Quin-Skorr NC-17
Title: Watch It
Author: helgaleena
helgaleenas@yahoo.com
Main characters: Quinlan Vos, Tol Skorr
prompt: 040: sight
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is how Quinlan Vos decides to spit in the eye of all Dooku's invasive spy-cams. It is not as satisfying as hoped.
Warnings: death, voyeurism, slash, assorted kink.
Notes: They hate each other, want to kill each other. What more subtext do they need? Set between Ostrander and Duursema's "Show of Force" and "Armor".
Competition on Korriban set the tone for this.
He had walked into Dooku's presence, upended the bag, and dropped the thawed head of Khar'is Fenn onto the carpeting. It had been too soggy to bounce; the gray-green lekku had uncoiled and flopped out with a separate flapping thwack. Then he'd stalked out without waiting for further orders or comment. That was as far as he would go to express his outrage at the task he'd been set.
What had bothered him was the spy-cam. It had beamed back to Dooku every second of the hit, including the message he'd left about the danger of betraying the Confederacy. There'd been no place to hide, no way to tone down the cruelty. This thing about bringing the head back was just perverse; it was illogical and only meant to intimidate him, the servant. All this because he'd only threatened the Falleen senator into line that time, and not killed him. He'd used the kriffin' red sabre. He'd worn the scary black hood. He'd played the part. And now for the audience, he had no comment. The Jedi Council was sure to see, which was probably Dooku's purpose all along. Quinlan Vos has truly fallen, nyah, nyah, nyah.
What a time for Skorr to start snarling at his ankles. He might just kick the big cur. All the meditations he'd put himself through on the return trip seemed to have worn off.
"Hey, Vos."
"Go away, Skorr."
"You forgot to get your next assignment, moss-head." Skorr put out a massive hand and propelled him into the wall of the corridor.
Moss-head? Shoving? What was this, creche? The contempt the exchange, if you could call it that, engendered in him, helped him rein in his annoyance. He stopped, as the big lug wanted him to. But he also slammed him into the opposite wall, hard, with the Force. You couldn't let a lowlife get used to manhandling you.
Then he waited. Skorr's fists clenched and unclenched, as they had a tendency to do around him, as he gathered himself together into his minor-nobility-related-to-Dooku imitation. He had the sneer down pretty well.
"Well?"
Skorr looked like he'd rather spit than speak. "Honoghr. The Naboo defoliant got shot down there, and you have to retrieve the scientific info before the Senate can see it. They've sent Jedi after it. You're supposed to kill them or capture them."
"Do I look like a kriffin' recruiting office?" The horrific spectacle of Shylar, the most recent Jedi 'guest' of Dooku, was too fresh within him. He couldn't save her, hadn't dared.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Vos."
"Only if you watch." And he turned on his heel and left.
Damn, where had that come from? Had he really said that? Hells yeah, he had...
Now that he thought of it, what difference did it make? Dooku's bugs were everywhere. What would one more pair of eyes matter? Not kriffin' much. The guy probably jerked off to surveillance of him anyway.
Skorr had been suitably annoyed by the comeback, but now-- he'd tried just walking off, and the big man was following. With intent.
"What?"
"Yeah. I wanna watch. Weasel out of that, oh so superior Master Vos." Skorr's little tawny eyes glittered vindictively out of the rugged scar tissue that covered half his face, souvenir of the Sith-hounds of Korriban.
The pervert. If Jedi had mothers, the poor lady who birthed Tol Skorr would be regretting it now. "You disgust me. Don't touch me."
Quin's nostrils flared, and his upper lip curled back in its frame of coal-black stubble.
"Oh, no need. You are going to do it all to yourself." Snide was the proper term for Skorr's smirk, tucked into his mousy goatee. Then he licked his lips. Hells. Quin nearly missed a stride, at the unexpected way his body responded to a glimpse of that lewd tongue, showing itself on the surface of the face that he hated, eclipsing those rubbery pink lips, veiled by a few waxy strands of that long hair. He'd felt that tongue, being obedient...
Lascivious over me, Quinlan Vos, a hairy glowering sweaty Kiffar. Further proof that the man is a deviant. Just like his boss. Who is my boss. He who keeps track of every jerk-off in the place, and has it on tap.
They had reached Quin's assigned quarters, with Skorr too close behind him, like his big brown shadow. "Back off," he growled, as he palmed open the lock. The man's smirk got bigger. Skorr thought he had a victim. Well, Skorr thought wrong. He intended to do all the running of this circus himself. Starting-- now.
He stalked to the center of the chamber and dropped his cloak in a heap, legs spread wide. The main camera in this room was over there, so he faced it, and wagged his stubbled chin at Skorr. "Have a seat, honored guest," he rumbled, with a sneer of his own, and began tucking his tunic up into his belt, out of the way.
