He’s intensely attractive. He is, without a doubt, the most handsome person you have ever been tasked with executing.
How you go about your assignments is left to your discretion. More often than not, your targets are only allowed to touch you just enough to get them alone and vulnerable. From time to time, though, you desire the touch of a lover, and find a target you think may satisfy it. You decide, immediately, that you will give Prince Lotor the honor upon seeing an image of his face.
Your handler checks with you to see if you have any questions.
“No,” you answer.
The arrangements are made without your involvement. You are supplied with books and articles to review for the sake of your cover story and to engage your target in compelling conversation – not that most of them need it, with the way you look. You are a jewel of Galran beauty.
You take in the material passively. Books of poetry, guides to biology and geology, short summaries of recent events and their political significance. Occasionally a fact or snippet of writing will spark your interest, but it is soon subsumed into the tasteless, grey gruel that is your life. You stalk your prey and lure them to their death. You are a mantis, to mate with a male before ripping his head from his body and consuming it. Your kill sustains you for another week, another month, like a beast of the wilds. There is nothing more for you than survival.
Sometimes the passion and pleasure of sex is all that reminds you that you are still alive. You look forward to your encounter with Prince Lotor, review your materials with the aim to impress him, seduce him, make him putty in your hands. For the first time in a long while, you do not seek only to survive, but to feel.
He is more stunning in person than the pictures could ever convey. Prince Lotor has an intense and intimidating presence that commands and subjugates, wrapped in a warm charisma that enchants you, attracts you.
It strikes you as odd, to feel this from the other side. To be the one charmed by the serpent, rather than the predator on the hunt. It thrills you. Even your keen survival instinct, tempered like the strongest metals in the universe, is lulled as you are pulled into his magnetic field.
“Prince Lotor,” you begin, approaching him. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss…” He waits for your reply and reaches for your hand. You give him your name and he kisses the back of your hand cordially.
He runs his tongue up the length of your neck and you groan in ecstasy. You hike your legs up around his hips and grind against him, pure lust coursing through you. You’re nearly drunk on how badly you need his touch. Every touch burns you with pleasure.
“My, my, eager aren’t we,” he teases softly into your ear.
“Please, Prince Lotor, don’t tease me any longer,” you beg. You know it’s beneath you to beg a target, you never have before, but you just want him to stop wasting time and fuck you already.
He grins with a soft, “hn.”
“Would it bother you,” he asks right against your ear, “if I ripped you out of this dress?”
“Tear it to shreds,” you answer. It’s not yours. It was supplied to you. It would just be taken back, cleaned, and stored until it’s needed again. He brings up his clawed hand, grasps the front of your dress, and with a yank tears it away from your chest, then buries his head against your breasts, kissing and licking across your skin. You moan in pleasure.
Prince Lotor leans back from you, pulling off his gauntlets, then reaches up to the release on his armor. From the waist up he is only wearing a bodysuit, a single layer.
He looks down at you, and you wonder why he’s stopped. He then clears his throat and looks meaningfully at your legs, still wrapped tightly around his hips.
You pout playfully as you let him go free. You’ve forgotten by now that he is a target. For now he is only your lover, your gorgeous and passionate lover, who must extricate himself from your loving grasp if he is ever going to get naked. Your breasts remain exposed amidst the tatters of your dress, and you feel no compulsion to hide them. Prince Lotor doesn’t exactly strip for you, per se, but he takes his time just enough to look suave as he disrobes. Just enough to seem unhurried, not in need. You can tell he wants to be in control. Since when, you wonder, were you willing to give it to him?
Underneath the bodysuit he is nude. Despite his aloofness, you can tell from his erection that he is just as eager as you are. He approaches you again, and you expect him to tear off the bottom of your dress, rip off your panties, to take you roughly. To your surprise, he approaches you with gentleness. There is no aggression as he slides his hands up your thighs, hooks into your underwear, and pulls them off. He discards them without a glance, his eyes locked with yours.
