Work Text:
Kanan hit the cold durasteel with a loud thud, panting. Sweat pooled across his face, his abused muscles, down onto the floor below. The Force pulsed around him anxiously, tense with anticipation. If only for a moment, he allowed himself to bask in it. Feel its presence. For days, weeks, months, he’d manipulated the Force to bend in all sorts of unnatural shapes, extend it to poke, prod, forcibly twist around his surroundings. The Force, he found, was his only friend in this place — yet he did not treat it as such. There were no friends in the Inquisitorius. There was no safety. He rested his head against the floor, sightless eyes staring ahead blankly. To his left, he could feel Him.
The Grand Inquisitor simply watched Kanan breathe, standing over him silently, like a predator eyeing his struggling prey. Kanan immersed himself in the Force in a futile attempt to ignore his malicious presence. No matter what he did, where he went, he was always there. Even if Kanan managed to find himself alone, on very rare occasions, he swore he could still feel eyes on him. Watching, waiting. Observing him. “Get up,” the Inquisitor ordered, voice distinctly unimpressed.
Kanan, again, ignored him. His fast-paced panting slowed to a gradual, but quivering inhale and exhale. He wanted nothing more than to lie here forever. No more brutal training, no more isolation, no more darkness, pain, hopelessness. If he died right then and there, a beaten rat on the floor, it would have been a mercy from the Force. He was so tired. His very bones ached from exhaustion, his mind in jagged pieces that he desperately tried to put back together, to make himself whole — but he couldn’t. More of those fragments slipped from his hands every day. “Get up or die, Twelfth Brother, I will not ask again,” repeated the Grand Inquisitor impatiently. Kanan could feel the heat of a lightsaber pass by his face, an implicit threat, and he nearly winced at the memory of blinding, searing pain across his eyes.
Shakily, Kanan gripped his own saber between hesitant fingers. The texture, the design was nothing like his original, single bladed one. He could feel rather than see the differences. Kanan rose unsteadily, clutching it tight. “That’s not my name,” he ground out between gritted teeth.
With one lazy gesture from the Grand Inquisitor, he batted the lightsaber out of Kanan’s hand. The circular hilt flew across the room. He lifted an arm to call it back into his grasp, but an invisible hand had closed around his throat, and Kanan gasped for air, his hands flying up to claw at nothing. “Yes, it is,” said the Inquisitor darkly, “and you will learn to bear it with pride.” The Force on his neck shoved him downwards, slamming him back to the ground. Disoriented, Kanan could do nothing but cough and wheeze around the Inquisitor’s chokehold; it wasn’t tight enough to kill him, but more than enough to make it hurt, a very familiar sensation. Pain followed the Inquisitor’s visits more often than not.
Kanan didn’t fight it. Pain was better than no touch at all, as pathetic as it seemed. Months deprived of physical touch had induced a primal craving within him, a need for any and all skin-to-skin contact. Even the ghost of a touch felt like a blessing, as much as it was a curse. He wanted the pain to stop, but at the same time, he sought it out. He welcomed it. Perhaps there was a part of him that also desired punishment for his transgressions, his weakness to the dark side. He’d failed his master – become everything they’d ever fought against. Perhaps he deserved this.
“Enjoying this, are we?” said the Grand Inquisitor, amused. His grip loosened, merely pinning Kanan in place. He wheezed harshly, gulping down greedy breaths at the sudden reprieval. Then, he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching his prone figure, barely noticeable to anyone but him. If he were to avoid grave harm, Kanan had to learn to track his every movement, after all. He raised his head in the direction of the Inquisitor slightly, both confused and alert.
A pressure registered on Kanan’s groin. Lightly, it rubbed against him. Digging into the loose material of his pants. His eyes widened. His mouth went dry. The Grand Inquisitor, he realised, had stepped on his cock — was currently stepping on his cock. His boot pressed against Kanan’s crotch insistently, right between his legs. “What are you doing?” he breathed, trying to wriggle backwards on his elbows, horrified.
