, looking toward Kuro as he keeps lazily fucking into himself.

To Kuro's credit and Keith's mild annoyance, Kuro barely even blinks at the lewd sight, just sighs a little and then already pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. He's obviously been healed, washed and given new clothes. Perfect condition, just as ordered.

“You really need to get a hobby,” he tells Keith with a snort, but joins him on the bed anyway.

“I have hobbies,” Keith says, pulling his fingers out and sitting up, “I enjoy watching the fights in the arena.”

“You fuck any of the others then?”

“Why?” Keith smirks, “Are you jealous?”

“Maybe I just don't want you to get too loose. Maybe I don't want to catch anything from you,” Kuro says, leaning closer, “Maybe I don't want sloppy seconds.”

Keith turns his face away. “I only take what's best,” he claims as though he had not just arrived at that conclusion himself, “You should do well to remember that, champion.”

Kuro grins. It's all the confirmation he needed.

“You're like a child,” he says, “All about instant gratification. And if you can't have it, you have to ruin it for everyone else.”

Keith sends him a sharp glare. He is not a child by any means which is why he does not take kindly to being called immature.

“Do not underestimate me,” he says and touches a palm to Kuro's chest. It's the right side, opposite of where his fast heart is beating, rapid to the slower rhythm of the Galra. The side where mere hours ago a gaping wound had been oozing blood.

Vindictively, Keith digs his fingers into the fresh scar tissue, knowing full well how tender the flesh underneath must still be. Lightening quick, Kuro's hand snaps up to close around his forearm and pull him away.

For a moment, they stare at each other, wordless. Then Kuro twists him around, grabs him by the wrists and angles his arms back. The strain is immediate and Keith's body taut as a bow string. For a moment, they both still.

“Do it,” Keith grinds out and they fumble around for a bit, Kuro shuffling closer, lining himself up. Pushing in.

Keith swallows a groan as pain paints red behind his closed eyelids because, while he himself had been slick enough, Kuro had not used any additional lubrication and the friction is almost too much. Just as Keith likes it.

They don't waste much time then, no teasing, no tiptoeing, just Kuro fucking him into the mattress with a ferocity that borders on madness. Even directly after fights he is rarely this punishing, but maybe it is just because of how close to death he had come this time.

Quickly, Keith's body begins to protest the cruel treatment, his joints hurting from the unnatural angle. A little bit more and he might well dislocate his shoulders.

But then, Kuro is already coming.

Keith moans, in delight and disappointment because he is still hard and he needs to come, he needs to find relief as well, but he slumps down when Kuro just lets him go.

He gets no chance to complain or calm down, though, because a moment later Kuro is splaying his rough hands on Keith's ass and spreading him apart.

A shiver runs down Keith's spine. Usually, he is shameless in these things but something about being exposed like this always has him feeling particularly vulnerable.

Kuro's breath is on him and then his mouth is, and Keith bucks his hips up a little, lifts his ass into the sinful kisses. It's not enough, not after the fucking he had just received, but Kuro's tongue pushes its way inside of him, licking, slowly eating him out, lapping his own spendings out of Keith's wet heat.

Brokenly, Keith whines into the pillow, his fingers clenching in the sheets. At the beginning of it all he had been so aware of every sound he made, trying to force them down. Now, he does not care anymore. Let them hear, let them know.

Until, overstimulated, he cannot take it anymore.

It's not the most intense orgasm Keith has ever had, not in terms of mind-numbing strength. But the waves ride through him, slow and steady, in such a manner that he can barely tell when it began. He rolls his hips with it, jerking against the mattress, his limbs twitching as he tries to catch a coherent thought but is instead overwhelmed by the flood.

He comes to to Kuro trailing haphazard kisses along his spine, licking up the sweat from the small of his back and between his shoulder blades.

It's not too rare that he does this. Sometimes, he leaves immediately after their encounters. Sometimes, he lingers. Keith does not know which he prefers.