Lotor crawls onto the bed, moving toward you. His knees are between your thighs. He reaches up and grasps the dress where the torn halves meet, then slowly rips it apart, baring you like a piece of fruit freshly removed from its peel. He crawls forward so that he is over you, covering you with his body. He’s not much bigger than you, being only half Galra, but you can feel the strength in his muscles as you touch his arms, and you know he’s as strong and solid as any you have had before. You wrap your legs around him again, inviting him. Your gaze is still locked with his.
He reaches one hand up to the nape of your neck and curls his fingers into the hair at the base of your scalp. You give him a single nod of assent, and he gives a sharp tug. Your body responds to the signal, and your sex opens for him. Lotor sheaths himself in you with a single bold thrust. Your breath hitches, and you finally break the eye contact as you squeeze your eyes shut.
Lotor gives a satisfied hum in response to your reaction, then draws his cock back slowly before thrusting into you again. He’s big enough to fill you to your limit. This time you vocalize a moan, and now that your eyes are open again you can see him smiling. His small teeth are cute.
One of your hands rests lightly against his shoulder, the other you bring up to stroke along his jaw. He rocks hs hips against yours, pushing his cock deep into you, and you can’t contain your gasps of pleasure. Lotor is almost as vocal as you, but his voice is lower and quieter; you feel it as much as hear it.
Lotor leans down toward you as he finds a suitable rhythm, his face close enough for his long hair to brush against you as he moves with each thrust. You’re struck with an urge to kiss him, and you bring your hand up from his jaw to the back of his head to push his lips to yours, but he turns before your lips touch and begins to kiss along your jaw instead. You then draw your hand down to his ears so you can lightly trace your fingers along their outside edges and play with his earlobes.
He shivers when you do this and lets out a long moan, then softly whispers your name against your ear. It sends a wave of pleasure through you and you grind your hips into his next thrust and squeeze around him inside of you as tightly as you can. He rocks back to free his arms, then pulls you up into a hug, keeping you close, bringing you into a tight embrace. You lean into his touch, embrace being all too alien to you, nuzzling against his neck and grinding hard against his hips. He drags his claws down from your shoulders to the small of your back. You moan against his chest, loudly, and start dragging your own claws over his shoulders.
“Mmh,” he sighs as your claws pucker his skin. Lotor leans in and runs his tongue over your neck, his deep voice still vibrating against you as he hums against your flesh.
“Aah, oh, Prince Lotor, your Majesty, ah! Mmmh!” You call out his name as he drives you wild with pleasure, driving you toward your climax. You can feel the spring coiling tightly as Lotor bucks against you. His pace is more chaotic than when he began and you’re pretty sure he’s close too.
Closer than you had guessed, you realize, as he gasps, his breathing heavier than ever, and you feel his warm seed fill you up. Your need is stronger than ever and you grip him tightly with your legs as you ride him to your own finish. Finally you feel the spring release and you moan with pleasure, moving smoothly into a sigh of satisfaction as you ride through your orgasm.
You’re able to enjoy the feeling for but a few more ticks before he releases his embrace, you lie back down, and Lotor slides out of you. Before you can really settle into a relaxed stupor, Lotor’s hand is around your throat, and reality comes back.
“Now,” he pauses, still catching his breath. “Who sent you here?”
That’s right. You’re not lovers. You’re an assassin here to kill him.
You wanted to hold on to the fantasy for just a bit longer. Stay lost for just a bit longer. The fantasy always ended too soon.
You look up and meet his gaze. He is deadly serious. It looks a little funny juxtaposed against his disheveled appearance and nudity.
“I don’t know,” you answer.
He tightens his grip around your neck.
“Tell me. I hold no ill will against you, but I will have your master’s name.”
“I don’t know,” you answer again. It is the truth. “I am never told these things. I go where I am told to, I eliminate who I am told to. That’s all.” You see no point in lying, as he has clearly surmised your true intentions.
