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Lotor is marched along the unnecessarily long room to the seat of his father's throne. It's been three phoebs' since Zarkon ordered the destruction of that planet and all it's people, and Lotor's hatred for his father has only intensified in the isolation. Lotor glares at him as the sentries push him down to his knees, but the cuffs are left on for who knows what purpose. The sentries leave, and Lotor's ears prick at every mechanical footstep until the doors slam shut, and they are left in the wake of the echo. Zarkon just stares down his nose at Lotor. How typical; always judging him in one way or another.
“Did you not want an audience this time?” Lotor motions with his chin around the empty throne room. “You even do not have the hag at your side.” Zarkon continues to just stare at Lotor, and he isn't entirely certain whether his father is all there. Typically, he would call Lotor some derogatory name by now, but he hasn't. Even the sentries left without orders. It's not paranoia that comes, but Lotor knows something has been planned, and he doesn't trust it. “What're you planning? Where're your guards?” Lotor grits his teeth as Zarkon's armour creaks. He rises from his throne, those unnatural eyes glowing down at him. Each footfall echoes ominously around the throne room as Zarkon steps slowly down. His shadow suffocating and body towering. Lotor tries not to feel scared, not like he used to for a time, but it's hard not to feel unnerved in his father's company like this.
“I have a new job for you, boy.” Zarkon rumbles low as he stalks a slow circle around his son. 'Intelligent' as the Dayak may've called Lotor, Zarkon sees little of it in his actions. It's the Altean in him that makes him act like he does, Zarkon is certain. “One that you will start immediately.”
“Oh, so now you trust me with a job? Pray tell, what ridiculous role do you have in store for me now?” The boy speaks with such ire and sarcasm, but also much disrespect still. It seems isolation has taught him little. Regardless of the bite in Lotor's words, there are ways to make the boy shut his gods-forsaken mouth.
“It is a job even someone like you should not be able to fail at,” Zarkon stops behind Lotor and grabs a handful of that long white hair to a sharp hiss, “especially with your prior experience.” Zarkon pulls Lotor up by the hair. He's more than aware of how much of a whore the boy has been in the past. Zarkon is acutely aware of the trickery Lotor used on a much younger Sendak; using his wiles to bed Zarkon's most trusted. It hadn't just been Sendak; it had been plenty of others over the hundreds of deca-phoebs the boy had been alive for. Lotor already brought shame to the bloodline, but the additional shame for receiving? Zarkon would not allow that to continue any longer with others of his court, or outside of it for that matter. If Lotor was going to receive anything, then it would be from Zarkon, and him alone.
“T-Take your hands off me! What on Daibazaal do you think you're doing?!” Lotor snarls out, trying to kick and thrash, but Zarkon's hold is too tight.
“Silence.” Zarkon rumbles as he kicks Lotor's legs out from beneath him, and plants Lotor's cheek against the still-warm seat of the throne. He gasps, head pounding, as he tries to blink back his vision.
“W-What are you doing?” Lotor dares to ask, but Zarkon remains silent as he keeps the hand firmly in Lotor's hair.
“You do not listen.” Zarkon drawls as he summons the black bayard in hand. “You may be a prince, but it is just a mere title. You,” he presses Lotor's face harder against the throne, “disrespect me as not only as your Emperor, but father, with your lack of adherence to the rules of this Empire, and it brings shame, boy. You actively shame me with your actions. Past,” Lotor's ears prick at the subtle noise of the bayard shifting forms, “and present.” The sound of shredding fabric breaks the tense silence. Cold air is against Lotor's rear. He doesn't understand why this is happening. He needs to get away. Fast. “You ask what your new job is within the Empire, boy? Have you worked it out yet?” Claws tear away what remaining fabric covers his rear, and then Lotor feels them dig into the skin. Zarkon – his father – couldn't. Surely, he couldn't really be- Lotor jerks with a yelp as Zarkon's hand connects with his exposed ass cheeks. “I asked you a question, boy. I demand an answer.”
“Y-You-” Another smack.
