There are some seriously fantastic Black Ice drawings out there... js.
Another word from Pitch.
This next part gets quite graphic in absolutely every sense. The author has been unable to write her own material for quite some time…and thus exacted vengeance upon this chapter. It does involve non-con.
Hollywood Undead recently released their new album. The title references one of their tracks. So sadz. :/
Jack swallows, nearly asphyxiated by the subsequent urge to follow unreservedly to wherever this phantom may lead. Only one question lingers in his mind. Curiosity wins out in the end. "I want to see your face before we go. Can I?"
Black's hand releases his throat. The golden eyes narrow sharply. "You've seen it."
Carefully, "Not like this. Y-," he stutters, "You're different. I can tell."
The eyes adopt a jaded look, numb and unmoved by the request. "If it is light you require, I'm afraid I cannot help you with that, nor do I care to."
Jack gets a spate of courage. It flares up and promptly dwindles afterwards. "If you can turn them off, you can turn them on," he insists. His reasoning is logical.
"Fine," Pitch snaps back with a ferocity that makes Jack shrink inward. "Look upon your tormentor and despair, boy."
The lamp situated on an end table in the sitting area gradually comes to life.
Pitch Black stands before him. Jack can see the identical resemblance to the man he has come to know, albeit small inconsistencies. His skin, for example, is grey. It is not a dark grey. It is as if his Caucasian flesh was put into a black and white film and never regained its original hue. This throws the yellow in his eyes into sharp contrast. He wears a fitted black cloak – collared and closed at the navel. It reveals a long titillating sliver of his bare chest. Jack's eyes travel downward. The cloak opens just above the crotch and dovetails around his legs and behind him. He wears fitted trousers of a matching shade. They serve doubly as pants and boots.
While Jack examines Pitch, Pitch takes inventory of the boy – namely the subtle signs of his recent grief: the red in his eyes, the flush in his face, and the lingering gloom on his customarily cheerful demeanor. Pitch takes a silent oath that Jack will never discover the circumstances of Adam's disappearance.
Because… as of this moment… Pitch is not entirely certain Jack would stay with him, should he know the truth and were given the choice.
Jack reaches out carefully. He hesitates when Pitch's eyes cut to daggers. Jack tries to look as harmless as possible, which is far too easy considering his already affable appearance. Pitch humors him because to him, it is humorous. Jack takes Pitch by the wrist and brings his arm about to examine his hand. His long fingers are tipped with black nails, like claws. Jack's hands, in comparison, are decidedly smaller and less fearsome. They are fairly strong and calloused though, due to his many falls on the ice through the years. Jack chances a glance up into his face. Pitch is watching with a mix of distain and uncertainty.
He is everything Jack envisioned. He is beautiful and menacing, like a dark angel or a blessed demon.
"You left them for me," Jack realizes quietly. "The chocolates. That was you."
Pitch assumes a smug smirk. "Bait, if you will."
"Well it worked," he mutters through a growing smile. Jack's attention strays to Pitch's hand again, tracing his palm and toying with his fingers. "I'll do pretty much anything for that stuff." Jack swallows thickly. He can feel heat in his cheeks. "So… all that… All those urges…"
"Subconscious, of course," Pitch dismisses. "You were uncommonly easy to manipulate." With a predatory grin and a flicker in his eyes, "You don't enjoy yourself nearly enough."
Jack subtly rolls his eyes. Tentatively, "I should be mad at you for that – for scaring the shit out of me… for fucking with my mind."
Wryly, "The vulgar language, however, is none of my doing."
Jack chuckles. Pitch lifts his unoccupied hand and fits a claw beneath Jack's chin, guiding it up. They meet eyes. Pitch keeps his expression carefully anesthetized – a skill Jack has yet to master. Meanwhile, Jack stares, starry eyed. Pitch ever imagined Jack would regard him this way. Pitch is accustomed to a great many reactions, the majority of them averse. He expected Jack to shy away, even rescind his offer (though Pitch would take him regardless). Something peculiar stirs inside of him.
"I don't think I'm scared anymore," Jack tells him. "I wanted you to be real. Somehow, I knew you were."
Pitch wavers. This affectionate dialogue feels strange. No, it feels filthy.
Repulsed, Pitch flits his hand through the air and extinguishes the troublesome lamp light. Jack is promptly yanked off his feet by a tendril of sand and dragged across the miniature den, through the kitchenette, under the bed, and into the dark. Pitch disappears in a cyclone of smog.
