submission, rendered

The air hung thick with the scent of ozonic static and Saren’s cloying, expensive tastes. A low thrum, perhaps from the ship or from Heinrix’s own over-stimulated nerves, pulsed in his ears, blurring the edges of the room into a haze of distorted light. He felt the rough, gilt-edged fabric of the greatcoat swallow him whole, a suffocating veil that obscured everything but the crushing reality of the Rogue Trader’s presence. Saren’s grip was an anchor point in the chaos, one gloved hand pinning Heinrix’s wrists high against the cold sheets, the other holding his jaw in a proprietary vice, thumb pressing just hard enough to be a promise. He could feel Saren’s breath, warm and measured against his cheek, a stark contrast to the cold finality in his low voice, a whisper meant only for him amidst the crackling scanlines of their shared, silent accord.