"I prefer to stand, thanks," said the burly minion, nostrils flaring, above the smirk so broad now that it was interfering with his speech. And he stuck his thumbs in his belt, and leaned a massive shoulder against the doorway.
"Sit," ground out Quin, his hands coming to a complete stop on his own belt. He met the man's eyes with his own, up from under his heavy red brow like a thundercloud, over the horizon of the yellow stripe from ear to ear. Implacability was something at which he had no match. There would be no show without an obedient audience. Finally Tol Skorr, former Jedi Knight, dark puppet of the Sith, scowled and sank down to his haunches. Like a gundark in the arena, thought Quin to himself. I can handle you. Really, the resemblance is uncanny.
He let all his accumulated rage and frustration fuel him, as he jerked open his pants and let them fall to the tops of his boots. He still had on the black gloves he'd put on to keep the Twi'lek juices off his hands. So he started with them, tugging deliberately on one finger after another, waggling his hips a bit to swing his already filling organ. The little yellowish eyes were glued on him, all right. Pervert.
"You want me, don't you, Skorr? Dooku's got you rewired so everything flows through your dick now." He tossed down one glove, paused to shake the locks of black hair out of his eyes. "Bet you can't even get hard anymore without hate. What a tool." Skorr's fists were working open and shut again, so he paused in his labors on the second glove. "Uh-uh, big man; if you lay one finger on me the show's over, and I just kill you. Daddy Dooku can replace you, easy. Control yourself for a change."
"Then shut up," growled Skorr. He was breathing hard, in the crouch that constricted his barrel chest.
"Relax, honored guest," Quin said, smirking and throwing the glove at him. "It's part of the show." He ran his hands down his legs, shiftng weight from one to the other, framing his now impressive hard-on.
"Of course, you could kill me instead; it's remotely possible. Then Dooku would have to send you to Honoghr instead of me. But no-- Master said it had to be me, didn't he? --can't be thinking for yourself, outside of Master's orders. Besides," and he held himself out, the red log of himself, "how could you ever get a taste of this, if you kill me first?"
"I'll eat it raw, and spit the pieces all over your corpse." Not much venom in it, though… Vos was already running his fingers up and down himself, smiling like a feline, pushing up with his hips to show his dangling nutsac. Red as a brick, against the wiry dark hairs. Skorr couldn't tear his eyes away. His mouth fell open a bit, to let in more air. So Quin gave himself a fondle. This was his kind of torture.
"Gonna bugger my corpse too, Skorr? Stick your itty-bitty dick in this ass?" And he turned to the side, and ran his fingers up the curve of himself. Stuck it out, then thrust forward suddenly, into his own hand. Through his meaty hand, and out the other side, eyes always on his audience. He could hear Skorr's convulsive swallow.
"Before it gets cold?" Quin had big hands, but it still took two to hold himself, in a situation like this. He aimed himself right at Skorr, and began to undulate. Thought of the camera. Got mad. Fuckers-- fuck them all.
Skorr had a hand in his own pants now. His wide, corrugated face was red, his eyes drifting closed over that silly mouse-brown goatee, round the pink, slack lips, reminded him of a woman's-- oh no it didn't, not Shylar-- Quin groaned, and black rage began to fill him as he pulled on himself savagely.
Ruthlessly he concentrated on this moment. This worm in man's clothing who wanted him dead. And was too cowed to do it without permission! Damn you, Skorr! As if he'd heard the thought, Skorr's brownish little eyes snapped open and focused on him. He licked those pink lips again, with that purplish monstrosity of a tongue. And the mouth whined with pure hatred, "Vos."
He dug his fingers into his own buttocks and came. On that horrible, contemptible face. The sweat ran into his eyes, and stung, as he shivered out every last drop. When he'd stopped shaking, he reached for his pants.
"Get out," he growled, to cover his sensation of being diminished. "Go get Dooku to lick it off you." And at those words, the fist inside Skorr's trousers clenched, and he arched himself backward, letting out a roar of lust and rage. He fell on his ass.
Now that was funny. Quin chuckled and gave him a little Force-nudge out the door, while he was still partly on his knuckles, not quite upright. The resemblance to a gundark really was uncanny.
But when the door hissed shut, Quin was alone with the bugs and the cameras. And with his disgust.
He sank down, and put his face in his hands. What the hells was this he was playing at? These are the people that killed Shylar.
He hadn't stopped them, and she had cursed him, called him a traitor. Now he was ordered to work on the doom of more of his brother and sister Jedi. Turn them into monsters like Dooku and Skorr. Was he one of them already? Should he just let down his guard and get killed, for the greater good of the galaxy?
