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He was a stranger.
That was the first shock.
Here, no-one was a stranger, at least not to Zarkon—anonymity was the name of the game and the modus operandi but every single person that crossed the threshold to the Galra was screened, vetted and individually permitted to enter, unaware that they were in fact personally known to Zarkon himself. Some had even been carefully chosen—invited, teased, manipulated until they were through the doors and at his leisure. With one previous stay at the government’s pleasure under his belt and no desire for a repeat visit, Zarkon operated the Galra with the tightest of controls, ensuring that his clientele had both the bankroll to fund the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed, and neither motivation nor means to blow the whistle on his operation.
So it was to his immense surprise to see an entirely new face (or most of it, anyway, visible from one of the basic free masks that the Galra provided should clients arrive without having fully read the Rules). He stood out completely—however he managed to get inside, and despite his endearingly-futile attempts to fuse every molecule in his body with those of the wall behind him, he had no part in the proceedings and yet he stuck out like a sore thumb - eyes wide inside his mask, fixated on the scene before him, darting every which way, stunned discomfort obvious underneath a wild mop of brown hair. His clothing was achingly casual, again, in defiance of the dress code stated in the Rules, which told Zarkon that whoever the kid was (and he was little more than a kid, if he was lucky enough to be able to vote he certainly wasn’t able to drink), he was here by chance and not intent. Someone on his staff must have been lax and allowed the kid through. He was alone, now, though, awkward and sweating into the collar of his colourful, cheap-looking, overly-decorative shirt, the twin pleats starting to curl upwards at his untucked bottom hem, revealing a thin sliver of skin.
A quick glance downwards told a different story, though—antsy though the rest of him seemed, the kid’s similarly-cheap pants hid nothing of how utterly aroused he was. There was something sweetly naive about him, clearly terrified and horny as hell, and Zarkon felt a familiar stirring at the sight of him.
Then the kid looked up, locked eyes with Zarkon, and the older man was rooted to the spot, jaw tightening as those impossibly blue eyes met his own.
How could anyone look so… alive?
Zarkon knew his own predilections rather well. He’d built an empire around facilitating them, kept multiple lovelies in the past but since vowed to steer clear of them, as his indulgences were what had led to his downfall. Now, he’d rebuilt on a legitimacy that was difficult to question, and yet, those eyes were enough to risk everything.
He found himself moving forward before he was even aware of it, only realising it when the boy flinched at the movement. He seemed petrified, perhaps only a lack of knowledge of etiquette (and, perhaps, where the exit doors stood) being the only thing stopping him from legging it. Zarkon schooled his face into one of absolute warmth, approached and said, carefully, “Are you old enough for that drink?”
The boy snorted, in a hopelessly endearing fashion, shoulders relaxing somewhat.
Oh dear, he’s sweet.
Sweet in a way that ticked so, so many of Zarkon’s boxes and created a few new ones. This was not going to end well.
“I think I’m old enough for lime soda,” he laughed. “At least, I hope so. The lady at the bar - at least, I think it was a lady—she literally told me not to even try pulling a fake ID on her, but I don’t have one. My roommate said he’d get me one, but we only met each other, like, last week, so.. I… uh…”
Cute .
Ah. The kid probably attended one of the two higher-level institutions in town. They were just about to head into the second week of classes.
“Besides,” he went on, to Zarkon’s surprise, “Wouldn’t… uh…” He gave an encouraging nod, and watched the brightening of the kid’s smile, Fuck , “Wouldn’t you want to be… totally awake for any of this? For, like, consent and stuff?”
“Clever you,” Zarkon found himself saying, delighting in how visibly the kid preened to the approval, a sunflower to sunlight, a ripple of happiness spreading across his face and down into his stature. This time, when those blue eyes returned to meet his own, Zarkon was ready but still taken aback by how much they shone.
“Consent is a little bit more… intricate than a simple word of permission,” Zarkon went on, and, to his surprise, the simple, black/white response of many of his peers did not result in immediate rejection of that opener. In fact, to his intense surprise, there was curiosity there, a sparkle to the kid’s gaze that was questioning and admiration rolled into one. “You see there?” Zarkon indicated as he found his voice again, almost laughing at how much he was robbed of his own power as he pointed at a remote corner of the room. This kid was really affecting him, though, thankfully, he was far too young to be even vaguely aware of his own aura. “You see the collar that woman is wearing?”
A frown. Zarkon’s entire focus narrowed down to the confusion that rested in the sudden tension between delicate, tended brows. “Yeah?”
“She’s blindfolded, and gagged. When do you think she consented to what’s happening there?”
