Archive: Feel free to on MA. Other places ask first.
Category: Non Q/O, point of view, angst, rape. O/An, An/P
Rating: NC-17, Explicit. Drug use, non-con male/male, and
violent rape.
Warning: I cannot repeat the phrase "Rape" enough. It is
unpleasant and explicit, and do not read if this thing bothers
you. Also, notice the phrase "Drug Use"--this is also
unpleasant.
Spoilers: If you don't know who Anakin, Darth Vader, Palpatine,
and Obi-Wan are, don't read.
Summary: Feeling lonely and on the verge of becoming a knight,
nineteen-year-old Anakin tries everything to get warm, but
instead he discovers new meaning to the word "cold." Yet
another Bad Ani story.
Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to GL, everything
you wish you didn't see belongs to me; cash not received nor
asked.
Feedback: Talk dirty to me: ms_elektra@hotmail.com
Author's Note: This came out of an Eppie One discussion with a
group of friends where we decided Vader's suit is actually an
elaborate heating system. Doesn't quite follow the Star Wars
timeline, and I take liberties of playing with Anakin's head.
Hey, someone's gotta do it.
Wrapped up in a lonely cocoon of blankets, I can't help but
dwell on the shivering cold that lances through my veins. I can
almost picture it in my mind, though my Force abilities are
somewhat hazy at the moment. Tiny ice shards radiate out of a
pulsing ball of snow crystals buried deep inside my stomach. I
cannot get comfortable, I cannot meditate, I cannot sleep.
We've been onboard this ship for three days, and by my Master's
orders I have been forced to spend each of those days in
seclusion to prepare for my Trials. I've completed my final
mission as a Padawan, and now we are returning to Coruscant so
that I may become a Jedi Knight at long last. All I can do is
suffer in my empty quarters and wait for our return to the
planet's surface.
I think I will always hate space. It's cold. Master Yoda would
say that Hate is of the Dark Side, but so is space and
therefore I feel warranted in my feelings towards it. When I
was young, I used to love looking skyward; the nights on
Tatooine were chill but clear, and I could count as many stars
as I could remember. On the night I had met my future fate,
Qui-Gon had told me that each of those stars had a system of
planets. I don't quite remember what I had replied. It has been
ten years since he'd died, and Master Kenobi took his place in
my life. What I do remember most clearly about my last days on
Tatooine is the afternoon I left. The second we escaped the
blistering atmosphere of the planet, a bone-freezing chill
overcame me--I could feel the darkness enfold the ship,
greedily devouring the desert's heat and replacing it with its
own soul-less, empty, powerful night.
The prophetic dreams hadn't told me how much it would hurt to
be embraced by darkness, or why I had yearned to touch it for
so many years. As the child I was, I could think only about was
how I was cold, and that I wanted to go back to my warm home
and walk in the daylight. Ten years ago, I stuffed every bit of
the cold I felt into a tiny ball, where it sits to this day
uncomfortable in my belly.
I've hated space travel ever since that afternoon. Oh, I can
pilot any craft and do as often as I can, but I am never so
glad as to stand in sunlight and feel the hot noon sun try to
melt the inner ice. The cold ball has never gone away; its just
been pushed deeper over the years. Times like these--when I am
full of anxiety and left without tasks to occupy my mind--the
tiny ball starts to unravel like a child holding his arms out
to his mother. Space, in turn, holds out her vacuous arms to
embrace her lost son, and I am pulled between them. There is
little that can bring relief to this pain.
My cloak is no protection from the ice, but its weight gives me
some measure of comfort. The blankets too add their weight to
the fight to keep me functionally warm. I have not slept nor
have I been able to meditate with the Force since we left
Ja'han three days ago. The first hours of space travel had been
a terror to endure, and these last hours before arrival is pure
torture. There are only two things that I've found in my years
of space travel that will return the desert's heat to my veins
at times like these--one is nearby in a pouch on my belt, the
other is somewhere on this ship far outside my reach.
The first, most available option is called Ahluutan extract. I
discovered it on a previous mission to an outer-rim ice planet.
The inhabitants use it in a religious ceremony, injecting
themselves before stripping naked and frolicking in the
sub-zero blizzards. It was the only thing that made that
mission bearable. I had sworn I would never use it again, but
every mission a vial finds its way to my bloodstream all the
same. The Code forbids this dangerous weakness in discipline,
but in lieu of any other means of heat regeneration, I think
the Council would forgive me my trespass. I won't ever
voluntarily tell them of my little secret, but if I had, I
think I am correct in assuming they would allow it as an
extreme emergency. My body still hums with my last dose, the
drying sweat of returning need chills my soul further.