He stayed behind his hands and let the tears leak out. He wasn't showing his face again, to those watching, until they were dry. Let them wonder.
end
Author: helgaleena
helgaleenas@yahoo.com
Main characters: Quinlan Vos, Tol Skorr
prompt: 040: sight
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is how Quinlan Vos decides to spit in the eye of all Dooku's invasive spy-cams. It is not as satisfying as hoped.
Warnings: death, voyeurism, slash, assorted kink.
Notes: They hate each other, want to kill each other. What more subtext do they need? Set between Ostrander and Duursema's "Show of Force" and "Armor".
Competition on Korriban set the tone for this.
He had walked into Dooku's presence, upended the bag, and dropped the thawed head of Khar'is Fenn onto the carpeting. It had been too soggy to bounce; the gray-green lekku had uncoiled and flopped out with a separate flapping thwack. Then he'd stalked out without waiting for further orders or comment. That was as far as he would go to express his outrage at the task he'd been set.
What had bothered him was the spy-cam. It had beamed back to Dooku every second of the hit, including the message he'd left about the danger of betraying the Confederacy. There'd been no place to hide, no way to tone down the cruelty. This thing about bringing the head back was just perverse; it was illogical and only meant to intimidate him, the servant. All this because he'd only threatened the Falleen senator into line that time, and not killed him. He'd used the kriffin' red sabre. He'd worn the scary black hood. He'd played the part. And now for the audience, he had no comment. The Jedi Council was sure to see, which was probably Dooku's purpose all along. Quinlan Vos has truly fallen, nyah, nyah, nyah.
What a time for Skorr to start snarling at his ankles. He might just kick the big cur. All the meditations he'd put himself through on the return trip seemed to have worn off.
"Hey, Vos."
"Go away, Skorr."
"You forgot to get your next assignment, moss-head." Skorr put out a massive hand and propelled him into the wall of the corridor.
Moss-head? Shoving? What was this, creche? The contempt the exchange, if you could call it that, engendered in him, helped him rein in his annoyance. He stopped, as the big lug wanted him to. But he also slammed him into the opposite wall, hard, with the Force. You couldn't let a lowlife get used to manhandling you.
Then he waited. Skorr's fists clenched and unclenched, as they had a tendency to do around him, as he gathered himself together into his minor-nobility-related-to-Dooku imitation. He had the sneer down pretty well.
"Well?"
Skorr looked like he'd rather spit than speak. "Honoghr. The Naboo defoliant got shot down there, and you have to retrieve the scientific info before the Senate can see it. They've sent Jedi after it. You're supposed to kill them or capture them."
"Do I look like a kriffin' recruiting office?" The horrific spectacle of Shylar, the most recent Jedi 'guest' of Dooku, was too fresh within him. He couldn't save her, hadn't dared.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Vos."
"Only if you watch." And he turned on his heel and left.
Damn, where had that come from? Had he really said that? Hells yeah, he had...
Now that he thought of it, what difference did it make? Dooku's bugs were everywhere. What would one more pair of eyes matter? Not kriffin' much. The guy probably jerked off to surveillance of him anyway.
Skorr had been suitably annoyed by the comeback, but now-- he'd tried just walking off, and the big man was following. With intent.
"What?"
"Yeah. I wanna watch. Weasel out of that, oh so superior Master Vos." Skorr's little tawny eyes glittered vindictively out of the rugged scar tissue that covered half his face, souvenir of the Sith-hounds of Korriban.
The pervert. If Jedi had mothers, the poor lady who birthed Tol Skorr would be regretting it now. "You disgust me. Don't touch me."
Quin's nostrils flared, and his upper lip curled back in its frame of coal-black stubble.
"Oh, no need. You are going to do it all to yourself." Snide was the proper term for Skorr's smirk, tucked into his mousy goatee. Then he licked his lips. Hells. Quin nearly missed a stride, at the unexpected way his body responded to a glimpse of that lewd tongue, showing itself on the surface of the face that he hated, eclipsing those rubbery pink lips, veiled by a few waxy strands of that long hair. He'd felt that tongue, being obedient...
Lascivious over me, Quinlan Vos, a hairy glowering sweaty Kiffar. Further proof that the man is a deviant. Just like his boss. Who is my boss. He who keeps track of every jerk-off in the place, and has it on tap.
They had reached Quin's assigned quarters, with Skorr too close behind him, like his big brown shadow. "Back off," he growled, as he palmed open the lock. The man's smirk got bigger. Skorr thought he had a victim. Well, Skorr thought wrong. He intended to do all the running of this circus himself. Starting-- now.
He stalked to the center of the chamber and dropped his cloak in a heap, legs spread wide. The main camera in this room was over there, so he faced it, and wagged his stubbled chin at Skorr. "Have a seat, honored guest," he rumbled, with a sneer of his own, and began tucking his tunic up into his belt, out of the way.
