Out of Darkness - Body and Blood

by BlackRose ([email protected])

Title: Out of Darkness - Body and Blood
Author: BlackRose ([email protected])
Archive: m_a, OOD page and anyone else who wants it. ^_^
Pairing: O/X
Rating: NC17
Category: AU, Angst, PWP, BDSM
Series: Out of Darkness (the "What if the Sith won?" AU challenge)
http://digitalmidnight.simplenet.com/garden/ood.html

WARNING: Dark dark DARK *DARK* AU! Did I mention this was a Sith controlled universe? Happy fluffy this is not! Possibly squicky it is! I wouldn't exactly call it NC BDSM, but it's very much bordering on it. Please take heed of your own limits when reading this. I'm notoriously unsquickable, so I'm a really bad judge about it all

George Lucas is God of a universe a long time ago and far far away. I just smuggled them out to play around in the universe where you forgot to take a left at Alburquerque. I promise to return them none the worse for wear and freshly laundered.

Out of Darkness: Body and Blood
Year of the Empire 1,469
Outer Rim Fleet, Star Destroyer Nakis'sgha

He was, he thought cynically, growing entirely too accustomed to the sound of his own voice.

Becoming used to the sound of it raised, gasping, and to the noise of breathless begging. He was growing accustomed to hearing words of supplication on his own lips, screamed on the tail end of a helpless moan. It sometimes startled him, how collected and calm he sounded at his duties, when the echo of the night before and the memory of his own voice still haunted his mind.

He had become accustomed to the looks in the eyes of others - from the sly, sidelong glances to the hastily averted glares. They had set his nerves on edge at first, made him self conscious and nervous, but now they slid by, only one more familiar and expected part of his new life.

He was, he thought rather bitterly at times, becoming all too complacent in a position which he should never have allowed himself to enter into.

But in the safety of darkness, in the quiet points between physical exhaustion and mental sleep, he sometimes dared to acknowledge that he would not have changed it, even if he could.

"When will you get tired of this?" he would ask, whispering the words across sweat slicked skin in the quiet intimacy of the dark. "And what happens then?"

The only answer was an enigmatic lopsided smile, curving beneath the caress of his fingertips.

In all of his dreams, it had never been quite like this - to earn his favor in such a way, at such a personal expense. And yet... he still would not give it up.

And not, he sometimes admitted, even for the favor it granted him. _____

The corridors were always lit, an artificial brightness that played havok with the body's natural rhythm. Xanatos had acclimated to it long ago, and after years of it no longer even noticed. His internal clock kept an accurate time, now winding slowly down from the length of his duty shift.

Corridors gave way to other corridors, the number of people within them dwindling until he walked them alone, his bootheels ringing solitary against the deck. The quarters he stopped at were not his own, but the palm lock gave way easily when he touched it, the door hissing back. He dialed the lights up as he entered, setting them to half, a dim, warm light that soothed eyes tired from a shift of readout watch.

Home. He wondered, dimly, when he had begun to think of the rooms that way. Wondered, idylly, why he still bothered to keep quarters of his own.

Boots were hauled off and dropped where they fell, thick carpeting cushioning weary feet. The uniform was stripped off, dropped in a trail from the entryway to the sleeping quarters as he struggled out of each piece. The hair tie was the last, freeing long strands made wavy by confinement and drawing a pleased sigh from him as he shook the heavy mass loose and let it fall, the trailing edges brushing feather light midway down his thighs.

There was a mirror on the wall of the sleeping quarters, full length and gleaming in the dim light. By habit Xanatos paused before it, sweeping a critical eye across the figure it revealed. He had always been blessed with a lean form, tall and long of limb. He had, by choice, kept fit - there was muscle in the lines of his thighs and arms, something he worked to maintain. And while the silver that shot through his dark hair seemed to grow greater with every passing season, he had not, he thought, aged badly.

Snorting, he turned away from the mirror, gathering up his hair in heavy handfuls and twisting the length of it into a thick rope that coiled atop his head. The combs were where he always left them upon the couchside table, ready to be plucked from their rest and put to use. He twisted them visciously into place, lips pressed thin and tight.