He does not protest, though, just keeps his eyes closed as Kuro combs the damp hair at the nape of his neck aside to mouth at the vertebrae there.

Keith will send him back to his cell eventually. For now, he endures.

There is a grand total of about seven people aboard this ship who Keith sort of grudgingly respects.

That respect, however, is merely born out of him acknowledging their skills as fighters and little else.

Lotor, for example, is admittedly a formidable opponent, but that does not mean that Keith doesn't think him to be lowest scum to ever grace this side of the galaxy. Or any galaxy, really.

Because Zarkon is brutal and fearsome and raving mad with what he has been doing to the universe, and the majority of his most trusted isn't any better, but Lotor has the arrogance of high birth coupled with good looks, good education and mediocre intelligence. He is so blinded by his own ego that his little acts of cruelty don't even figure on his radar as anything other than commonplace.

For all his failings, Zarkon is a born leader, charismatic, rigorous, steadfast in his intentions. Lotor tries to walk in his footsteps, but traipses instead, stumbles, lashes out at anyone who dares to laugh. Suffering under Zarkon makes sense, but Lotor would lead them all to ruin.

There's little that Keith can do about that. His functions as prince as limited and most days he wonders why, after years of not acknowledging his existence, Zarkon suddenly decided to accept him into his fold.

Keith had been unwilling, but he also isn't stupid. Trying to resist a rise in ranks would not be read as anything but treason, so his choices are limited.

Instead Keith does the only think he can. Sharpen his mind and steel his body.

He is returning from his solitary training, on his way back to his chambers, and he is exhausted, his guard uncharacteristically down, when he suddenly finds himself cornered in one of the hallways.

“My Prince,” Madir says, his tone mocking in how pleasant it is, “What a coincidence. We were just talking of you.”

Keith eyes him warily, him and Arruk, both of noble blood and petty feelings, friends of Lotor who are still peeved at having been passed over in favor of Keith being granted certain privileges after his inauguration, while they could do little but gather around his brother and laugh at his jokes in hopes of benevolence and promotions.

Madir is the more insidious of the two while Arruk is little more than a brute, but Keith knows better than to spend any time alone with them. The hallway is empty and Keith is neither in mental nor physical disposition oppose them. He needs to get away and quickly.

“I have dinner waiting for me in my quarters,” Keith claims, making to push past them, “I'd hate to see it go to waste.”

“Is that an invitation?” Madir asks smoothly, blocking Keith's path by bracing his arm against the wall, “Your brother was right, it seems.”

Keith knows he shouldn't take the bait, but it's so damn difficult when it's dangling there right in front of him. Behind him, Arruk has stepped uncomfortably close.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Keith demands, glaring up at Madir. Generally he tries to keep away from other Galra, for safety reasons, but also because they are all, without exception, taller than him and Keith having to angle his head to properly glare at them.

“Oh, you know,” Madir says, casually reaching out to pluck some imaginary lint off of Keith's shoulder, “It just appears that you have been entertaining some unusual company lately.”

They know. They know and the spiteful, slightly suicidal part of Keith had wanted someone to figure it out, but now he finds himself wholly unprepared for this same reality. Because they know and that gives them power.

“So I was wondering,” Madir continues, “Whether anyone can join in on the party.”

There's a threat in there and Keith hears it but it takes him a moment to truly understand it, and when he does it is too late. He tries to lash out but Arruk is already wrestling his arms back, holding him still. Keith kicks out, catches Madir in the gut, but it does little to stop either of them.

“Fuck you!” Keith hollers, as loudly as he can. He has no friends among his kind, but the servants and guards are still sworn to protect their prince. They would come to his aid. He thinks.

“Let go of me!” he adds, his voice cracking, “You fucking bastards, you-”

Madir punches him in the head, enough to momentarily stun him, disorient him, and when Keith's vision clears they are dragging him toward an open door. A door that will close as soon as they are inside the room and then there will be no escaping.

The realization is like a supernova inside of his chest. A sudden surge of power, a return to former glory before the eventual collapse. Keith knows how to make the most of it.

