FIC: Tibrin, Quinlan Vos NC-17
Title: Tibrin
author: helgaleena helgaleenas@yahoo.com
fandom: Star Wars, Clone Wars
medium: graphic novel
genre: adventure slash
pairing: Quinlan Vos/ Dooku
rating: NC-17
theme: Jubilee
warnings: violence, dubious consent
disclaimer: Lucas, Ostrander, and Duursema own everything. I am nothing
summary: Quin finds the true extent to which Dooku "the liberator" depends on his dark Jedi minions. Some of Ostrander's dialogue will be recognizable, from Clone Wars Volume four.
"So Count Dooku, you rule here now. You rule me. I can tolerate this...Republic, Federation, makes no difference to me. Yet I have valuable experience of leading the Ishi Tib. I can be very useful to your cause. And I think we understand each other."
Suribran Tu, until yesterday supreme despot of the planet Tibrin, stood before the Count, flanked by the Dark Jedi in the Count's employ, seeming unperturbed. He composedly flapped his amphibian jowls, and his yellow eyes remained calculating.
The Count had been lounging elegantly in the Supreme Seat of Tibrin, fashioned from an enormous mollusk shell, on the dais before them. Now he rose and smoothly descended the steps to stand among his lieutenants and hopeful servants, black tailored uniform and cloak flowing gracefully. He still towered over them all, and his perfectly coifed silver hair and beard caught the light filtering through the immense colored lens windows. But the molten intellect in his eyes was what refracted the most upon them, as he readied yet another challenge for his hangers-on.
He turned to the lone female among them. "Kadrian Sey-- tell me whether you approve of letting him serve me."
The strait-laced young Zabrak answered after a pause of only a few moments, her lips barely moving in the fierce setting of her multi-horned visage. As usual, her leathery fingers never strayed away from the hilt of her lightsabre. "He speaks truth. Leaving Tu in position, while enforcing our own aims upon his administration, would provide continuity." Behind her, Vaapad Master Sora Bulq kept his seamed face inscrutable, and his hands folded into the sleeves of his tan robes, but Tol Skorr, the human, grimaced into his moustache. Even he knew that was the wrong answer.
Dooku turned to the newest member of his little circle. "What do you say, Quinlan Vos?"
The Kiffar in black leather armor turned his matted head away from the Ishi Tib he'd been studying, his obsidian eyes burning up at the Count's from over the yellow tattoo, beneath the heavy brow. "Suribran Tu is a butcher and a traitor. His subjects hate him. And as easily as he betrayed the Republic, he will betray you."
His answer earned him a dirty look from the two younger lieutenants. They were all eager to see one another dead or discredited; only one of them could be the next Sith. The Count enjoyed watching them snap at each other. Meanwhile, his lip curled in amusement at Vos' expense.
"You betrayed the Republic. Should we trust you?" Behind him, Vos could hear that butt-kissing Skorr snicker.
"I'm here because the Republic is hopelessly corrupt, and must be replaced. In that respect, I think I'm still a Jedi-- as are you."
He was referring to the Jedi Order, which Dooku had left long before Vos was knighted-- what many Jedi considered to be ancient history, as if the Count had always been the Republic's enemy. Dooku didn't answer at once; he began a slow, almost meditative pacing, which inexorably drew their eyes, as he circled contemplatively around the deposed leader, whose green snout and frills turned to follow him as well. He stopped abruptly, nearly clicking his heels together, one dark brow quirking upward as he turned his head to reply to Quinlan. "Well answered."
With a ZZing-- and a movement almost too fast to follow, he flung out the ruby-red blade of his lightsabre in the direction of Suribran Tu. The Ishi Tib's head toppled off his torso, severed cleanly, falling to the chamber floor with a plop. The entire time, Dooku had his eyes locked with those of Quinlan Vos. The others knew he was trying to discomfit him.
Quinlan schooled himself not to move a muscle, not to break the eye contact, while the outrage and disgust at the one he professed to serve flooded out of him like a foul fog. What's more, he could tell that the Count was enjoying the effect he was having. The smile on his face kept getting larger, until it was a full-blown smirk. Vos refused to play any more. He dropped his eyes.