“Do not stammer.” Zarkon's voice is like thunder in his ears. “You will speak concisely.” Lotor doesn't want to say it, because he doesn't want to make this a reality. His ass is sore, and this is officially beyond the worst thing he could ever believe his father was capable of. “Say. It.” Zarkon bites, and Lotor flinches when he feels the breeze left behind as Zarkon lifts his hand once more.
“Is your job for me,” Lotor licks his lips as he cautiously watches the clawed hand hover, “something of a,” he swallows and screws his eyes shut, “bed warmer?” The words alone make him want to vomit. Lotor doesn't know if it's him or his father who's the depraved one.
Zarkon still slaps Lotor's ass, admiring the way it darkens more purple-blue under the surface of the skin.
“Correct.”
“How? Why?” The brat shakes as he speaks. Such disgusting weakness.
“Why?” Zarkon re-adjusts his hand in Lotor's hair. “You ask me why? Do you not think it rather obvious when I said of your experience?” He presses Lotor's face against the seat, his free hand caressing the bruising skin. “I am well aware, boy, of your whorish nature with those of the court. You think that it escapes my knowledge? You think I am pleased that my disappointment of a son continues to be an even bigger one when he opens his legs to anyone? That he receives no less?” He feels Lotor still underneath him, and one contracted pupil wobbles in his direction.
“You can't.” His voice is thick. “Father, please. I swe-” Lotor yelps, like the whore he is, when Zarkon strikes him again.
“I am tired of offering you chances, boy. While I could exile you,” and Zarkon shifts so his body smothers Lotor's, “there is little point. At least here, kept within my chambers, you cannot embarrass me any more than what you have already.”
“This is wrong! What you are doing is wrong!” Lotor pleads with him like Zarkon would care right now. “Others will find out-”
“If they know, they will say nothing. They will do nothing. If anything,” Zarkon takes Lotor firmly by the hip, “their good behaviour may be having you as a reward.”
“Do you think my mother – your beloved wife – would agree to what you're doing here?” Lotor struggles against his body. “You think that she would condone what you are doing to me? She was a woman of science and decorum; she would never agree to something so disgusting and vile! Exile me, banish me. But do not insult her memory with what you're doing!” Zarkon's nostrils flare at how he dares speak of his beloved Empress. With a terrible rumble in his throat, Zarkon lets go of Lotor's hair and grabs him by the thigh.
“You will not speak of her in my presence!” He raises Lotor up, quickly removing the guard and pulling back the fabric enough to free his cock. Zarkon drops the whelp back down, and is disgusted by the feeble noise and attempts to drag himself away.
Lotor knew he wouldn't get far, but he was going to fight this in any way possible. His father had gone insane.
“Crawl all you please,” Zarkon's boot plants itself firmly into Lotor's spine, “but you will not escape this job of yours.” Again, clawed hands find his hair, and Lotor is dragged up from the ground. It hurts, gods, it hurts, and Lotor swears Zarkon's ripping it out. Forced around, Lotor retracts in revulsion at what stares back at him. “A simple task for a whore like yourself.” Lotor resists the pull of Zarkon's arm. He brings the shackled hands in front of his body, and Zarkon slaps them away, until the hand connects with Lotor's face. He topples gracelessly over to his side, only able to watch as the black bayard materialises in Zarkon's hand again. “Why must you continuously defy me, boy? Why do you choose to make your life difficult by going against my wishes? You have surely gagged yourself on such things before, this should not be a difficult undertaking. Unless,” the bayard changes form into a sword, “you would prefer the use of force.” It isn't a question, and the tip of the blade rests just under Lotor's chest armour. Zarkon slowly presses it against the fabric, and the pressure increases until it's broken the fabric strong enough to withstand space. Lotor can't die here, and he's adamant that somehow he can get himself out of this. Maybe not now, but soon enough. Zarkon's just stole another piece of his pride and self-respect; just like the old bastard always has.
