If there was anything Shiro had learned in his time in captivity, it was that being noticed by the Galra always hurt. Being ignored was safest - invisible, harmless, non-threatening, not worth their time. But he'd also learned that he was stronger than many of the other prisoners, better able to bear the pain and suffering. And if he could take it, then maybe the others (maybe Matt) wouldn't have to. Surely there was only so much punishment to go around? So he kept on putting himself forward, making sure the Galra paid attention him, trying to be whatever he thought would appeal to them.
He became a beast in the arena. He channeled his rage at what had happened to them into his matches, let it give him power. He was small compared to most of the Galra, and had to fight dirty in order to survive. The crowd seemed to like that. At first it made him feel sick. After a while, he got better at shutting down his emotions and just doing what he had to do.
Once he'd won a few matches, his captors started noticing him more, which had been his goal from the start. Some of the other prisoners whispered he was doing it to get better treatment, more attention - and it was true that now, after a match, the Galra would give him some modicum of medical care instead of just throwing him back into the cell. He was popular, he needed to be in good condition to keep on fighting. Others said he had gone mad, that he was like an animal, or a monster, that he enjoyed the brutal fights. Shiro couldn't disagree. It gave him someplace to direct his anger, a way to feel like there was a purpose to all of this, instead of it just being a terrible, arbitrary thing that had happened because he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
After a fight, he ached everywhere, his muscles burning, skin broken by a hundred little wounds. He tasted blood in his mouth. Sometimes it wasn't his.
After one particularly gruelling fight, the arena guards took away his sword (as always - of course they couldn't leave a prisoner with a weapon outside the ring) and then, instead of bringing him to the infirmary to be patched up as they usually did, they half-carried, half-dragged him to an area he hadn't seen before. He was tossed unceremoniously through a doorway and left sprawled face-down on the floor.
"Commander Sendak, the prisoner you requested," one of the guards announced briskly, and they departed. Shiro almost thought they might be hurrying away, and that worried him.
He lifted his head a little, just enough to try and make out where he was. There was a rug, which already marked this room as more luxurious than any he'd been in during his entire captivity so far. There was a chair, and just at the edge of his vision, a bed. Seated in the chair was a Galra, although so far Shiro couldn't see more of him than his legs.
"So, you're the one they call the Champion," Sendak said. His voice was deep and smooth.
Shiro wasn't sure whether he was expecting an answer or not. He decided to risk it. "I've heard that," he muttered, still mostly facing the floor. A drop of blood from a laceration on his forehead fell onto the carpet, a red droplet soaking into its purple threads and disappearing there.
"I saw your match today. Very impressive, for one of your kind."
"Thank you, sir." He sensed that any other response would only get him in trouble. The anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that he was already in trouble, but he didn't know precisely what kind. Perhaps this Galra officer thought to test his strength against a victorious gladiator, for practice or amusement. Perhaps it was something more sinister. But being noticed - being singled out - always ended with pain.
Sendak, whose face he still hadn't seen, rose from his seat and walked toward him. All of the Galra Shiro had seen so far wore armor, but this one's feet and legs were bare and purple-furred. Being in a private room with a possibly-naked Galra was more alarming than some of the things he'd faced in the arena. He risked looking up further and saw the edge of a robe that was draped over muscular thighs. Not naked, then, but not dressed for battle either. That seemed to rule out a sparring match. Shiro wasn't sure he liked the options that left any better.
"Get up," the Galra ordered him, and Shiro, wincing, pulled himself to his feet. He had to look up to see Sendak's face, as the commander stood at least a head taller than him. He was broad-shouldered and had purple fur with tufted ears. One of his eyes had been replaced with a cybernetic enhancement that glowed red. When he smiled, his teeth were pointed. That wolfish smile made Shiro fear what was going to come next.
One of those big hands shot out to grasp Shiro's chin, lifting him up onto his tiptoes, turning it this way and that, as though Sendak wanted to examine him from various angles. Shiro grimaced, but didn't pull away. "Are you considered handsome among your people?"
The question wasn't what he had expected, and Shiro was shocked into an honest response. "Yes," he admitted, hating the way he could feel a blush spreading across his cheeks. He didn't know why he cared about sounding conceited to a Galra. He was used to being evaluated for his physical skills, his strength, his combat ability. This was different, though. This was being examined like a piece of meat about to be devoured.
Sendak released his face from his grip, and Shiro bit back an urge to run. Just go along with whatever he wants, he told himself, it'll be over sooner. Still, he couldn't stop himself from trembling when Sendak spoke again. "Remove your clothing."
The tunics and trousers they gave their prisoners were made of coarse cloth, ill-fitting and uncomfortable at the best of times, but still Shiro would have much preferred to keep them on. Instead he slowly stripped, painfully aware of Sendak watching him. His wounds made it even more uncomfortable. The scabbed-over spots where blood had dried to the fabric pulled and tore as he undressed, leaving fresh red seeping from his injuries. He winced, and Sendak smiled again, enjoying the sight of his discomfort.
