Until We Have Faces

[ninefox]

Krell had to pin him with the Force to get him on the altar, and not gently. The back of his head might be bleeding, but it's hard to tell: the antechamber already smells of iron. The whole station is a bristling-black hulk of ancient ore, nickel and iron and ice and stone. The lack of anything resembling alloys or right angles makes it feel horribly unreliable, not a machine guaranteed to keep the air in, but an ancient brooding piece of debris untouched by the steadiness of engineers. It did have an airlock, that Krell and a few shame-faced clone guards shuffled him through, and iced-over doors somewhere in the dimness of their crisscrossed headlamps that must lead back into the warren of Ninefox Point.

The benighted promontory did not orbit so much as a brown dwarf or black hole: it was a rogue planetoid, drifting through the ragged stretches of starless, lifeless space. Here, old Strife, the Dark Side of War, had been confined ever since the ascendancy of the Jedi, noble Combat, and the rest of the Light pantheon. But even reviled and relegated Gods were due certain honors, and retained certain powers - and certain appetites. And Krell - who had his own suspicions about the future of that ascendancy - had come to give Strife his due and be rid of his most vexing problem in one blow.

It's pitch-black with him and the others gone. The heavy magnetic manacles embedded in the alter are utterly immovable; the stone beneath him is pitted and rough and cold, almost untouched since the creation of the universe - except, of course, for all the sacrifices that have come before.

Comments

[callmefives]

"Get... g-get off," he almost howls, shoving desperately at him even as his toes curl and his hips rock. He's not dehydrated anymore, and tears slide, unheeded, down his cheeks as his howl breaks off on a stuttering groan.

[ninefox]

Jedao catches his wrists and kisses his knuckles; he cradles Fives' head and holds Fives' face against his own shoulder. As much as Jedao wants to kiss his tears away, that seemed to set him off even worse last lime. He can cry. Jedao will just hold him and kiss his forehead and his short hair and let him cry, whimpering and riding him all through it.

[callmefives]

He tries to jerk his hands away, tries to turn his face away from where it's pressed against the monster's shoulder, but he's beyond overpowered. And even though, rationally, he should know there's no point in struggling he can't stop. Can't stop thrashing to try and get away, choking out curses and imprecations and pleas to be released, all of it broken up by deep, wracking groans at the unwanted pleasure arcing along his nerves, curling in his gut and heating his blood.

He doesn't want this. The kisses or the gentle touches, as if this creature gives a damn about him as anything but a tool for its own pleasure. Most of all he doesn't want the arousal that all the anger in the world can't seem to quench, as he rocks helplessly up into the thing riding him, feeling heat and pleasure build and build, feeling his balls draw up and his skin go hot and tight. He doesn't want any of it, and it obviously couldn't matter less.