“Fine, just stop!” The brat 'concedes', but Zarkon knows this is not a true victory. Not yet. The victory will come later, when Lotor has been broken down enough. For now, Zarkon once again yanks his son from the floor, and poises the tip of the sword above Lotor's head as a fair warning in case the whelp has ideas of biting. “Know that I will not-” Zarkon cares little for his prattle, and pushes Lotor's head forwards. His cock hits Lotor's bottom lip, but with a slight adjustment of angles and some force, Zarkon is content enough.
“Do your job, and do it effectively.” He narrows his eyes at the blue pupils that glower up at him. There's a growl from the depths of Lotor's throat, and the vibrations are enough to stir something. “Work, boy.” Zarkon inches the sword closer, and with another growl, he forces Lotor over the tip. It should serve to shut him up.
It feels disgusting and worse the more Lotor does this. The harder his father is getting, he can feel every single ridge and bulge form in his mouth. It worsens when the hand in his hair digs in harder, and with a satisfied growl from above, Zarkon forces more of himself down Lotor's throat. He was trying to take as little in as possible, but now he chokes. Zarkon pulls him off and tilts his head up, to admire the way Lotor coughs and splutters.
“Is it too much, boy? Or were you always this much of a disappointment?” There's that condescending arrogance in Zarkon's voice, as he forces Lotor back upon his length, and fucks himself a thrust at a time – slower now as if to spite him – down Lotor's throat. “It is a shame you did not inherit her shape-shifting capabilities.” Zarkon muses as he tilts his head to the side. “I would utilise them otherwise.” White strands are raked back by his claws, and Lotor wonders what it means when Zarkon stares at him; like the freak is admiring him.
Zarkon takes his sweet time using Lotor's mouth as his personal fuck hole. He supposes, as he watches, there is some technique that is above his expectations. The bar is low admittedly. When it suits him, he pulls his cock out to admire how lubricated with spit it is, and slaps the head against Lotor's swollen lips. It takes him a few times for the boy to understand, and a nick of the sword to work quicker. There is something arousing about the more and more Zarkon dishevels Lotor's long hair. Perhaps he will have it tied back or braided. Something nice and simple to pull when wrapped around Zarkon's fist like a lead. If Lotor thought he could humiliate Zarkon in the past and not go without consequence, the boy was more stupid then he thought. It is when Zarkon pulls out again does he watch the saliva snap. Lotor makes small pants that are hot against Zarkon's skin. This will do, he thinks.
Lotor wishes he could vomit by the mere taste of his father's pre, but he is roughly pulled from his mental escape when once again, he is dragged by the hair back to the throne. His cuffed hands are placed above his head, which is ground into the seat. His father would rub the achievements of others in his face, now the action was no longer metaphorical.
“This is the closest you will ever come to being on the throne. You are nothing but a mistake, and it is only to honour her memory that I allow you an existence. At least in this one, I can train you to my liking. You may think you have a chance of escaping me, but I swear to you, boy, you will be kept as a pet in a gilded cage for my personal amusements.”
“Y-You're insane!” Lotor regrets stammering when the clawed hand slaps his already bruised cheek.
“Shut your insubordinate, whorish mouth.” Zarkon snarls as with both hands, he parts Lotor's thighs. “It truly is a shame that you cannot shape-shift.” He tracks a claw from Lotor's taint round to the base of his own cock that...well, Lotor tells himself repeatedly that it's just a natural bodily reaction; there is no way, none whatsoever, that any atom of his could enjoy this. “I could have fucked you there.” The claw presses into the delicate and sensitive patch of nerves. Lotor chokes out a 'stop', but it falls upon eternally deaf ears. “I am sure, that here will suffice.” Zarkon's claw traces back up. Lotor naturally tenses, and while he knows that it's the worst thing he could do, he cannot simply allow Zarkon that access even to save himself. The finger moves away, only for a few ticks later, a hand strikes Lotor's other ass cheek. “You will refer to me, boy, by the title you are awfully fond of when you demand something of me.” Lotor can feel the blood run cold and his face pale. No. No he is absolutely not. Absolutely-
“Don't.” Lotor struggles too swallow the burning lump so thick in his throat as he feels the damp press. “Don't do this.” Zarkon's hand presses harder down on his head. Lotor's wrists shake, his whole body does, as it pushes in. Pain, humiliation, anger; they all swirl like storm clouds in Lotor's stomach. Even calling Zarkon what he wanted wouldn't stop this.