He whips his head around, bares his teeth and bites down hard at the exposed wrist of Arruk's hand, instantly drawing blood. Arruk curses, automatically pulls away, and then Keith can further twist in his slackened grip and kick him right in the groin. Immediately, Arruk doubles over and Keith is free, but he still has to Madir to consider.

Madir is not much of a fighter, but he still has the height advantage while Keith, for once, carries no weapons. Madir also lacks the unflinching recklessness that comes with a regular training regimen and so he makes the mistake of jerking back when Keith just dives forward and throws himself at him.

And Keith may be more cultured than these unicellular idiots, but he is not above fighting dirty. If Arruk had thought himself unlucky because of the pain between his legs, then Madir has another thing coming.

Keith goes for his eyes with a precision that comes with years of having to stand up for himself. His claws are sharp and his scruples few. His left hand rakes gashes down Madir's cheek, but his right slices through the thin eyelid and into the unprotected eyeball underneath.

Madir screeches, ineffectively flaps his hands up, stumbles back and goes down. For good measure, Keith knees him in the face, feels his nose crunch under the impact.

Arruk, by now, has halfway recovered from his own pain, but Keith doesn't give him the chance for a counterattack. He throws his full body weight at the taller Galra, topples him over, sends them both sprawling to the ground. They grapple for a moment but Keith is quicker, pulls free the dagger that Arruk carries at his side and immediately sheathes is again, this time deeply embedded in Arruk's gut.

Unlike Madir, Arruk merely gives a low surprised grunt, his yellow eyes widening.

“Move and I'll kill you,” Keith warns, twisting the blade, waiting till Arruk lies still. Then Keith pushes himself up, throws another derisive look at a sobbing Madir, and hightails out of there as fast as he can.

He doesn't recall the way back but, once in his quarters, he slumps against the closed door and tries to breathe, tries to make sense of everything.

This was a mess. A dangerous mess he had not anticipated.

His little game of adrenaline had turned into a threat to his life. And Keith was unsure how to remedy that.

He could, of course, go and cry to Zarkon, just as Madir would be crying to Lotor, but then Lotor would tell their father everything, and Keith would be punished. But Lotor would also have to admit to siccing his friends on Keith and Zarkon would not take kindly to that either.

So for all of them, the best course of action would be to act like nothing had happened. Lotor would not like that, Madir certainly would not like that, but for Keith it would be safest bet.

Until Lotor came up with a new scheme.

Mentally, Keith scolds himself for letting his guard down like this. He hadn't even been carrying a weapon, not since he had lost his stupid ceremonial knife somewhere, and that oversight had almost cost him dearly. His station at court was unstable at best and many would love to see him fall from grace, would gladly push him over the cliff's edge.

But Keith is more than capable of bringing about his own demise.

He slaps his hand to the control panel, speaks when the lights blink back at him.

“Bring me the champion,” he orders curtly and then lets his eyes fall shut.

When he enters, Kuro seems wary and it's an unusual look on him. It occurs to Keith that this is the first time he had called up the champion that was not directly after one of his matches. Who knew what Kuro was expecting to happen?

But alas, little has changed. This time it is simply Keith who has averted a near-death experience. The outcome will still be the same.

He jerks his chin up a little, wastes no time on greetings or foreplay or subtlety.

“You know what to do,” he says and Kuro does. He still seems hesitant when he steps closer, assessing Keith like he would an opponent in the arena. Looking for weaknesses, for vulnerable spots. Keith has never felt quite so naked.

There's a dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach and he wants to eliminate it. He'd never thought of it this way before by the things Kuro does to him feel cleansing instead of dirty as they ought to. And right now Keith needs his hands on him, needs him to purge those other violent touches he has had to fight off today.

They stand in front of each other, inches left, and there is something like concern in Kuro's eyes.

So Keith does what he does best, just ignores it and surges forward, kisses him ruthlessly, viciously biting at his lower lip. Kuro gives an aborted exhale, stands his ground, holds on to Keith's narrow waist before deftly picking him up. Keith's arms sneak around him as he lets himself be carried off to his bed.