“Who do you report to?” he asks.
“My owners go by Grik and Turak.”
“So you’re not being monitored now, I take it,” he says. It’s not so much a question as an observation.
“No,” you answer. “I have fifteen vargas before I am expected to present evidence of your death. Anything else is left to my discretion.” Suddenly it’s too funny for you to keep a straight face, and you laugh, asking, “…Do you always fuck your assassins first?”
Lotor snarls, “I am not playing, girl!” He tightens his grip again, and breathing becomes noticeably harder. “Do not think I will hesitate to end your life.”
You don’t want that. You’ve struggled too hard, for too long, just to survive. You need to draw another breath, to put one foot in front of the other. You grab the wrist around your neck.
Satisfied his threat has registered, Lotor loosens his grip just enough for you to breathe. You gasp in a breath through your tender windpipe.
“Now. Tell me all of the information that you have been given, to the last detail, and as long as you cooperate, I would spare you.” His voice is businesslike. This whole thing feels ridiculous with both of you naked, but you dare not laugh.
“I have no other information to give,” you admit. “I’m quite deliberately kept in the dark.”
“How did you plan to carry out your assassination?” he asks, moving to his next question without hesitation.
“I have a poison capsule I was supposed to slip into your mouth. It’s kept in a false tooth.”
“Hm,” he answers with a nod. “That is what I was led to believe. Earlier you went to kiss me. Was that when you planned to strike?”
You aren’t sure what to say. In truth, you just wanted to kiss him. You had forgotten all about poisoning him. That was why he turned away from you.
“I don’t know. I was waiting for when it felt right.”
Lotor seems satisfied by this answer.
“And what happens if fifteen vargas go by and you show up empty-handed? Or don’t show up at all?”
You freeze. The pain. The pain is what happens.
“You can probably guess the penalty for failure,” you answer. “It doesn’t matter where I go. I have no collar around my neck, mine is inside.”
“You would be killed, I imagine?” he asks.
You look into his eyes. You don’t want to die, you’ve fought too hard and too long to draw breath each day to let go. But you wish, sometimes, that the penalty for failure was death. You remember but a shadow of it, protected by your own mind; it was a spark of electric pain burning down your spine, feeling like they were ripping it out of your body. Every nerve in agony, crying out for it to please just stop.
“Torture,” you answer. You mean to say it matter-of-factly, detached, but your voice fails and it comes out as a haunted whisper.
Lotor frowns, his face serious - perhaps even sympathetic - but he does not let you up.
“That is unfortunate. But you can imagine why I cannot allow you to succeed,” he says.
“Right,” you answer, but it has begun to settle in: you now face the choice between death and enduring that pain again.
“So I would extend you the offer to join me, if you wish,” Lotor says. This reminds you of his famous extension of mercy and partnership to a Galra commander who challenged him. You wonder vaguely if that disgraced Throk is the one who put you up to this. “I can remove the chip in your neck,” he adds.
You look up into his face and your eyes widen, but then you look away.
“It’s no simple matter. It’s embedded very deeply. I’ve tried to locate it with my claws before.”
“I’m sure,” Lotor answers, “but I can see. And I have removed one of these before. I know exactly how difficult it is, but I was able to remove the chip without causing paralysis.”
“And if you do paralyze me?” you ask. “What, will you take care of me?”
“Not me personally. But I would see to it that you are taken care of, perhaps acquire a mechanized exoskeleton for you. Now. Out with that poison capsule, and let’s get the chip out of your neck. Do we have a deal?”
“Why?” you ask. You’re crying. Freedom suddenly feels closer than it has ever felt before. “Why would you do this for me?”
“It’s not out of pity,” he assures you. “But I intend to track down whoever is paying to have me killed, and it will be much easier with your help. Furthermore, I could use an assassin of your talents. Now, let’s have that capsule, and I’ll let you up.”