Jack rouses in cavern of great magnitude, indeterminable in height and width. Cages hang from the abyss above, suspended in darkness. He has seen this place before. "Pitch?" Jack asks the emptiness. His voice echoes back to him. He searches, but finds nothing. Jack proceeds into the sanctum, crossing a bridge and descending a stone staircase. This world is illuminated by a dark light – one originating from some abominable blend of the two. He passes into a room. At the far end is another cage.
Jack approaches.
The closer he comes, the more he can see that the cage ahead is not empty like the others.
The occupant, however, is no longer alive.
Jack stands several paces away, wintry fixed upon the mangled corpse whose arm dangles between the bars. The flesh has faded, leaving bones and scraps of clothing behind. Fear finds him quickly. Jack, horrified, is frozen when he feels an arm snake around him and a hand against his throat.
"An unfortunate accident," Pitch claims against the shell of his ear. However, he uses a tone that is not completely convincing.
Hoarsely, "Who was he?"
"Someone non-compatible," Pitch answers while his hand blazes a trail down over Jack's hip and thigh.
"You did that?" Jack manages. He can feel Pitch smiling.
"I can do much worse. But not to you," he assures, as if the remark is supposed to be comforting.
Jack's senses rush back to him when he hears banging and muttering coming from behind a door to the right. "What is that?" Jack whispers.
Pitch grins, gradually untangling himself from Jack. "A gift." Jack regards him suspiciously. Pitch gestures towards the door with a shallow bow and an open palm. Jack ventures forward. The muttering grows louder and the banging more desperate. Jack raises his hand. It hovers just above the knob. He steels himself and yanks it open.
"Pierre?!" Jack exclaims. They meet eyes. Recognition and relief flashes through Pierre's frightened gaze. Jack's former skating coach is bound at the wrists and ankles and gagged by inky black ropes. Jack hurries to him. He kneels and tries to untie him. His hands, however, pass right through the restraints. "What is the meaning of this?" Jack gasps, wheeling on Pitch.
"I told you. A gift."
"Release him!" Jack pleads.
Pitch resumes his mirthless demeanor. Dryly, "How very ungrateful of you."
Jack shakes his head as his brows knit together. "Why would I want this? Why would I ever want this?"
Pitch suddenly leans forward, causing Jack to bend back. "Because he dictated your life. Now you can return the favor." With a predatory grin, "He's yours."
"Mine?" Jack balks. He still doesn't understand.
"Yes," Pitch replies as he rights himself, returning to his daunting height. "To control. To govern. I offer you the power over a life. Savor it." Pitch taps his thin lips thoughtfully. "Of course, if you really don't want him," he says offhand, "I am positive I can find another use-"
"No!" Jack exclaims. He suddenly realizes that Pierre's life hangs in the balance. "No… I'll have him." Quickly, "Thank you." Jack feels compelled to show gratitude, or at least say the words. He glances over his shoulder at the man on the floor. "I – I want to talk to him." However, this is going to be a challenge with the gag in place.
Pitch waves his hand as he pivots towards the doorway. As he departs, "His bindings now answer to you. What you will, will be." Soon, all that is left of him is an echoing chuckle and fading footsteps.
Jack's attention volleys back to Pierre. He kneels with him and helps the man up on his knees. Jack considers his options for the moment, unclear about precisely how he goes about releasing him. He lifts his hand, but before his fingers can touch the rope, it vanishes. Wisps of smoke waft into the air. "Pierre," Jack sighs.
"Jack," the man says gratefully. His brows knit together. "What is this? What's going on?"
"I don't know. I—" Jack hesitates, struggling with how to explain the enigma that is their captor. "Pitch is… something else."
"Pitch? Pitch Black, the judge?"
"Yes." Jack stares at his knees, leafing through memories of Pitch like pages of a book. "He is something that I cannot explain. Something evil. Something amazing."
Pierre does not like the sound of this at all. He eyes Jack incredulously, as though he hardly recognizes him. "Why are you here?"
"He came to me." Jack gradually meets his eyes. "He came to me in the night, for several nights actually. I saw him in my dreams."
Pierre narrows his eyes suspiciously. He starts to shake his head. "Jack you're talking nonsense."
"Don't I know it," the boy acknowledges. He assumes a wry, lopsided smirk. "But I'm not the one all tressed up…"
"What has he done to you? Hurt you? Bewitched you?"
"Oh, no," Jack insists, calling sincerity into his wintry blues. "He has done nothing. He has… He has freed me, if anything. I can't explain it. I just want to be with him."
Pierre is plainly horrified. "Be with – That's madness! What about Adam?"