Kuro doesn't just dump him but settles them down gracefully, one of his knees on the mattress and between Keith's legs, sheltering him with his body, never interrupting their kiss. They make out like this, grinding against each other, almost innocent as far as their usual encounters go, until Kuro grows bolder and finally shoves his hand down Keith's pants.

Keith lets it happen, lets the sensation wash over him. The touch is familiar, arousing, but also too much too soon. Unexpectedly, everything that had happened with Arruk and Madir catches up with him. And he is angry, yes, but he is also scared. He was almost unable to stop them. And he does not dare imagine what they might have done to him. His stomach turns and suddenly, the presence above him seems overwhelming and threatening.

“Stop,” he says, struggles, “Don't.”

His voice has taken on a panicked edge, one he doesn't think he has ever heard himself.

Neither has Kuro. He stops, pulls away, sits back on his haunches. His face is drawn, his eyes guarded, but they are trained on Keith, awaiting further instruction. Giving him time. Giving him space.

He stopped. He fucks Keith when Keith needs him to, but he stops when Keith tells him. And that makes all the difference. Kuro is a safe fantasy. Kuro is to be trusted.

The revelation is like the birth of a star, scorching and sudden and somewhat inexplicable. The beginning of something too vast to comprehend.

“Go on,” Keith says and slowly settles back down on the sheets, even as his heart is still tripping out an irregular rhythm. Kuro waits for just another moment before leaning forward again and putting his hands back on Keith.

Keith's rib cage shudders, expands. Then he gives himself over.

Their fucking is different this time. Tender. There are no cruel words sharpened to pierce through Keith's skin. No hands cutting off his breath. Kuro buries his face against the side of Keith's neck and grunts away, intermittently biting and sucking and breathing, but even that is gentle.

Keith tries to tell himself that this was his decision, his order, that Kuro is not just taking strange liberties with him, ones that seem to mean more than they ought to. It's not working.

So instead, Keith just tilts his head back, stares up at the blank ceiling above the bed and thinks of the stars outside of this ship.

There is one new unexpected truth to Keith's already bleak reality.

Kuro is dangerous. Not dangerous because is an alien prisoner, not dangerous because he is the undefeated champion. But dangerous because Keith has become too dependent on him.

Their casual involvement has turned into an irresponsible liability. That's the lesson Keith has learned from his run-in with Lotor's lackeys. So to save himself, Keith needs to get rid of Kuro.

Killing him would be easy enough. Keith has never liked easy.

The arrangements themselves are made quickly enough. He is a prince, after all. What's more difficult is covering up his tracks, but he is confident that no one will be asking questions, not for a while at least.

Finally, he braces himself and goes down to the prison cells. He hasn't been down here since that first time all those weeks ago, but the guards don't even bat an eyelash when they are dismissed. Maybe Keith had underestimated the power of rumors after all.

Kuro, on the other hand, does look surprised, swiftly rolls off his narrow cot and stands to attention as Keith lets himself in. Neither of them says anything, just seizing the other up. Then Kuro blows out a breath through his nose and unknowingly shepherds in the beginning of the end.

When they kiss, it is almost more like a fight, like wrestling in the sands of the arena, until Keith loses his leverage as Kuro easily picks him up. He must have a thing for that but, then again, so does Keith. He likes it even more when Kuro slams him against the wall, his spine reverberating with the harsh impact, and then again and again, until Keith's head is ringing and he blindly runs his hands over Kuro's short hair and the back of his neck, grabbing the collar of his shirt and trying to tug it over his head, and then Kuro sets him down again, because undressing this way is less complicated.

They tear each others clothes off and clash against each other once more. Kuro groans when his fingers find Keith already prepared because Keith is impatient and does not wish to waste even a moment of their time together.