No, he hadn't aged badly. And, Force willing, he still had a long life before him. But none of that even began to explain why he held the favor he did, or to give him any clue how he might continue to hold it.

"What will happen then?" he asked, but the real question was /What will happen to me?/. The smiled answer told him nothing, only another sign of the fickle whim of its owner.

Fickle, but also startlingly consistent. A glance back at the mirror showed the darkened imprint of fingers against the pale curve of his hip and the angry red lines of nails drawn criss cross across his back. The fresh marks lay across nearly healed ones, and he had no doubt that when the latest batch began to fade it would be replaced by fresher scores. It had been a dull ache that had accompanied him throughout his shift, stinging irritably beneath the cloth of his uniform until he had finally wrenched the collar open and Force cared who saw or what they thought.

The smirking eyes of his lover, following the movement, hadn't improved matters. But remembering that look, grey eyes half slitted beneath heavy lids, lips curved - it brought a flush to his skin and a warmth to his veins. Turning back to face the mirror, Xanatos tilted his head back, eyeing the band of bruises strung across his throat. Yes, let them look. Let them whisper. He had heard all of it already, from whore to pet, and he couldn't deny any of them.

But it was also more then that. Force, but it was more.

-----

It was sound that woke him. His body was in motion before his mind even registered its change of state - reaching for the blaster under the pillow as he jerked upright, the weapon powered up and aimed at the source of the disurbance. Only then did his ears, belatedly, recognize the muted shriek of a low beam saber even as his eyes took in the emptiness of the sleeping quarters.

Thumbing the power down, Xanatos tossed the blaster onto the covers and raked his fingers through his bangs, rubbing at sleep heavy eyes. A glance at the chrono display set in the wall proved that the 3rd shift had just ended - punctual as usual. What was unusual was that he himself had been left to sleep.

Frowning, Xanatos rose, hands automatically twisting back the loose length of his hair. In the outer room the growl of the saber rose a notch in pitch as it was swung through empty air. Kenobi rarely worked out in his own rooms - they were too small to allow for the fancier airborne acrobatics he preferred, and taking the display to a public training hall had the added advantage of allowing for an audience of onlookers. It was something the General silently encouraged, as watching the Sith Lord in combat maneuvers rarely failed to provoke fear and awe - and hence, obedience.

The door of the sleeping room slid back as he approached and Xanatos paused there, leaning his bare shoulder against the cool metal of the wall. Though he would never admit it, the sight in the outer room took his breath away.

Kenobi had stripped, his own clothes and the ones Xanatos had discarded earlier piled neatly beside the door to the sleeping quarters, out of the way. Xanatos had long before come to the conclusion that Kenobi, naked, was more dangerous looking than he was clothed. Fleet uniform for Sith was black on black, a softer, loose cut than regular uniform, reminiscent of a Master's robes. They accentuated Kenobi's youth and the man usually managed to wear them with an idolently sensual air. But unclothed...

Whipcord slender, the man was nothing but lean muscle and sinew. The grace which was sensual when clothed was deadly to behold when you could see the muscle behind it. There were poisonous reptiles who moved as he did - from stillness to strike in the blink of an eye, recoiled faster then a normal man's vision could follow. In combat manuvers he was icy death in motion.

Xanatos let out a soft breath, unconsiously worrying at his lower lip. Pale skin rippled with the slide of muscles as he watched, the broad back alive with the sinuous curves of red and black that emerged from the nape of the honey tinted hair to trail down the Sith Lord's spine, curving out across his shoulder blades and hips and down around his buttocks. Unlike the total masks of the Elite Guard, a Sith Lords tatoos were unique and individual, designed and gifted by their Master. Kenobi's Master had had a distinct eye for the striking and the beautiful - the General's designs accentuated curve and muscle, carressing his chest and waist in paths that made Xanatos' hands itch to follow them across the smooth skin.

Strike, thrust and strike again, black and silver hilt shifted easily from hand to hand, the saber blade powered no longer then Kenobi's forearm and gleaming a baleful fiery red in the dim light. It was a knife fight, compact and contained, but to Xanatos' not entirely untrained eye it was still different from any other workout Kenobi had done. There was something angry in the motions of it, and in the anger was almost a meditation, one where each slice and thrust exoricised something, working closer to a goal.