Jack's expression mellows out. He averts his eyes. The wound of Adam's desertion seems like a distant memory, an old wound, but it still bleeds. "Adam left me. I think…" He blinks. "I think it's Pitch I've wanted all along."
Pierre tries to catch Jack's eyes, churning his wrists behind him, struggling to get free. "Have you seen that lunatic in the light?"
Jack recalls the sight of Pitch's true self. With distracted smile, he whispers, "Yes."
Pierre stops struggling against the shackles. "Jack." His eyes grow sad. His shoulders sag as he hangs his head. "Jack, don't."
"Don't what?" Jack says, facing him once more.
Hesitantly, "Don't go with him."
Jack tilts his head. "Why not?"
"Because I…" He sets his jaw. Lowly, "It's always been you."
Jack watches him, immobile, trying not to anticipate what he will say next. "What has?"
Pierre shuts his eyes tight. "I've wanted you." He opens them and locks stares with Jack. "I want you," he emphasizes. "Don't go with him."
Jack is unsure how to interpret this. His eyes start to widen. "What are you talking about?"
Pierre tries to explain himself. "Adam left. I thought… I thought that meant we could finally… I want to be with you." He moves a little closer. "You're afraid. I understand that. But I can take care of you. I can protect you. You know I can. I've looked after you for so long." His wondrous blues are once again pregnant with conviction. "Don't choose that nightmare over me. I can understand Adam. I can. He's younger, sophisticated… Australian. But not him."
Jack searches the man's face. His jaw works as if he means to speak. Nothing comes out for some time. If he thought the age different between himself and Adam was scandalous, the difference here is a crime. Pierre is handsome, in a distinguished sort of way, but Jack has never… The man practically raised him. Jack finds his feet. He turns away and retreats just out of reach. He is conflicted. He never thought he would have to choose between Pitch, his perfect nightmare, and Pierre, a fiercely loyal protector. But has he not already made it? When he agreed to come to this place? With his back turned, Jack does not see the inky mist waft up to Pierre's nose or the subsequent flash in his eyes after the man inhales it, unawares. Jack wrings his hands. "Pierre, I had no idea." He faces him. "I don't-"
Pierre wilts, but he maintains his composure. Such is the difference between youth and maturity. Pierre takes it in stride. "Please. Say no more. That is enough. If this is real, I have a feeling I won't leave here alive. And that's not the last thing I want to hear. I just needed to come clean to you."
Jack shakes his head in earnest. He hurries to Pierre, urgently expressing a truth he hopes will soothe him. "That's up to me. Whether you live is up to me. Not him. I can convince him to let me let you go! I can—" Pierre's lips suddenly find his and he is silenced.
The sand chains disintegrate, but not by Jack's doing.
Pierre's massive arms are free to rope him in and pull him close. Jack is surprised, not only by the act, but by the strength behind it. He tenses. His eyes flutter open. Pierre tightens his grip, bringing their crotches together. The man's hand clamps down on the seat of his pants. Jack flushes darkly, seizing Pierre's wrist in shock. He tugs a little, just to tell the man that his hand needs to be higher. Pierre only squeezes tighter. Jack pulls with more gumption, switching from a mere reminder to actually trying to pry the man's hand away. It doesn't budge. Jack's eyes widen, furrowing his brows. He utters a muffled, uhhmm-?! Against Pierre's lips. He plants his other hand on Pierre's chest. He makes to push… no… shove him away. Instead, Pierre drags him up on his thigh. Jack is mortified when the man's other hand glides under the hem of his pants. His fingertips dig into the bare flesh of his ass with bruising force. Jack starts to struggle against him, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. His thigh grinds against Pierre's crotch and the prominent erection under his clothing. The man emits a primal groan.
Jack slams his hand against Pierre's chest. He curls his fingers and knocks his fist against the same spot, harder. The man's hand dips into the seam of his ass, moves his scant dancewear aside, and traces his thick finger around the rim of his entrance. More muffled shouts vibrate in Jack's throat. He starts to thrash, beating his fist against Pierre's chest while his other hand still pulls desperately at his hand. The finger starts rubbing, massaging, and probing. Horror coupled with despair fills Jack's eyes.
The more Jack tries to talk into the kiss, the more the words sound like moans. The more Jack tries to worm away, the higher Pierre's desire escalates.
Pierre inserts a finger and moans in approval. Jack starts screaming against his lips. Pierre throws him down on the floor, clamps a hand over his mouth, and drags his pants down. Jack's hands scramble to stop him. With his elbow locked like it is, Jack can't reach his face for a punch. Pierre forges his way between his thighs.