Keith revels in the fact that, while Kuro always seems a little reluctant at first, a little obstinate, he is quickly swept along as soon as they are actually touching. The sneaking doubts that Keith had had in the beginning, the ones that told him he was forcing Kuro to force him, have long since died down.

This is mutual and so would be their destruction.

They end up on the floor and Keith is hit by a sense of déjà vu, but at the same time everything is different. They know each other now, in strange, intimate ways. Keith can latch his mouth on Kuro's nipple and it's more than just trial and error, it's the certainty that Kuro will arch into him and curse quietly before sinking his fingers into Keith's hair and tugging, while Keith only digs his teeth deeper.

They shuffle around for a moment, their motions less graceful and calculated than usual, but then they both stare down where Kuro's cock is poised against Keith's entrance. Kuro's hand wraps around Keith's length, pumping once, twice, a short reward before the punishment, and then he pushes in.

There's always the first moment of shock, of surprise that something so large would fit inside of him, but pride, too, and hunger. Keith can take this, has taken this. Keith wants it.

So he rakes his claws down Kuro's broad back, settles his palms around the globes of his ass and pulls him in, sliding along the floor with each thrust. He wants the bruises on both sides to last for a long time, silent reminders that will fade with each passing day, but reminders nonetheless. They have nothing else to give each other.

He moans, loudly, listens to the echoes catapulting off the confining walls and throwing his

depravity back at him, absentmindedly wondering whether the other prisoners can hear him, whether they are pleasuring themselves to the sounds of their coupling, before suddenly there is something silky prodding at his face. Obediently, he parts his lips to let Kuro stuff the discarded sash of his garments into his mouth, pressing his large palm over it all to keep it there, effectively gagging him, as though Kuro does not want anyone to be able to listen in on this, to keep this moment caught between them. Is it possessiveness that motivates him or a need for privacy when he has so little of that already?

The fabric is quickly soaked with saliva, the inside of Keith's mouth dry which makes the feeling of it even more stifling, his breath shallow and slightly panicked as he can only inhale through his nose.

He's gonna miss this, he thinks, Kuro's cock in him, the bruises on his body, the controlled edge of fear that turns orgasm into something as gratifying as vindictive survival. He doesn't think he'll ever experience something like this again.

As if on cue, his climax rips through him, so harsh and sudden that Keith jackknifes off the floor, his heartbeat off-kilter, and choking on the cloth as he tries to catch his breath. He thinks he might have blacked out for a few moments because the next thing he knows he Kuro moaning lowly and jerking his hips, both the sound and motion already dying down, while Keith can vaguely feel the fluid heat inside of him.

Kuro draws back, one of his arms cradling Keith close while the other hands gently pulls the sash from his mouth, wrapping the damp fabric around his fingers, before ducking down and dropping kisses to Keith's abused lips. Keith just lets it happen, his head lolling back, momentarily capable of little more than the numbing afterglow of intense satisfaction.

There is no strength left in him, no motivation, and yet he still knows what to do. Because if he does not leave now, he'll change his mind.

Wincing, he runs the back of his hand over his face, rolls over and to his feet, pulling free from Kuro's loose embrace. His clothes are cold when he puts them on and he blames his shudder on that instead of on Kuro's gaze on him.

Then it is time.

“There's a ship parked in hangar three,” he says, bluntly and without any other warning except for the way he had thrown himself into each kiss.

The ship was a small one, yet relatively reliable. The coordinates were already entered and it was set on autopilot. It probably wouldn't make for the smoothest journey, but it would get the job done.

When Keith steps out of the cell, he leaves the force field lowered.

Somewhere behind him, Kuro's wary voice.

“Is this another test?”

“A reward for our heroic champion,” Keith echoes his words from their very first time, and it feels fitting to end things this way. A clean cut. Kuro would return to his home planet, scarred and half-broken, but alive, and Keith would remain here, in the cesspit of his sire's court. They would never see each other again.

“If you get caught, I'll kill you myself,” Keith warns. He does not look back, does not hesitate.

The walk back to his quarters is long and lonely. His bed is empty.

Keith sleeps.