Lotor extends his other hand next to your mouth. You reach up with your tongue and dislodge your false molar, and hook the capsule with your tongue as you’ve done many times before. You open your mouth and the capsule is there, gripped in the very edge of your tongue, then drop the capsule into Lotor’s hand. He brings it up to take a closer look and lets go of your neck, then gets up without a word and goes to the washroom. He returns wearing a fresh body suit and holding a tweezer and a pouch of something you don’t recognize.
From his bedside table, Lotor retrieves a small dagger. He turns to you and frowns at the judgmental look on your face.
“It’s for self-protection,” he declares. “I’m afraid you’re not the first person to try and kill me in my chambers, and you likely won’t be the last.”
“Technically I never tried to kill you,” you say, before prostrating yourself on the bed and presenting the back of your neck. Somehow this feels so much more intimate than when the two of you were having sex.
“And why is that, I wonder?” he asks you.
“I couldn’t find a reason to hate you,” you admit. He pauses, probably expecting you to continue, but that’s all you say.
Lotor brushes your hair away from the nape of your neck, and trails his finger over the flesh there, his claw brushing against your skin.
“I have a salve to close the wound but I’m afraid I don’t have anything for the pain,” he says.
“I don’t care,” you answer.
“This will be painful,” he warns you.
“I will endure it.”
Apparently satisfied with this, Lotor slices open the nape of your neck, then creates a smaller, perpendicular cut across the middle of the first. It stings, but not badly. You haven’t yet flinched.
He pushes the tweezers into the wound and you gasp. The dull, sharp points push into your neck and every movement of his hand sends pain arcing through your body. It hurts, but not like the pain. This is agony, that was Hell itself.
With a wrench of particularly excruciating pain, you whimper and dig your claws into the bed so hard they sink into the mattress effortlessly.
“Shh, it’s alright,” he says. “I’ve just about got it.” His voice is surprisingly soft. He is absolutely focused on his goal. “And…there. Please forgive me, this will hurt a lot. I probably should have given you something to bite.”
“Get it out!” you cry. You are pretty sure tears are falling from your eyes. Freedom is too close now, you’d give anything for him to succeed. With a strong movement of his wrist he tugs the chip out of you. For the briefest flash, something approaching the pain radiates from the back of your neck, but then it’s all but over. The burning recedes as he slowly, carefully draws the chip out to the surface of the skin and lifts it away from you. He sets it aside and applies the pouch of salve to the wound, a cool and soothing comfort radiating from it. You relax and slow your breathing.
“I apologize. I know that hurt quite a lot,” he says.
“Pain is the way of life for a Galra.”
He looks at you, and his eyes narrow, but it is without anger. Pity perhaps? Sadness, you decide, of some flavor.
“It doesn’t have to be,” he answers softly.
The idea that the Prince knows anything of suffering strikes you as so patently absurd that you laugh without meaning to. It’s not a pretty laugh, it comes out quite sharp. In Lotor’s eyes, the missing anger suddenly appears.
“Do you think it so ridiculous for a half-Galra to change our ways? I refuse to continue down a doomed path, just because another thinks I have no right to lead the procession.”
You blink at him, caught off guard.
“That’s not it at all. It’s nothing about your blood – or rather, no, that’s wrong. It’s about your being a Prince, not your being a half-Galra.”
He gives you a hard stare and then looks away.
“You’re serious,” he says.
“I am serious. I am a slave whore, what do I care about your purity of blood?”
“Were,” he corrects, his voice firm. “You are no longer.” He holds up the bloody chip for emphasis, and you can see small bits of flesh stuck to the outside of it.
You have many things you could say in answer, but you do not.
Instead you say, “When we find them, the ones who go by Grik and Turak, I want to be the one to kill them. Their client is yours, but they are mine.” You are not asking.
“Of course. I would never presume otherwise.”