Without looking at the deceased Tu, whose corpse had since fallen over, the Count rapped out, " Sey-- you and Skorr dispose of him, and mount his head somewhere highly visible, if you please... Sora Bulq, you are the new Regent of Tibrin...
"Vos, come with me."
Quinlan's body still ached from the unsatisfactory sparring session he'd gone through with Count Dooku earlier in the day. He'd arrived early hoping to have some time to use his psychometric abilities on a few of the count's personal posessions, so he'd have something to report to the Council. But he wasn't early enough. The price? Letting himself be humiliated at dueling, in front of one of his former instructors, Sora Bulq. The whole time, the Count had taunted him about his high ideals, trying to enrage him so he'd lose control and be easy to read. It had almost worked.
Now, he pushed away physical discomfort to stand behind and to the right, playing the lackey, while Dooku acknowledged the homage of the crowds below him. It was a celebration day for the Ishi Tib. A genocidal dictator had been removed, for whatever reason. Even as they had neared the podium, shouts of "Dooku! Dooku! Liberator!" had filtered toward them, in heavily accented Basic. It was fortunate that all the great hero of the moment required of him was that he stand there, glowering, as was his wont. He saw Dooku's sculpted nostrils dilate, as he breathed in the glory with all the aplomb of a born ruler. True, he had royal blood in him, and he'd never forgotten it. A sour taste pooled in the bottom of Quin's mouth, but he just swallowed it.
At last, Dooku had his fill, and turned to go back into the building. Quin followed. And as soon as they were both safely within the shadows of the archway, he found himslf slammed into the wall by the Force. He knew better than to struggle.
The count's madly glittering, nutbrown eyes gleamed down his aquiline nose at him. "Hate me, Quinlan Vos. I live off your hate." Quin said nothing. He didn't have to. The man was a monster. They both knew it, with the tiny difference that only one of them was bothered by it.
He was really a handsome man still. If only the ideals he spouted on the holonets were what he truly believed. If only he truly were a viable alternative to the Republic. If only there were a spark of decency left in him, beneath all the layers of manipulation and expedient slaughter. If only they weren't both going through the motions of freedom fighting, each for their own reasons... Quin found his breaths had accelerated; he was gasping, his eyes playing back and forth over his captor.
Dooku smiled. He liked what he saw. And in a flash, a lordly knee connected with Quin's already bruised ribs. He liked that, too.
He released the Force hold on Vos, letting him fall to the floor, while he was still immobilized by pain. Before Quin knew it, one of Dooku's hands was around his throat, the knee was deep in his gut, and the other hand was at his groin, insidiously stroking.
"I rarely require physical nourishment for my body nowadays," he remarked conversationally, while expertly skinning the man out of his pants and weighing Quin's balls in his hand. Quin struggled with himself not to be aroused, and failed. "Too many opportunities for poisoners. The Dark Side sustains me." His perfectly shaped brown eyes glttered into Quin's like rich root wine in a tumbler. The hand around his throat tightened, the thin leather glove dry against Quin's perspiration. Despite himself, Quin found his mouth gaping open thirstily.
Dooku rose, effortlessly for someone of his years, and Quin rose with him, sliding back up the wall with Dooku's hand around his throat. Reflexively his own hands rose to grapple with it, but only encountered the rich material of the Count's sleeve. And when the hand was high above his own head, the count relaxed his grip, switching entirely to the Force, while Quin gasped for the breath he'd been deprived of. His traitorous cock was now pointing straight at the count, conveniently at the man's eye level.
The Count looked up at him, pinioned like an insect in a collection, and began to stroke him again. Tendrils of the Force, invisible to the naked eye, were invading his body, his pleasure centers. Force. It was the Force, but not the flashes of brightness to which he'd been accustomed. This Force seemed to seep into the cracks of him, like the weather into a badly made cloak, chilling and thrilling at the same time. He knew that if he didn't resist, the chilly tentacles would take over his entire mind, and it would no longer be his own. But evidently the count didn't want that. He wanted Quinlan fully aware of what was happening to him. And if for nothing else, Quin was grateful for that. It meant he had not been unmasked-- yet. And meanwhile, he was too easily falling into absurd gratitude for the pleasure. Even if the count was only licking his lips, and not applying them to him.