It was beautiful. More than anything else, Xanatos never tired of watching Kenobi in motion. And nothing, anywhere, could match the clear purity of the Sith Lord in combat.

Unless, a traitorous portion of his mind whispered, it was the sight of Kenobi, flushed and sweating, teeth bared and eyes slitted closed as he shuddered in climax.

He was achingly hard, his body nearly trained to expect the scent and feel of sex upon waking. The smile that touched his lips held a bitter edge to it, without humor. Trained to Kenobi's touch and Kenobi's desires, like a well taught pet.

But he was still a pet with teeth.

The door to the sleeping room slid shut with a hiss as he stepped forward. Kenobi whirled, the shriek of his saber suddenly deafening as the blade leapt out to its full length, crackling dangerously in the enclosed space. Xanatos held his ground as the fringe of the blade's heat touched his naked skin, leaving a swath of warmth across his chest before coming to rest at the base of his throat.

Kenobi's eyes met his, something sardonicly challenging in their depths. The saber hummed between them, held rock steady in the Sith's hands, a brand of unforgiving heat against the older man's pulse.

Swallowing softly, his eyes never wavering from the Sith, Xanatos took another step forward into the lightsaber.

Kenobi smiled, a pleased little expression, as the saber blade dialed down to accomodate the reduced space between them. Xanatos boldly took another step, then another, the blade retreating before him even as a blister broke out against his skin where the tip licked at his throat. Kenobi's fine control over the weapong never wavered until, with one final step, the hum wound into silence as he powered it completely down.

They stayed there, Xanatos barely daring to breath. It had been a calculated risk to walk into the saber, a test of his own nerve and Kenobi's mood. To move any further, with the poisoned tip of the saber hilt nearly brushing his chest, was idiot stupidity.

Kenobi laughed softly. Abruptly, the hilt was withdrawn, flipped neatly over and the relatively safer clasp end extended towards the older man. "Did you want something, Xani?" Kenobi asked lightly.

Xanatos stiffened. It was a harsh jibe, cruel of Kenobi to use, calling up the distant memory of his days as an initiate when he had been confident that he, too, would one day carry a lightsaber as a proud Lord of the Sith. He felt his face heat, felt the flush throb through the service scar on his cheek where the record of his disgrace was implanted, carried with him always. He found his voice in a snarl, angry and defiant. "Don't mock me!"

The General smiled, an expression curiously devoid of any cruelty. "You'd give anything to have it back, wouldn't you?" he asked softly. "Life, power, family - every chance at anything, just to touch the Force one more time..."

"Be *quiet*," Xanatos demanded, furious. He twisted past the outstretched saber hilt, closing the last distance between them and silencing the Sith's words the only way he knew how - lip pressed bruisingly tight to lip, tasting the blood as tooth split flesh. His fingers found soft strands of hair which he twisted, forcing Kenobi's head back as he used what slight edge his greater height gave him to advantage.

Dimly he heard the clatter as Kenobi tossed aside the saber and then the General's hands were on him. Scar smooth palms slid down his back, wet with a mixture of the saber's poison and Kenobi's own blood, trailing a stinging burn across his skin before it neutralized. Xanatos caught his breath on a gasp, feeling the momentary pain flush through his body like a burst of warmth that centered in his groin, lingering like a teasing caress.

Kenobi growled softly against his lips, a wordless sound of hunger as his teeth nipped sharply at flesh. A second gasp became a wordless cry as the Sith swept Xanatos' feet from under him and shoved him to the floor with an impact that momentarily took his breath away, stinging through his shoulders.

"Better," Kenobi hissed, his gaze raking across Xanatos' body, lingering on the marks that colored the pale skin. At first, remarks like that had been both embarassing and humiliating, bringing an angry flush in their wake. Now, Xanatos only smiled lazily as he arched his back, letting a long, tingling stretch define the muscles in his thighs and chest as his hands slid slowly down his hips.