"Sh-" Pierre soothes viciously. He bears his teeth in a grin. "I can take care of you. I'll show you. I'll make you see." Pierre's ominous form blurs as tears spring to Jack's eyes. Jack, who has nearly screamed himself hoarse, writhes and thrashes for freedom beneath him. The muscles across his body, as well as the ropes in his neck, grow taut. He wants to close his legs, but Pierre's hips are in the way. Jack watches in terror as the man reaches down and frees his cock.
"Look at me," Pierre says. "Jack, look at me." Jack meets his eyes, searching desperately for some shade of mercy. "I want to see it. I want to see it all." Pierre sucks on two of his fingers before the hand disappears. They slide into him. The puckered cavern tenses against the intrusion and Jack's cheeks color in a hard flush. Pierre twists and curls his fingers. Jack whimpers under his hand. When he is satisfied, he removes them with a pop. With that, the man seizes his knee, brings it up, and shoves inside. Agony floods Jack's eyes at the searing pain.
He screams against the man's hand. Jack slams his strong fists against Pierre's arm. The man is clearly tired of the struggling. Now that he is buried in him, Pierre drops Jack's knee and manages to swallow up both of his wrists in one hand. He pins them above the boy's head.
Pitch abides in another part of his lair, occupying himself by hatching schemes and threading a coin through his fingers. He knows full well what is happening in the hermetic cell at present. And it kills two birds with one stone.
It obliterates Jack's love for and trust in Pierre and absolves him of his virginity. Pitch does not particularly care for virgins. Namely, he does not care for a virgin who already affects him like Jack does. (The conversation they shared before arriving was unsettling to say the least.) It's a slippery slope; one Pitch has no intention of venturing out upon. The solution presented itself when Pitch was on his way up in the elevator to collect the spoils of his conquest.
Let Pierre break Jack. Pitch will collect and reassemble the pieces.
Stretched and stuffed with the engorged organ, Jack realizes that there is no escape. Jack stops thrashing. He cannot call for help. If Pitch saw him like this… would he lose interest? Think him spoiled? Pierre starts rutting into him and furthering his thought is impossible. As well endowed as Adam was, Jack can tell that Pierre's is meatier, but roughly the same length. Pierre jackhammers into him, striking spots Jack is only recently acquainted with. He is reacting in spite of himself.
His toes curl. This time, the sound muffled by Pierre's hand is a moan. An orgasm rips through him. Streams of cum jet over his shirt and Pierre's arm. And with Pierre pummeling him from the inside, it lasts. Seconds later, he feels a white hot heat erupt inside of him as Pierre unloads. Pierre rides it through, sloshing it around. Pierre's hand shifts enough to dip his broad thumb between Jack's lips, pushing it in until the catch. Even with his mouth basically uncovered, Jack has nothing to say anymore. He wears a weary, defeated expression.
"You see?" Pierre asks. "I knew you wanted me. It was only a matter of getting it out of you." Tears spring to Jack's eyes. Refusing to let them fall, his brow furrows and he looks away. Pierre releases him and removes himself. Jack can feel liquid heat leaking out of him. He lays there for a moment, splayed out on the rock floor, before he rolls onto his side and sits up. Meanwhile, Pierre uses Jack's pants to towel his cock off.
... Did he want it? Did... did he always want it? Is he really this big of a slut? Pierre tosses Jack his pants. Jack pulls them back on. He goes to stand and is nearly unable to do so. Suddenly, the inky black bindings restrain Pierre's wrists and ankles again, cock out and all. Pierre blinks. Jack watches him flatly. Pierre's eyes dart around the room and finally land on Jack.
"Jack," he says, looking oddly mortified. He notices the drying stains on Jack's clothing and the vacant look in his eyes. The cell door yawns open.
"Are you through?" Pitch asks Jack dryly, not even gracing Pierre with a glance. Jack can only hang his head and nod. He turns to leave.
"Jack!" Pierre calls in horror at what he has done. "I would never! You know I would never! Jack, I'm sorry! I'm so s—!" With one glare from Pitch, Pierre is gagged again. The man struggles and hollers. Pitch steers Jack out of the cell and closes the door.
"So," Pitch prompts, his long digits joined in a diamond as they meander through the caves. "What is your verdict?"
Jack stares blankly into the shadows – battling the desire to wrap himself up in the dark and wither away. Things have become so distorted, rearranged, and cold. Stationary. Glacial. Grotesque. The bleakest corners of his mind are the only ones illuminated, and within reach. Numbly, "Kill 'im."