“It is notable,” Zarkon states like he's talking about a military report, “this has been used, boy, even when you try and resist me.” A hand creeps up Lotor's spine, and he's aware of a few clicks. “Armour is no longer required for this job.” Lotor wants to scream that if it's unnecessary, then why have him in any clothes at all. He doesn't because that would give Zarkon ideas. “You may shake in disgust and revulsion, but there are few ways to break you, boy. This,” and Lotor digs his fangs into his lip at the stretch, “and destroying what you care for, these are humiliations that you cannot work your way out of.” With a grunt from above, and a choked groan of pain – just pain – from Lotor, Zarkon settles himself. “Yet even now, with how you tense and detest me,” there's something about Zarkon's tone that makes Lotor uneasy, “you still react. Like the whore you are.” A hand squeezes tight around Lotor's length. It offers a single tug that makes Lotor buck and yelp. “Perhaps if you refer to me by what I infer, I will fuck you like I did your mother.”
Zarkon's hands find Lotor's waist, and even if Lotor tries to scrabble away and kick, Zarkon doesn't seem to register it, or ignores him. Lotor can't make a noise, he simply can't. It's hard when Zarkon slams into him without mercy or consideration. It's hard when feelings it brings are ones that he has long-associations with pleasure. It's hard to process what the fuck is happening. Lotor doesn't even register his hands were even free for a tick before he feels them pulled behind his back.
“What're you-” Zarkon thrusts in so hard Lotor cries out at the sheer agony. His protests crackle out from his throat as by the hair, Zarkon pulls him back up from the throne.
“You continue to make this harder for yourself.” Zarkon muses, Lotor still speared upon him. He moves them, until with a grunt, Zarkon settles back upon his throne. One hand grips the bound wrists, while the other roughly yanks each of Lotor's resistant thighs over the sides of his throne so hard, Lotor knows they're going to bruise. Lotor's brow twitches in sheer agony as he slips down the length. It's almost enough to bring him to tears. “Say it.”
“I am,” Lotor grits out between his teeth, “never going to give you the satisfaction!” He casts a glower over his shoulder to the impassive look he receives. Zarkon's eyes narrow ever-so-slightly, but instead of thrusting up like Lotor expects, he pushes him down.
“Such a querulous child.” Lotor can feel far too much of Zarkon as he sinks down. “On the rare occasions I consider you worthy of my thoughts, I am reminded we share genetics. You are an insult,” Zarkon's fingers curl into Lotor's thick hair and pulls tight, “to Honerva and myself.” Zarkon never called Honerva by name. Now Lotor was speared in two ways.
“You dare,” he sneers, “refer to her while you do this?” Zarkon only answers by pulling his head back.
“Perhaps filling you with my own seed will correct the imbalance.”
“You are,” Lotor swallows, “insane.”
“You are a disappointment that needs correcting, boy.” Zarkon retorts as cold as deep space.
The boy on his lap is an acceptable cockwarmer. Such behaviour, as Zarkon thrusts into Lotor easier than before, is an expectation. The fight will be broken in due course. It will take little to do it, despite Lotor's anticipated protests. He fails to hide the noises he tries to keep muffled, but Zarkon is acutely aware of how his muscles spasm and contract. The boy is a mere extension of himself in some respects, and as something that is his, Zarkon will use him, like anyone else, as he sees fit.
“You will say it. If not this quintant,” Zarkon forces the boy down by the bound arms, “then another.”
“I will never.” Lotor repeats again, body so rigid the act is likely painful. Regardless, Zarkon is finding the act suitably arousing from the tightness alone. To a rhythm he sets, Zarkon focuses on finishing inside the boy for the added humiliation.