A smile tugged at Kenobi's lips, appreciative in its frank lust. "Turn over," he commanded. Disappointed, Xanatos moved to obey, but when he would have risen to his knees a hard hand in the small of his back shoved him flat to the floor. "Stay still," the Sith growled.

Frustrated, Xanatos hissed softly, wriggling beneath the hand on his back. Two bruising blows against each buttock, delivered in quick succession, made him stop. A few moments later two fingers, slick with saliva, were thrust roughly into him. Xanatos choked, the cry muffled in his throat. "There," Kenobi said, sounding satisfied. "Now, stay still."

Xanatos moaned, his hands fisted against the carpeting. The fingertips of Kenobi's free hand spidered lightly across his back, nails tracing each mark, every scratch and bruise. It brought them all alive, a throbbing counterpoint of dull pain with each heartbeat to offset the slow burn of the fingers that held him in place. The Sith Lord twisted his hand languidly, a random motion that brought a low whimper to the other man's lips, sweat breaking out in cool patches across his too warm skin.

Kenobi bent down, his breath puffing light across the nape of Xanatos' neck a moment before his teeth found skin, biting hard enough to leave a mark. The older man stiffened, back arching involuntarily, the outrush of his breath half moan. "More," he whispered through clenched teeth.

The warm, wet touch of a tongue trailed across the ache of a scratch, soothing it momentarily even as it set it to throbbing once more. "When *I* want to," Kenobi breathed, his teeth scraping at a bruise that shivered sensation through Xanatos' flesh. Abruptly the fingers were withdrawn, then thrust upward again, dragging a strangled cry from the older man. Kenobi's weight was full against his back, pinning him without leverage, the Sith's nails raking new scores across his lower back. "Do you belong to me?" Kenobi whispered softly.

Xanatos growled, a soft sound of frustration. "As the General wishes," he choked out, the only answer he ever gave.

The hands vanished from his body so quickly he didn't have time to voice a protest of any sort, his body grabbed in a rush of pressure and flipped, the breath shocked from his lungs. Kenobi grasped a handful of his hair, pulling his head up as the General's mouth found his, shared blood from a split lip bathing their tongues. Xanatos could feel the trickle of it across his jaw, Kenobi's tongue licking across his lower lip in a slow caress. The carpeting, soft to the touch of feet and hands, abraded the bruised flesh of his back roughly. Gasping, he reached up, only to have his wrists caught and held in one strong hand, fingers digging into his pulse.

Kenobi's eyes were dark with passion, half obscured by the sweat dampened fall of loose hair. Xanatos whimpered, a sound he couldn't quite bite back, his nerves throbbing with sensations that were not quite pain or pleasure, edging into both. The Force gathered around them at the Sith's will, the pressure of it an empty mockery that the older man was helpless before, pinning him imobile beneath the General's gaze.

Hard fingertips slid across his shoulders and chest, nails digging crescents into the tender, tightened flesh of nipples and drawing tiny beads of blood. Xanatos exhaled a long moan, trying in vain to thrust up into the touch of those hands only to have them drawn away. "Kenobi," he breathed, and in response a set of nails drew sharply across the softer flesh of his belly, leaving the hot throb of welts in their wake. He gasped, breath hissing. His throat worked, soundless, struggling to not bring forth the inevitable. He closed his eyes, the tendons of his throat standing in sharp relief as he tried to turn his head to the side.

A smooth palm slid between his thighs, stroking across the aching length of his erection before sliding lower to cup him in its warmth. Xanatos held his breath, more then aware of his vulnerability, but the hand only moved gently, caressing. His hips strained to move with the motion, caught fast in the smothering pressure of the Force. Nails returned to his nipples, bruising each in turn, a bright flush of pain along side the pleasure until Xanatos could no longer tell one from the other. The moans were rising in his throat, breathless whispers he couldn't hold back. "Please... please..."

The hand between his thighs tightened, the grasp verging on pain. Xanatos gasped, shuddering. Kenobi slid down between his spread legs, the handspan of air between their bodies so warm it burned. The Sith's breath slid across his sweat slicked skin, the man's tongue flickering out to lap at the small streaks of blood on his chest. Xanatos dared to open his eyes, moaning softly as he watched the dark swirl of a tongue tip across his own pale skin. Daring, he wet his lips. "Please," he whispered softly. "Kenobi..."