"Yes, you enjoy it, don't you?" gloated the count, as his index finger slid expertly along Quin's perineum, jangling the scrotum and tracing up all the way to his sensitive tip. And Quin allowed himself a moan, as the man flicked at the juncture of shaft and head with his fingertips, with the expertise of decades. There was no withstanding this arousal. He didn't even try anymore. He was panting as if winded from a long sprint, but he wasn't going anywhere as the count's hand delicately titillated him, then efficiently pumped him.
Like feline and rodent, the count was toying with his arousal, bringing him to the brink of release, then gouging cruelly, the pain forcing him back to consciousness again. The Force bonds were tightening inexorably around his throat and chest, depriving him of oxygen, and in the clammy nitrogen-rich atmosphere of Tibrin it was already a scarce commodity. Sweat streamed down his brow, stinging his eyes; he couldn't clench them tightly enough closed.
"Do you know what I am going to do to you, Vos? I am going to suck the innocence right out of you." Quin moaned again.
Finally, after much too long, the count's fingers dug fiercely into his buttocks, pulling him wide open against the cold masonry. The Count's chest slammed against his thighs, and Quinlan came, filled with cottony blackness behind his eyes, harder than he ever had in his life.
Abruptly his body hit the floor of the corridor.
When he could force his eyes open upon the still spinning world, Dooku was looking down at him with a contemptuous smile, and wiping his mouth with a gloved hand. Quin's heart plummeted. Gloves. All this time he'd been wearing gloves. Never once had he let Quin touch him, to get any reading of him. Self loathing mingled with his uncanny exhaustion. Being Dooku's minion was like working for a vampire. He was nothing but a highly specialized herd animal, to be milked. The impotent rage was rolling off him again, through his weakened shields. Hopefully it would be thick enough to hide his heart from the monster.
The Count's voice cut through the haze of his emotions. "We leave in the morning. Go recover." The sound of his boot heels upon the corridor pavement receded.
Quin stayed where he was, hiding in the shadows of his own inky hair. Distant cries of "Dooku! Dooku!", from the celebrating populace, reached him as echoes. What had he gotten himself into?
end
http://www.livejournal.com/users/hlglne
author: helgaleena helgaleenas@yahoo.com
fandom: Star Wars, Clone Wars
medium: graphic novel
genre: adventure slash
pairing: Quinlan Vos/ Dooku
rating: NC-17
theme: Jubilee
warnings: violence, dubious consent
disclaimer: Lucas, Ostrander, and Duursema own everything. I am nothing
summary: Quin finds the true extent to which Dooku "the liberator" depends on his dark Jedi minions. Some of Ostrander's dialogue will be recognizable, from Clone Wars Volume four.
"So Count Dooku, you rule here now. You rule me. I can tolerate this...Republic, Federation, makes no difference to me. Yet I have valuable experience of leading the Ishi Tib. I can be very useful to your cause. And I think we understand each other."
Suribran Tu, until yesterday supreme despot of the planet Tibrin, stood before the Count, flanked by the Dark Jedi in the Count's employ, seeming unperturbed. He composedly flapped his amphibian jowls, and his yellow eyes remained calculating.
The Count had been lounging elegantly in the Supreme Seat of Tibrin, fashioned from an enormous mollusk shell, on the dais before them. Now he rose and smoothly descended the steps to stand among his lieutenants and hopeful servants, black tailored uniform and cloak flowing gracefully. He still towered over them all, and his perfectly coifed silver hair and beard caught the light filtering through the immense colored lens windows. But the molten intellect in his eyes was what refracted the most upon them, as he readied yet another challenge for his hangers-on.
He turned to the lone female among them. "Kadrian Sey-- tell me whether you approve of letting him serve me."
The strait-laced young Zabrak answered after a pause of only a few moments, her lips barely moving in the fierce setting of her multi-horned visage. As usual, her leathery fingers never strayed away from the hilt of her lightsabre. "He speaks truth. Leaving Tu in position, while enforcing our own aims upon his administration, would provide continuity." Behind her, Vaapad Master Sora Bulq kept his seamed face inscrutable, and his hands folded into the sleeves of his tan robes, but Tol Skorr, the human, grimaced into his moustache. Even he knew that was the wrong answer.