He stepped out of his pants, covering his groin with his hands, for all the good that did. The Galra circled around him like a predatory cat, looking him up and down. When he reached Shiro's front again, he slid his robe off, leaving no doubt as to his intentions. His cock was massive, darker purple than the rest of his skin, with thick fur at its base. Shiro wanted to close his eyes, but also didn't want to leave himself any more vulnerable than he already was. He forced himself to look directly ahead, facing Sendak stubbornly.
"On the bed," Sendak ordered him. Shiro didn't move, or didn't move quickly enough, so the Galra grabbed his shoulder and shoved him in the right direction. He fell onto the bed, face down, and felt himself swiftly pinned down by the commander's heavy bulk. There was nothing in the way of foreplay, and Shiro was almost glad of that - anything resembling tenderness or affection would have been nothing but a cruel parody, and even harder to bear than this rough efficiency.
He whimpered when Sendak pushed his legs apart with his knee, adjusting his position to suit his desires. He could have fought back, but he knew that struggling would only make this worse. At least it's me and not Matt, he told himself, finding the barest hint of consolation in that thought. It ached when Sendak shoved his way inside him, but he must have slicked himself with something, because it wasn't as painful as it could have been. I can handle it, Shiro thought. As long as it's over fast.
He wasn't sure how best to hurry things along, though. He didn't know whether moving would encourage the Galra, or enrage him. He tried squirming, pushing back against his assailant, and got shoved down harder into the mattress in response.
Sendak's tongue, rough as a cat's, rasped across one of the wounds on his shoulder, and he cried out. The reaction seemed to provoke the Galra, who dug his fingers hard against a set of livid bruises along Shiro's side. Shiro tried to focus on his breathing to keep from screaming again, and, perhaps disappointed in the lack of an overt show of pain, Sendak snarled and slammed into him harder.
With dismay, Shiro felt his own body responding to being violated, his ass stretching open to accomodate the Galra's size, his own cock stiffening as it rubbed against the sheets with each rough thrust. Somehow that was worse than anything else - the idea that at some level he might enjoy this. What did that say about him, if getting treated like this made him hard?
Sendak seemed to notice this change as well, and laughed, almost more of a growl. He reached under Shiro and grasped him roughly, stroking him. Shiro whimpered, but couldn't struggle free - his body betrayed him, and every twist or jerk of his hips only increased his agonizing arousal. He thought he might be sick. Desperately he closed his eyes, willing this to be over, trying to dissociate himself from what was going on with his body, but every stroke of his cock drew him unwillingly back.
He felt Sendak bury himself deep inside his ass, and a hot, sickening rush spread through him. The Galra roared as he came, and Shiro responded involuntarily, his own body jerking uncontrollably, full of shame and disgust. He choked back sobs when Sendak pulled out of him, leaving him feeling filthy and unbearably exposed as he lay there, face down on the mattress.
The Galra stood, retrieving his robe, and summoned a lackey with the press of a button. He didn't stop Shiro when he crawled to the floor and started trying to get his clothes on. "Who is 'Matt'?" he inquired casually, and Shiro froze.
"You called out that name. A lover, perhaps?" He sounded smug, as though he'd figured out some deep, dark secret.
Shiro refused to answer, and received a blow to the face for his silence. He crouched on the floor, still only half-dressed when the door opened and someone stepped in. "Yes, Commander?"
"Return this prisoner to the cells," Sendak ordered. Shiro wanted to sink into the floor and die, knowing it would be obvious what had happened, wondering if the other prisoners would know, or think he'd wanted it. "And find out if there is any prisoner named Matt," he added, and Shiro went pale, fearing what that might mean.
The Galra soldier waited until Shiro had finished getting his clothes on before taking him by the arm to lead him away. He wasn't rough, at least, but even that much contact made Shiro flinch. When they were out in the corridor, with the door closed behind him, the Galra paused, turning to look at him for a moment. "Are you all right?" he asked. He almost sounded... kind, but surely that was impossible.
Shiro stared at the floor. "I'm... please, just take me back to the cell, I'm fine."
The other man nodded, but still hesitated for a moment. "It's not your fault," he said quietly. "He does that to lots of people." Something about his voice made Shiro suspect he knew all too well. He didn't respond, but did look up enough to see this Galra's face, so that he might remember it.
"I'm Ulaz," he said quietly, and began guiding Shiro back to the prisoners' wing. They didn't speak further, but Ulaz did leave him a clean towel to clean himself up with when he deposited him back in his cell. That meager kindness was enough to give Shiro a faint glimmer of hope, even while he scrubbed himself until his skin was red.