A cry burst from his lips as the hand tightened another small notch and then relaxed, the flash of pain pooling sickeningly in his stomach. "My Lord..." he gasped.

"Yes," Kenobi growled. His other hand slid down, wrapping tight around Xanatos' failing erection and stroking it easily back to fullness, drawing another breathless moan from the older man as conflicting sensations surged through abused nerves. "Xanatos..." Half purr, half ice, the low whisper drew his attention. The Sith's darkened gaze caught and held him, glittering. "Who do you belong to?"

Xanatos whimpered softly. The anger he had seen in the combat practice was still there, burning dark in the Sith's grey eyes. It made him cold, seeing there the possibility of his own real injury - not the passion marks that scored him throat to heel, but real damage, an object broken and discarded. His voice died in his throat, robbed of breath.

"Say it," Kenobi hissed. "Who do you belong to?"

Some remnant of stubborn pride made him grit his teeth, the words choked out from between them. "You don't... I'm not... owned..."

His words trailed off in a cry, his body jerking in Kenobi's grasp as the man released him, fingers thrusting back into him. Xanatos felt himself clench involuntarily, the tight pain wrenching a gasp from him. He forced himself to draw a stuttered breath, then another, trying to relax into the sensation, willing it from the first edge of pain to the sweeter burn of pleasure.

"Xanatos," Kenobi whispered, the sounds a soft caress. "Who. Do you. Belong. To."

The pain was receeding, letting him catch his breath, but the echo of it hovered in every bruise with the promise of more. He could take the pain, he swore to himself. He could accept it and, if necessary, die with it. But the chill anger lacing the Sith's voice froze him, and he wondered desperately where the edge had been crossed. Kenobi's gaze was cold need, demanded an answer from him; not his customary one but a harsher truth.

"Say it," the General breathed. "One word, my Xan. Say it."

"No..." But the denial had no strength, breathed on the sob of a gasp. Kenobi shifted, fingers moving, and the shock of pleasure was nearly as bad as the pain. One word... he couldn't think, the thoughts skittering away from his grasp as his body shrieked at him. Groaning, he closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of the Sith's gaze, but it followed him even there, burned into memory.

Kenobi's words were against his throat, breathed in burning puffs of breath against his skin. "Xanatos..." A pause, branded into his flesh, vibrating across nerve. Softly, whispered into his skin, drawing a moan from his chest. "Let me have you."

Xanatos' breath bust forth in a soft cry. It burned his throat, tight and hot, but his lips shaped it, breathed it forth all unwillingly. "Master..."

"Yes," Kenobi hissed, voice sharp. Xanatos gasped as the invisible bonds of the Force released him, his body buckling. Kenobi's weight pressed him down, feeding the greedy ache of his flesh as he fisted shaking hands against the Sith's hot skin. The younger man's mouth found his throat, teeth sinking hard enough to draw blood, the tremors of sensation shaking Xanatos' breath away.

Back arched, sobbing, Xanatos' twisted his fingers through the other man's hair, shuddering as the Sith's fingers worked against him. "Mine," Kenobi whispered fiercely, his free hand drawing lines of fire down the older man's spine. Xanatos felt his breath catch, the first shock of his orgasm surging through his stomach and thighs. He stiffened, shuddering with it, his breath coming in soft cries.

Kenobi laid him back almost gently, hands soothing trembling muscles. Shifting, he moved to straddle Xanatos' hips, his palms stroking in smooth circles across the other man's heaving chest. "Xanatos," he said softly, the tone forcing Xanatos to open eyes that felt too heavy. The intensity of the Sith's gaze hadn't abated, but it shone with something else now, something hungry. "Who do you belong to?"

Convulsively, Xanatos turned his head away, closing his eyes. But the patient touch against his chest, drawing out the shivers that still shot down his spine, made him look back. He couldn't, quite, meet that gaze. But neither could he take back the words, once spoken. Swallowing, he breathed them through a deathly dry mouth. "You." Another shudder, feeling the tears in his eyes and the awful sinking crumble within. "Master."