Dooku turned to the newest member of his little circle. "What do you say, Quinlan Vos?"
The Kiffar in black leather armor turned his matted head away from the Ishi Tib he'd been studying, his obsidian eyes burning up at the Count's from over the yellow tattoo, beneath the heavy brow. "Suribran Tu is a butcher and a traitor. His subjects hate him. And as easily as he betrayed the Republic, he will betray you."
His answer earned him a dirty look from the two younger lieutenants. They were all eager to see one another dead or discredited; only one of them could be the next Sith. The Count enjoyed watching them snap at each other. Meanwhile, his lip curled in amusement at Vos' expense.
"You betrayed the Republic. Should we trust you?" Behind him, Vos could hear that butt-kissing Skorr snicker.
"I'm here because the Republic is hopelessly corrupt, and must be replaced. In that respect, I think I'm still a Jedi-- as are you."
He was referring to the Jedi Order, which Dooku had left long before Vos was knighted-- what many Jedi considered to be ancient history, as if the Count had always been the Republic's enemy. Dooku didn't answer at once; he began a slow, almost meditative pacing, which inexorably drew their eyes, as he circled contemplatively around the deposed leader, whose green snout and frills turned to follow him as well. He stopped abruptly, nearly clicking his heels together, one dark brow quirking upward as he turned his head to reply to Quinlan. "Well answered."
With a ZZing-- and a movement almost too fast to follow, he flung out the ruby-red blade of his lightsabre in the direction of Suribran Tu. The Ishi Tib's head toppled off his torso, severed cleanly, falling to the chamber floor with a plop. The entire time, Dooku had his eyes locked with those of Quinlan Vos. The others knew he was trying to discomfit him.
Quinlan schooled himself not to move a muscle, not to break the eye contact, while the outrage and disgust at the one he professed to serve flooded out of him like a foul fog. What's more, he could tell that the Count was enjoying the effect he was having. The smile on his face kept getting larger, until it was a full-blown smirk. Vos refused to play any more. He dropped his eyes.
Without looking at the deceased Tu, whose corpse had since fallen over, the Count rapped out, " Sey-- you and Skorr dispose of him, and mount his head somewhere highly visible, if you please... Sora Bulq, you are the new Regent of Tibrin...
"Vos, come with me."
Quinlan's body still ached from the unsatisfactory sparring session he'd gone through with Count Dooku earlier in the day. He'd arrived early hoping to have some time to use his psychometric abilities on a few of the count's personal posessions, so he'd have something to report to the Council. But he wasn't early enough. The price? Letting himself be humiliated at dueling, in front of one of his former instructors, Sora Bulq. The whole time, the Count had taunted him about his high ideals, trying to enrage him so he'd lose control and be easy to read. It had almost worked.
Now, he pushed away physical discomfort to stand behind and to the right, playing the lackey, while Dooku acknowledged the homage of the crowds below him. It was a celebration day for the Ishi Tib. A genocidal dictator had been removed, for whatever reason. Even as they had neared the podium, shouts of "Dooku! Dooku! Liberator!" had filtered toward them, in heavily accented Basic. It was fortunate that all the great hero of the moment required of him was that he stand there, glowering, as was his wont. He saw Dooku's sculpted nostrils dilate, as he breathed in the glory with all the aplomb of a born ruler. True, he had royal blood in him, and he'd never forgotten it. A sour taste pooled in the bottom of Quin's mouth, but he just swallowed it.
At last, Dooku had his fill, and turned to go back into the building. Quin followed. And as soon as they were both safely within the shadows of the archway, he found himslf slammed into the wall by the Force. He knew better than to struggle.
The count's madly glittering, nutbrown eyes gleamed down his aquiline nose at him. "Hate me, Quinlan Vos. I live off your hate." Quin said nothing. He didn't have to. The man was a monster. They both knew it, with the tiny difference that only one of them was bothered by it.
He was really a handsome man still. If only the ideals he spouted on the holonets were what he truly believed. If only he truly were a viable alternative to the Republic. If only there were a spark of decency left in him, beneath all the layers of manipulation and expedient slaughter. If only they weren't both going through the motions of freedom fighting, each for their own reasons... Quin found his breaths had accelerated; he was gasping, his eyes playing back and forth over his captor.