My other option is called Obi-Wan Kenobi, my Master. One glance
from his enigmatic eyes sets my blood on fire. Near him, I burn
with a pure flame that I often fantasize will one day save me
from my inner cold. But my Master has been busy with Supreme
Chancellor Palpatine elsewhere on the ship; I haven't spoken to
him since we boarded the star cruiser. He has no inkling of my
raging hunger for him, nor do I think I will ever tell him.
Since I cannot leave my room, I have done nothing for hours but
stare at the only other piece of furniture in the tiny space
other than the bed. On top of the undistinguished bedside table
lays my Jedi belt, complete with lightsaber attachment and
multi-purpose carrying cases. It is a self-inflicted
punishment, this vigil. Inside the smallest of the pouches
concealed in the back there is a palm-length vial of liquid
heat just waiting for me to give into its seductive touch, as I
have already done myriad times on this journey.
I've been forcing myself to ration out the vital extract over
the journey, but my attempts to enforce a self-inflicted
one-dose-a-day habit has thus far failed. I've had one dose
today, and I need another. Every time I take the drug I need a
larger dose the next time--for there can be no doubt that there
will be a next time. I should not have another today, lest I
wish to find myself hopelessly addicted to its relief.
I'm not an addict yet. I merely want one more hit, just to get
me through till morning. Just a little bit, just a small flash
of fire to get me through the night. A tiny taste of that heat
I am missing, just a drop. A tiny drop, that won't hurt me...
Throwing off the blankets, I stand to pace the limited floor of
my small cabin, keeping my mind and my body as far as possible
from the reaches of space and drug. Still, the frost of space
trickles in through the thick metal and makes me shiver. The
blue liquid hidden from view calls to me to taste its release.
Movement keeps me somewhat warm, so I continue the pace. I take
six steps, reach the blank wall, then turn to follow my path
exactly. Six steps, blank wall. My footsteps are light and
silent, my movements quick. If only my mind could be as
weightless, then I wouldn't have such heavy thoughts making my
head feel as though it will explode. Six steps. Blank wall. Six
steps. Blank wall. Six steps.
My veins, ripped and torn by the ice circulating within, scream
for anything to make them stop feeling pain. Take the drug, and
suffer the consequences. Run to my Master, and feel like a
foolish child. Blank wall. Six steps. Blank wall. I don't want
the drug's painfully lonely embrace; I want Master Kenobi here
with me. His calming presence and warm eyes is the only thing
that truly masters my turbulent spirit. Blocked by the extract,
the comfort of the Force is fuzzily distant to me now, but the
soothing touch of his hand to my brow is all I will need to
feel better. Six steps. Blank wall.
My feet come to a complete stop in front of the wall that
separates our rooms. It is late, and whatever business he had
with the Chancellor must surely be over now. I lean my forehead
against the cool surface as I turn inward and concentrate. At
first, the Force eludes me. I can feel it swimming around me,
but it mocks my attempts to hold it near. I close my eyes and
press my entire person against the metal. My nose is crushed
painfully, and my lips turn blue from the cold. My tongue
flicks out to warm them, but it slides to no avail between them
and the wall. It is hard to breathe like this, so I slow my
respiration to stave off the panic of asphyxia.
Connection with my Master is never as easy as it could have
been, even without the lingering effects of the drug. We've
never had a training bond like other master-padawan pairs. The
Council told me that it was because I was too old when I began
my training. I have learned to endure this isolation as I have
all else, except in times of dire need as now.
I hunger for the warmth of his connection, the true respite I
find only at his presence. And still the Force alludes my call.
I open my palms, splay my fingers across the smoothness, and
push firmly. I thrust my hips forward, grinding against the
barrier. I rub my cheek against the coolness. Any closer and my
body would have no choice but to pass through the material. The
hard wall bleaches out what heat I still have in my exposed
skin, and my outer temperature drops another degree under my
heavy cloak.
I feel a flicker. It is the Force-equivalent of a fish swimming
in a shallow stream. With my mind I wrap a fist around it,
crushing it to my will as I call upon the Force. There, caught
it. Cautiously, I send out a small tendril through to the other
room to reach for my Master. The Force briefly touches his
mind, and I can feel his fuzzy dreams against my eyelids.