“I… have no idea.”
Zarkon nodded, feeling the tug on the hook. It seemed cruel to play on a total lack of experience, but he was a man who got what he wanted, and right now, he wanted inside this boy’s mind.
“Consent is about more than just the words. For some, it’s permission to do the opposite of what you like or want, because the loss of freedom, control or dignity is what makes it sex, what makes it thrilling and special. Trusting someone else to take pleasure in you, to give you pleasure. We all make that choice when we have sex, hope that someone will give to us, and sometimes take from us.”
The kid’s lips parted, a little blush deepening the flush of his already-pink cheeks. Zarkon took a step closer, certain he could hear the sound of the boy’s pounding heart, drawing close enough to feel the wealth of heat emanating from the young man in front of him. “Is that what you would like?” he asked, slowly, gentle enough that he felt he were talking to a nervous colt, ready to bolt at any second. “To have someone else treat you, want you, worship you?”
“That… uhm… sounds kinda…” his harshened breathing did the answering for him, displaying how it felt to be affected so much by the idea. “…Amazing,” he said at length.
“It can be,” Zarkon smiled, “With the right person.” He purposefully dipped his gaze, pointedly taking in the kid before him, broadening his smile into one of approval as he did. His message was clear.
The reaction he got from that was perfectly delicious - the boy trembled on the spot, almost swaying as he realised Zarkon meant ‘I think that’s you’. Given how obviously attractive the kid was—clear brown skin, soft-looking hair in a purposely-tousled but impeccably-cut style, a little muscle on the edge of a wiry frame suggesting a somewhat-recent gym habit, or a semi-regular fitness regime—it was somewhat surprising that he was such an easy catch with the barest compliment. Low self-esteem, possibly, which would make this all the easier.
It always made it easier.
Strange, even after ignoring that base part of himself for years, how Zarkon’s sharpest senses had not dulled. One look at this pretty boy and he’d known—a perfect target. No wonder he had noticed him so quickly.
“May I ask your name?” he asked, knowing well that the kid probably had no clue that it was explicitly against the Rules. He probably had no idea there even were any Rules.
“Oh, uh, Lance.” After a pause, the kid stuck his hand out in an awkward fashion. Amused, Zarkon took it, his hand engulfing Lance’s slim fingers. He gave a strong handshake, though - his skin was as smooth as he’d expected, warm as a summer’s day.
“Zarkon.”
“Whoa. Cool name.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, a lot cooler than Lance. My entire class and two of my sisters made fun of me all the time for having ‘the gay name’ when I was growing up. Well, jokes on them, because I am gay. Well, bi, I guess. Uhm.” He stopped, suddenly aware he was still holding Zarkon’s hand. He let go and drew his hand back, but his eyes were fixed on Zarkon’s chest. For a moment, Zarkon thought it was from shyness, but then he remembered he was a lot broader than most while still being trim, and the staring wasn’t accidental.
“Good for you.”
“Huh?” His confused face snapped up, and even somewhat lost, he was still so startlingly beautiful that Zarkon almost faltered.
“That you know that for certain. In my day, many people took until they were much older than…” he gestured at Lance, who piped up,
“Oh, eighteen!”
“…Eighteen, before they were confident to be able to say their sexuality. How times have changed.”
“In your day? How old are- uh, I mean, wow, sorry, I didn’t mean to be that rude, Jesus, Lance…”
“I’m forty-seven. It’s not rude. I just asked you your age, in a way.”
“…True. Wow, forty-seven. Do you come here all the time? It’s my first time here.”
Zarkon chuckled to himself, pleased at how casually Lance spoke once the floodgates had opened. “I do. I can tell. You’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.”
He received the most delightful giggle—a giggle —in response. “Right? Okay, so, confession time, I think my roommate’s friend brought me here as a prank. Her friend works behind one of the bars so she let us in, but I think she was just trying to scare me off.”
“Scare you off?” Zarkon asked, making a note to discover which of their bar staff was about to receive a severance.
Impossibly, Lance’s blush darkened. “I’m… not exactly a skilled PUA or anything, and I think I was annoying her. She’s really pretty.”
Zarkon could well imagine - Lance had the kind of eyes and shyness that probably manifested obnoxiously in the presence of a crush. Zarkon almost admired the moxie of a girl who shirked an irritating suitor by sneaking them unprepared and unawares into the Galra, of all places. He could almost forgive the breach in security, especially when it had delivered him this prize.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh no, dude, honestly, she was stunning! She had these eyes, oh god, and this hair, and she’s actually probably dating my stoner roommate now that I think of it but I literally just fell for her like the second I saw her, and…”
“…I meant that you were annoying her.”