Dooku smiled. He liked what he saw. And in a flash, a lordly knee connected with Quin's already bruised ribs. He liked that, too.
He released the Force hold on Vos, letting him fall to the floor, while he was still immobilized by pain. Before Quin knew it, one of Dooku's hands was around his throat, the knee was deep in his gut, and the other hand was at his groin, insidiously stroking.
"I rarely require physical nourishment for my body nowadays," he remarked conversationally, while expertly skinning the man out of his pants and weighing Quin's balls in his hand. Quin struggled with himself not to be aroused, and failed. "Too many opportunities for poisoners. The Dark Side sustains me." His perfectly shaped brown eyes glttered into Quin's like rich root wine in a tumbler. The hand around his throat tightened, the thin leather glove dry against Quin's perspiration. Despite himself, Quin found his mouth gaping open thirstily.
Dooku rose, effortlessly for someone of his years, and Quin rose with him, sliding back up the wall with Dooku's hand around his throat. Reflexively his own hands rose to grapple with it, but only encountered the rich material of the Count's sleeve. And when the hand was high above his own head, the count relaxed his grip, switching entirely to the Force, while Quin gasped for the breath he'd been deprived of. His traitorous cock was now pointing straight at the count, conveniently at the man's eye level.
The Count looked up at him, pinioned like an insect in a collection, and began to stroke him again. Tendrils of the Force, invisible to the naked eye, were invading his body, his pleasure centers. Force. It was the Force, but not the flashes of brightness to which he'd been accustomed. This Force seemed to seep into the cracks of him, like the weather into a badly made cloak, chilling and thrilling at the same time. He knew that if he didn't resist, the chilly tentacles would take over his entire mind, and it would no longer be his own. But evidently the count didn't want that. He wanted Quinlan fully aware of what was happening to him. And if for nothing else, Quin was grateful for that. It meant he had not been unmasked-- yet. And meanwhile, he was too easily falling into absurd gratitude for the pleasure. Even if the count was only licking his lips, and not applying them to him.
"Yes, you enjoy it, don't you?" gloated the count, as his index finger slid expertly along Quin's perineum, jangling the scrotum and tracing up all the way to his sensitive tip. And Quin allowed himself a moan, as the man flicked at the juncture of shaft and head with his fingertips, with the expertise of decades. There was no withstanding this arousal. He didn't even try anymore. He was panting as if winded from a long sprint, but he wasn't going anywhere as the count's hand delicately titillated him, then efficiently pumped him.
Like feline and rodent, the count was toying with his arousal, bringing him to the brink of release, then gouging cruelly, the pain forcing him back to consciousness again. The Force bonds were tightening inexorably around his throat and chest, depriving him of oxygen, and in the clammy nitrogen-rich atmosphere of Tibrin it was already a scarce commodity. Sweat streamed down his brow, stinging his eyes; he couldn't clench them tightly enough closed.
"Do you know what I am going to do to you, Vos? I am going to suck the innocence right out of you." Quin moaned again.
Finally, after much too long, the count's fingers dug fiercely into his buttocks, pulling him wide open against the cold masonry. The Count's chest slammed against his thighs, and Quinlan came, filled with cottony blackness behind his eyes, harder than he ever had in his life.
Abruptly his body hit the floor of the corridor.
When he could force his eyes open upon the still spinning world, Dooku was looking down at him with a contemptuous smile, and wiping his mouth with a gloved hand. Quin's heart plummeted. Gloves. All this time he'd been wearing gloves. Never once had he let Quin touch him, to get any reading of him. Self loathing mingled with his uncanny exhaustion. Being Dooku's minion was like working for a vampire. He was nothing but a highly specialized herd animal, to be milked. The impotent rage was rolling off him again, through his weakened shields. Hopefully it would be thick enough to hide his heart from the monster.
The Count's voice cut through the haze of his emotions. "We leave in the morning. Go recover." The sound of his boot heels upon the corridor pavement receded.
Quin stayed where he was, hiding in the shadows of his own inky hair. Distant cries of "Dooku! Dooku!", from the celebrating populace, reached him as echoes. What had he gotten himself into?
end
http://www.livejournal.com/users/hlglne