The weight around his neck squeezed tight, a warning. Weakly, Kanan struggled against it, but only succeeded in creating friction between himself and the boot. Humiliation pooled deep in his gut at the sudden twitch of interest in his cock, his breath hitching. “Stop,” he gasped out as the Inquisitor started to rub up and down, the touch experimental. The more Kanan squirmed, the more he unintentionally grinded against his tormentor, in tandem with the man’s rhythmic motions. Suddenly, the Inquisitor pressed down, the pain and pleasure causing Kanan to hiss, his head falling backwards. “Please,” he begged raggedly, feeling his cock steadily grow to full mast. As if in deliberate betrayal of this statement, his hips jumped up erratically against the pressure like he wanted more.
“Are you certain?” the Inquisitor teased. Kanan swore under his breath as his movements abruptly stilled. “Your words tell me one thing, yet your actions say another.” Kanan knew that the man had to be eyeing his shaking form – the short, choppy thrusts. He was sick at how good it felt. Pleasure now coursed through his veins, a heady substance which urged him forward like a man possessed. It mixed explosively with an overbearing repulsion, screaming at him to think, to stop. But just like he couldn’t recover the pieces of Kanan Jarrus, Jedi Knight, he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop. It was as if he was outside his own body, watching himself cave at the slightest intimate touch, disgusted by his own depravity.
Tears gathered in Kanan’s eyes at the thought of Hera seeing him like this. What would she say? Would she still want him around, knowing he degraded himself to this level? As he jammed his hips forward, chasing a far off release, he imagined her soft curves, her softer touch. She’d tease, but she’d never make him beg for it. She’d never hurt him, not intentionally. He never knew that he liked it to hurt. He liked the Inquisitor’s boot on his cock, liked the ghost of a hand around his neck. It wasn’t just a desire for penance, a pathetic need for physical touch. He wanted the Inquisitor to grip harder, to feel those razor-sharp teeth pierce his skin, make him bleed. Kanan let out a small, broken moan at the image. Had he been this disturbed from the beginning?
“Do not ignore me,” whispered the Inquisitor above him threateningly, and he could feel the stranglehold constrict once more, like the tightening of a leash. Kanan groaned in response, words escaping him at the sudden rapid-fire of emotions.
“Please,” he repeated, though this time he did not know what he was begging for.
All at once, the pressure left his groin. Kanan thrusted the air uselessly for a moment, a whine almost escaping him at the loss of friction. His back hit the floor, boneless, akin to a puppet with its strings cut. Cock throbbing, Kanan glanced up at where he knew the Grand Inquisitor stood. ‘Why?’ he would’ve asked, if he didn’t already know the answer.
He was toying with him.
“Don’t look so betrayed, Twelfth Brother,” said the Grand Inquisitor lightly. “It’s unbefitting of an inquisitor.” Kanan panted furiously, angry that he’d brought to life the dark, disturbed parts of himself that he hadn’t even realised were there to begin with in an instant, then had the audacity to leave him wanting. Humiliated that he’d let him. “I believe we’ve made considerable progress today,” he continued, “though your ability to adhere to orders could be improved upon.” Kanan could practically see the cruel, toothy smile on the other man’s face.
“You’re leaving?” he asked hoarsely, both relieved and uneasy at the prospect of being alone in such a state.
“Yes. You wanted me to stop, did you not?” the Grand Inquisitor replied simply.
Kanan suppressed the violent urges that bubbled underneath his skin. That was how the Inquisitor wanted him to react: with rage and hatred. Instead, he said nothing. Silence pervaded momentarily, as if the Inquisitor was waiting for the inevitable spark of anger. Defiantly, Kanan turned his head away, waiting for those footsteps to recede, for the door to slide shut. “Just go, then,” he spat, uncaring of the consequences of his disrespect. To his surprise, the Inquisitor walked away, silent. At the whoosh of the door, Kanan inhaled shakily, curling into himself on his side. He finally allowed his tears to fall freely, reaching a hand towards his belt, beneath the waistband of his pants.
He could hate himself after he came.