The pace moves from steady to increasingly erratic. Lotor is denying what he knows this means as he screws his face up. Yet between the cracks of his eyelids, he can see the white tufts below the torn body suit and his own cock there. It's drifted between semi and soft, and he hates his body for reacting as it does.
“Don't you dare come inside me.”
“Or what?” Zarkon rumbles beside his ear. “You cannot stop me.”
“I will find a way!” Lotor snaps. He wiggles and writhes; tries to pull himself as far away as he can, but Zarkon keeps dragging him back. “Struggle, and you make the act quicker.” There's a pause. “Unless you say it. Beg, boy.” Lotor's eyes widen. It's...it's a trap, he knows. Biting his bottom lip, he tries to block the change in Zarkon's breathing, ignore the throbbing and twitching cock inside him. His father is disgusting; Lotor wants to kill him- wait. Lotor racks his brain as best he can. There's one way he could do it, potentially, but it requires him to surrender against his principles. It requires him to accept this treatment. With a shallow breath, trying to will himself, Lotor wets his lips between a sharp jerk and gasp.
“F-Father,” there's the tiniest pause and snort behind him, “please.”
“Please 'what', boy?” Zarkon thrusts even harder, earning another pain – not pleasure – noise from Lotor's throat.
“P-Please,” he wets his lips again as he tries to will himself through this, “please don't come inside. If you,” he swallows, “desire any where to finish, perhaps,” he arches forward, trying to pronounce his toned back muscles that Sendak had a thing for in the past, “you may find the curvature appealing?” Zarkon remains silent as he thrusts, and this has Lotor severely uneasy. “Father, please. I,” a shuddering breath escapes his lips, “I beg you to consider anywhere else.”
“You 'beg me', do you?” Lotor hopes that his arrogance will cloud his judgement. The self-important fool, the bastard. There's a rumble of laughter that builds and escapes Zarkon's lips that has Lotor freeze. Clawed hands move. Zarkon's arms are under Lotor's parted thighs, and between the elbow joints, he hoists Lotor up with him. Zarkon draws his body up and down, his legs aimlessly dangling like a rag doll, as each stroke hits deeper then before, and Lotor screams. His vision spots as the bastard strikes his sensitive sweet spot over and over again, and unlike before, when he could try to hide and restrain, Lotor can't like this.
“My little whore of a son begs his father, does he?” Zarkon's breath is hot against his neck. In the haze of pleasure-pain, Lotor thinks Sendak's told him about this, about his neck.
“S-Stop, fath-”
“No.” Zarkon growls firmly as he grinds out a few more erratic thrusts, and Lotor feels it. Hot. It's like fire, burning the insides of him, as it erupts. His own cock hangs limp, dripping pre, and Lotor feels utter disgust and contempt for the bastard. With a grunt, Zarkon resettles back upon his throne. Lotor doesn't even know if he's satisfied, but he's still seated here. “I have found a way to get a rise from you.” Zarkon gently, Lotor thinks, rakes his claws through Lotor's hair as he's pulled against the chest plate. “It will be used against you, boy.”
-
It had been three phoebs' since the brat took the position of Zarkon's bedwarmer. There had been ups and downs, of course. Haggar had been of some use, and typical for her, she reserved her judgement. As she knows she should. Zarkon removes his chest-plate and steps into the bedroom. Upon the luxurious sheets that befit his position, but are not for his comfort, Lotor remains collared and chained to the corners of the bed, just as Zarkon left him two vargas ago. His bright blue pupils shine in the low light, and they have expanded. Zarkon settles on the mattress, and runs a hand over the pale purple skin down to the soft and delicate lingerie that leaves little to the imagination.
“F-Father,” Lotor's body arches into the touch, “please.”
“Please 'what'?” He watches as Lotor shakily raises his hips with a twitch of his lips. It's then he can hear the low thrum of the toy he'd inserted earlier. Zarkon was surprised it was still working.
“Come in me, please?” Zarkon tilts his head to the side, fingers brushing against the painfully-hard looking head.
“In time, boy.”