This was for the Slash Writers' Workshop.
The challenge is:
Vader's new inamorato has a mask-fetish.
Use the words Djibouti, leviathan, fester
Rated VERY NC-17

AU, post RotJ

Warnings at the bottom for them as need 'em

Caput Mortem

He stands now, blotting out the starlight, black on black. A rare glass of Djibouti wine sits at my elbow untouched.
Expensive foods lay cooling and forgotten on their plates. I have not eaten. My appetite died the day I was brought
here. Like so many other things. I stare as the faint silver traces the edges of his helmet: the curve, the gentle slope.
The plasteel is cool and hard. I imagine the feel of it under my fingertips.

I could stare at him for hours. I do often and he knows it. He allows it. It's not the act of a sane man, but I'm not
sure I'm still in that category.

What do you call a man who has lost everyone and everything, except his worst enemy?

Leia, the droids, my ship: all gone. The whole rebellion, lost at Endor. We were captured on the forest moon and the
others were executed publically. Leia wasn't one, she was shot at the shield generator's bunker, not by Imperials. I granted
her the only mercy she ever asked for. She could not face Imperial torture again. Chewbacca put up a good fight at his
xecution. It took an hour to kill him, when it should have been the work of a minute. The Empire lost ten troopers too,
before they drugged him.

Vader made me watch the executions from our quarters. It took the better part of a week, even doing one an hour, immediately
after a trial. When it came to command staff, he fucked me through each proceeding. His endurance amazed me. When I asked,
he reminded me that mechanical enhancement did not merely apply to his lungs. Sometimes he bent me over the table, sometimes
held me immobile on his lap or just pinned me against the viewscreen, my face on the cold screen, close to the faces of the dead.

He made me tell him of each one: what they had been to me, how well I had known them. His mask loomed over me, all angles
and raspy breath. I lost myself in the black of those nonreflective eyes, let the words come from someone else.

My friends. My comrades. My lover. That one he fucked me against the screen for, letting me press my cheek as close as I could
for one last instant, before the blasters sang their deadly song. I watched the light go out of the eyes I knew so well. I'd never kiss
him in the dark again, never hear him laugh or rage. I reached for him, trying to bridge the distance, to hold him for that last instant.
All I touched was a surface, smooth as the slope of Vader's helmet. All that was left was the monstrosity reaming me, the gloved
hand wrapped around my cock. I screamed my orgasm out in grief and anger that time. Since then, I have not spoken. There is
nothing to be said.

I look now, at the man who has taken everything away. I stare at the mask. The angles of it, mocking the contours of the skulls
beneath my friends' dead faces, entice me.

I rise and go to him. Reaching up, I run a single finger along the brow-ridge, and down the edge of the helmet. My lord permits this.
Bolder now, I run two fingers along the edge of the cheek-ridge and out the tube on the base of his mouthgrill. Almost as if he were
my lover, not my captor, I stroke three fingers down the grill. The mechanical breathing never changes.

"Yes? Is there something you want?"

There is much I want from this man: answers first, reasons second, my friends back, my own death. But none of this comes from my
mouth. I drop my eyes and lay one hand along the side of the mask.

"You seek my touch?"

I merely nod. There is nothing I can demand, say or do. All that's left inside this shell is desire born of hate, lust for the monster who
has robbed me of everything else. He allows it to fester below the surface of my mind, neither lancing it to bring it to the fore, nor
blotting it out as he does the starlight. The gloved hand wraps around my throat, and I arch into it, all too willing to take the pain. My
lord has cut off my breath before, with the Force and with his hands. Maybe this time, he won't stop.

"Not so easy, little one. I have no intention of ever killing you." I shudder under the dark voice, knowing he has read me as clearly as
the words that scroll endlessly across the viewscreen now that the executions are over. "Foolish. Wasteful. You are far too important to
destroy on a mere sexual whim."

He releases my throat. I still don't move away. He steps out of my reach. At the table he sits and starts pulling off the gloves. I have seen
no part of my lord, save one. The pale leviathan that lurks beneath the codpiece has prepared me for the sight of his hands: one flawless
and mechanical, the other badly damaged but real. Both paler than the ice fields of Hoth, shocking against the black of his armor.

He reaches for the helmet to remove it, and the mask. I am between his knees before thought can argue me out of it. My hands are on his,
touching the cool, pale flesh. I tug them down into his lap and scatter light kisses over the mask, the plasteel cool under my lips.

"You wish it to remain in place?"

I nod, then drop to my knees, pressing my cheek to the codpiece, rubbing against it like an affectionate kitkin. I need this. I hate him for
making me need it. I open my mouth and take the first repulsive lick. I hate this, but it is what I live for. He tastes of metal, leather and decay.
The flesh is pale and too soft. Too human. I don't take my eyes from the mask.

Does he watch, wanting me? Are his eyes closed from the pleasure? It doesn't matter. I can see the glints along the mouthgrill and nose ridges,
captured starlight. He finishes quickly and returns to contemplating the stars.

I stay on my knees, and stare at my father's mask.




Warnings:
Noncon, death, breathcontrol, BDSM, incest, insanity. That about covers the waterfront.