"I prefer to stand, thanks," said the burly minion, nostrils flaring, above the smirk so broad now that it was interfering with his speech. And he stuck his thumbs in his belt, and leaned a massive shoulder against the doorway.
"Sit," ground out Quin, his hands coming to a complete stop on his own belt. He met the man's eyes with his own, up from under his heavy red brow like a thundercloud, over the horizon of the yellow stripe from ear to ear. Implacability was something at which he had no match. There would be no show without an obedient audience. Finally Tol Skorr, former Jedi Knight, dark puppet of the Sith, scowled and sank down to his haunches. Like a gundark in the arena, thought Quin to himself. I can handle you. Really, the resemblance is uncanny.
He let all his accumulated rage and frustration fuel him, as he jerked open his pants and let them fall to the tops of his boots. He still had on the black gloves he'd put on to keep the Twi'lek juices off his hands. So he started with them, tugging deliberately on one finger after another, waggling his hips a bit to swing his already filling organ. The little yellowish eyes were glued on him, all right. Pervert.
"You want me, don't you, Skorr? Dooku's got you rewired so everything flows through your dick now." He tossed down one glove, paused to shake the locks of black hair out of his eyes. "Bet you can't even get hard anymore without hate. What a tool." Skorr's fists were working open and shut again, so he paused in his labors on the second glove. "Uh-uh, big man; if you lay one finger on me the show's over, and I just kill you. Daddy Dooku can replace you, easy. Control yourself for a change."
"Then shut up," growled Skorr. He was breathing hard, in the crouch that constricted his barrel chest.
"Relax, honored guest," Quin said, smirking and throwing the glove at him. "It's part of the show." He ran his hands down his legs, shiftng weight from one to the other, framing his now impressive hard-on.
"Of course, you could kill me instead; it's remotely possible. Then Dooku would have to send you to Honoghr instead of me. But no-- Master said it had to be me, didn't he? --can't be thinking for yourself, outside of Master's orders. Besides," and he held himself out, the red log of himself, "how could you ever get a taste of this, if you kill me first?"
"I'll eat it raw, and spit the pieces all over your corpse." Not much venom in it, though… Vos was already running his fingers up and down himself, smiling like a feline, pushing up with his hips to show his dangling nutsac. Red as a brick, against the wiry dark hairs. Skorr couldn't tear his eyes away. His mouth fell open a bit, to let in more air. So Quin gave himself a fondle. This was his kind of torture.
"Gonna bugger my corpse too, Skorr? Stick your itty-bitty dick in this ass?" And he turned to the side, and ran his fingers up the curve of himself. Stuck it out, then thrust forward suddenly, into his own hand. Through his meaty hand, and out the other side, eyes always on his audience. He could hear Skorr's convulsive swallow.
"Before it gets cold?" Quin had big hands, but it still took two to hold himself, in a situation like this. He aimed himself right at Skorr, and began to undulate. Thought of the camera. Got mad. Fuckers-- fuck them all.
Skorr had a hand in his own pants now. His wide, corrugated face was red, his eyes drifting closed over that silly mouse-brown goatee, round the pink, slack lips, reminded him of a woman's-- oh no it didn't, not Shylar-- Quin groaned, and black rage began to fill him as he pulled on himself savagely.
Ruthlessly he concentrated on this moment. This worm in man's clothing who wanted him dead. And was too cowed to do it without permission! Damn you, Skorr! As if he'd heard the thought, Skorr's brownish little eyes snapped open and focused on him. He licked those pink lips again, with that purplish monstrosity of a tongue. And the mouth whined with pure hatred, "Vos."
He dug his fingers into his own buttocks and came. On that horrible, contemptible face. The sweat ran into his eyes, and stung, as he shivered out every last drop. When he'd stopped shaking, he reached for his pants.
"Get out," he growled, to cover his sensation of being diminished. "Go get Dooku to lick it off you." And at those words, the fist inside Skorr's trousers clenched, and he arched himself backward, letting out a roar of lust and rage. He fell on his ass.
Now that was funny. Quin chuckled and gave him a little Force-nudge out the door, while he was still partly on his knuckles, not quite upright. The resemblance to a gundark really was uncanny.
But when the door hissed shut, Quin was alone with the bugs and the cameras. And with his disgust.
He sank down, and put his face in his hands. What the hells was this he was playing at? These are the people that killed Shylar.
He hadn't stopped them, and she had cursed him, called him a traitor. Now he was ordered to work on the doom of more of his brother and sister Jedi. Turn them into monsters like Dooku and Skorr. Was he one of them already? Should he just let down his guard and get killed, for the greater good of the galaxy?
He stayed behind his hands and let the tears leak out. He wasn't showing his face again, to those watching, until they were dry. Let them wonder.
end