Kenobi leaned down. "Mine," he whispered again, his breath warm against Xanatos' lips. His kiss was almost gently, a slow melding of mouth and tongue, of shared breath and the tang of blood. Xanatos shuddered as he drew away, whimpering softly. A finger pressed to his lips stilled him, the Sith's gaze catching his. "Don't move," Kenobi said softly. Xanatos could only nod, a small jerk of his chin.

Never looking away, Kenobi thrust out one hand. The discarded hilt of his saber came to his Force drawn call, slipping easily through the air. He caught it neatly, lean fingers grasping the polished silver chasing as he held it.

Xanatos ceased breathing, eyes unblinking as he waited for whatever came next. It was not fear, he told himself, trying to still the tremble in his chest. There was no fear, only anger - and from anger, strength, from strength, victory. A childhood lesson, first learned in the creche... but looking into the fire of Kenobi's grey eyes, he could find no anger in his heart. He had said it already, his own admission of weakness, his critical failure.

He was owned. And owned, he had no right to anger. He was what his Master wished, even if that be dead.

Slowly, letting him watch the details of the action, Kenobi shifted his grasp to the black hilt. There, glittering sullenly in the dimmed lights, were millions of tiny prinprick needles and Xanatos could not entirely still the flinch as he watched the Sith Lord close the palm of his hand across them. Kenobi sighed softly, an exhale of pure pleasure, as a droplet of clear poison trickled down the curve of his thumb to wind across the veins in his wrist. Blood, bright and slick, followed in its wake as he flexed his grip upon the hilt and brought the blade to life.

The hum, a harsh sound for all it was soft in volume, made Xanatos clench his teeth in order not to jerk away. The flame red blade crackled into existance, a brilliant sliver no longer than Kenobi's palm. Slowly, his eyes never wavering, Kenobi sat back across xanatos' thighs, his free hand pressed to the soft flesh below the older man's navel. "Don't move," he repeated softly, his voice almost gentle.

Xanatos looked at the blade in Kenobi's hand, seeing his own death, but could not look away. Stretched upon the carpeting, the aftershocks of orgasm still shivering through his spine, he lay as still as the grave and prayed that it might, at least, be painless and swift enough to leave him dignity in his dying breath. Surely he had earned that much.

Kenobi shifted his grip once more, turning it until he held the blade downwards. Only in the last moment did he release Xanatos' eyes, looking away to be certain of the placement of the blade before touching it to the older man's pale flesh.

It did not kill, but it hurt far, far more then Xanatos had imagined.

Like fire, or the burn of acid, drawn across his flesh in a smooth sweep where sensation only hit in the next heartbeat, exploding through his nerves. He drew one choked gasp, shuddering, back involuntarily arching, but somehow he kept his word and moved no farther then that. Kenobi began above the bone of his left hip, curving down into the sweep of his pelvis, the tip of the saber blade searing through skin with the stench of blood and burnt flesh. From the crease of his thigh, down across the top of his leg and back to his hip, one sweep, then another, and another, careful arcs that the Sith Lord took his time in creating, hand steady, face expressionless.

It lasted an endless number of heartbeats that hammered through his chest, blurring one into another. In the end he heard only his own sobbing gasps, as though from a great distance beyond the pain that radiated, pounding, through his body. He never heard the lightsaber's hum cease, the sound drowned out by the throb of his pulse in his ears.

Kenobi's blood stained palm feathered across his hip, his touch against the burns sparking fire and drawing a ragged scream from Xanatos. A dim thread of warmth eased a measure of the pain, letting him focus aching eyes on the man who knelt above him. Gently, Kenobi reached out, drawing sweat soaked hair away from Xanatos' face. There was something terribly sated in the Sith's eyes, a bone deep satisfaction that the older man had never seen, even in the wake of climax. Slowly, the General smiled, a tiny expression that curved his lips, shifting lazily through his eyes.

"Mine," he whispered again, softly. Something in that single word sent a shiver through Xanatos. Blood stained fingertips traced across his cheek, the touch tingling. "Mine."

[to next stage...]