“Oh.” He shrank under the implied compliment, wide grin widening a measure more. “I probably was, though.”
“Perhaps to her. Not to me. You seem very sweet to me. Although,” Zarkon continued, treading carefully, “There is a dress code here and you are in violation of it.” Lance looked up at him, panicked, but he had curled his lips into an expression of private mirth, “It’s easily remedied, mind.”
“Reme—sorry, what?”
Zarkon held up his hand and waved around the room. Lance’s eyes followed him and dawned with slow comprehension, leading to a make-or-break moment. Zarkon fought not to hold his breath.
“Oh,” he said, a playful light crossing his handsome features. “Well, it looks like it’s fancy suits or naked, and I left my fancy suit on the bus, so…”
Zarkon felt his pulse pick up as Lance not only took the bait, he unhooked himself and climbed up the fishing rod. He watched, transfixed, as Lance lifted his battered hoodie above his head, taking his teeshirt and tank top with it as he pulled it inside out, revealing a slim torso, toned beneath a gorgeous expanse of fallow skin. Two pert nipples gave a hint as to how Lance felt about the whole situation, despite his obvious nerves. He put his hands on his belt, but Zarkon, with a flash of inspiration, reached out and put a hand on his arm. Lance looked up and an electric look passed between them. “Wait,” Zarkon whispered, faintly stunned to find his own voice a purr . Lance faltered, and Zarkon realised that that look of confusion and a little bit of fear was going to be his own undoing—he felt his control, held in check for years, vanish at the sight.
He grinned. “Don’t worry, you sweet, lovely being. I don’t mean for you to stop. You didn’t mean to be here, and yet you are already braver than most of the people in this building, for you to strip off in front of me, and all of these people. I’m not sure everyone here deserves your bravery.”
“What if I want that?” Lance answered, defiance clear in his voice. A curl of heat flickered to life in his belly, and trickled its way south. This was unexpected and very, very welcome, as well as a signal that Zarkon could step it up a notch. Lance’s earlier stance as a wallflower had possibly given Zarkon the wrong notion—after all, he hadn’t run at first sight or when he’d been abandoned by the girl who tricked him into being there - he’d stayed, observing despite his nerves and complete inexperience. At the first suggestion, he’d instantly taken the opportunity to strip down in a room full of strangers, yanking off every layer in one hurried swoop.
Zarkon had misjudged him.
The kid was a lot more interesting than he (or his shirking crush) even imagined.
“That all depends,” he mused, inching a little closer and lowering his voice. “Do you want me to let you have what you want?” His wording was careful, and he watched its effect rip through Lance as the younger man took his meaning in. He heard Lance take a sharp intake of breath, saw him bite his lip to try to cover it and succeeding only in adding to the obviousness of his arousal. The air thickened, and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like nothing Zarkon had ever seen, Lance lowered his head a fraction in a subtle but clear sign of submission.
When he spoke, his voice shook with a mixture of emotions Zarkon could only guess at.
“I-I want whatever you’ll give me,” he said, breaking eye contact as he snapped his gaze straight downwards. He was twitching on the spot, patently afraid of judgement, but Zarkon could not have been more delighted.
Perhaps this was a gift from God, a reward for the suffering he’d had to endure. Whatever had chanced to put this young man before him in this moment was a blessing he would not let escape him.
Lifting his hand, Zarkon slid two fingers beneath Lance’s chin and gently lifted his face until their eyes met again. God, those blue, blue eyes that drew him from across a room were simply killer up close - whatever happened, he’d have to keep those to himself, for a while at least.
“I’ll give you the world, my boy,” he said, and Lance shivered at the casual declaration.
“Thank you, sir.”
Perfect. He was perfect. That fool of a girl who’d brought him here had missed out on the chance of a lifetime, but instead delivered this perfect boy right into his hands. Whoever she was, Zarkon felt like buying her a house.
Zarkon stroked the smooth skin of Lance’s cheek with his thumb, letting his fingers slide back to touch his thin neck. It had been so long since Zarkon had been able to indulge in his most particular desires, but he knew that it was not simply absence of that which had made him instantly fond of Lance, no—Lance was, rather, something entirely special.
“Sweet boy,” he said softly. “My good boy.” He kissed the top of Lance’s head, sealing their unspoken agreement. He would have a lot of talking and much teaching to do later, but for now, this would do.
His boy.
His boy, but Zarkon wasn’t selfish.
He would share.
After all, it was what his boy truly wanted.