Humanoid shapes move and blend in the miasma of dream-thought;
their shadow-puppet meaning eludes me.
The fragile bond breaks, and his mind slips my grasp. The
slippery fish returns to the stream, leaving me bereft.
Starving. Aching. Alone. Cold.
Being stationary renews my shivers, and I push away from the
cold wall. My braid whips past my face as I turn on my heel,
pacing with more determination than before. Six steps. Blank
wall. Six steps. Blank wall. I shove my hands deep into the
sleeves of my cloak to wrap my arms around my chest. The skin
of my fingers is cool and does not warm; space has robbed me of
even the simple ability to heat my own body. Six steps.
Blank wall. My Master sleeps, and I do not wake him. From that
arena I will find no succor tonight. Tomorrow, we will arrive
at Coruscant, and I will take my Trials. And I will fail
because a Jedi who cannot find peace cannot be one with the
Force. I need to be free of this damnable cold! Six steps. My
Master sleeps, and there is but one other way that I can find
some rest. I am loathe to take advantage of it. Blank wall. The
Code forbids a Jedi from using any form of drug; mediation is
all a Jedi needs to find an altered state of consciousness, to
reach peace. Six steps. Blank wall. I cannot meditate, nor find
my center. My Master sleeps. I am alone. I need relief. I need
to finish my Trials. I will be a Jedi.
Four steps. Bedside table.
My fingers tremble as they open the smaller of the packets on
my belt. The tiny blue vial and its accompanying long-needled
syringe leaps to my fingers, eager to be used. I prepare the
dose with familiar ease, for truly only a handful of hours has
passed since I last moved through this procedure. The syringe
easily perforates the waxy lid, stabbing into the vial like a
small silver sword. Pulling back the plunger, I fill the hollow
cylinder with a half-dose of blue liquid, tap out the bubbles,
and send a small arc of crystal through the air. It is a paltry
amount compared to what I am used to shooting, but it will be
enough to take the edge off and maybe give me a few hours of
sleep before morning.
My sash comes off easily without the impediment of the heavy
belt. Weighted by my heavy cloak, the rough fabric of my tunic
falls open to bare my abdomen to the gleaming sword. With one
hand I pull the hemline of my leggings down near my groin while
with the other I hold the needle close to my skin. I shiver
violently with the first intimate brush of cold air against my
naked flesh; the uncontrolled movement scores a line of blood
across my injection-bruised belly. I straighten my back to take
a steadying deep breath and place the tip halfway between my
navel and my groin. The needle barely brings any pain when it
punctures the skin, but once it stabs deeply the quivering
muscle I whimper at the ache. In a single, sudden movement, I
drive it in until I feel it nudge that special area inside
where the cold is gathered.
Depressing the plunger, I moan out loud. The touch of the
extract burns as it meets my blood; the noises I make echo in
my head as I try to keep them quiet. My tears are not as easy
to suppress. It is an exercise in will power to finish emptying
the blazing extract into my belly. The fire grows as it pools
deep inside.
The extraction of the needle is more painful than the injection
of it--the remnant drops of Ahluutan draw a ragged abyss
through my insides, ensuring that the bleeding will be
difficult to stop. I place a hand over the wound as I lean over
and drop the syringe and vial into their place in the pouch.
The first unruly twinge hits suddenly at the moment I am least
prepared for it. The ball of snow in my middle plunges into the
lake of fire injected in my lower belly, dragging my heart, my
lungs, and my stomach with it. The force of it tosses me
backwards onto my bed, but even though I feel the solid weight
of the mattress against my back, it seems I'm falling clear
through to the floor.
Fire. It burns through my blood, spreading through my body in
flickering waves that make my breath come fast and hard. It
hurts, but the pain feels so good--space's empty cold filled
with liquid flame. It radiates outward from the center of my
body with a near-sentient desire to find out and fill every
dark place within me. In the wake of every wave, there is an
echo of haunting chill. I want to scream when the blue flame
reaches my brain to cradle my thoughts with its heat, but my
voice, like my breath, is locked in my seizing throat.
I break out in a hard sweat as the waves come quicker, but the
chill doesn't reach my mind or thoughts. I am well shielded
from any outside sensation. I close my eyes, insulated for a
time from the reaches of outer space and inner cold. I know my
body is shaking violently in the grip of the extract-induced
fever, but I am disconnected from it. I can't even feel the
Force.
Finally, I hit the golden moment when the waves come so fast
there is no more pain between them--nothing but blank bliss. In
the insubstantial arms of the exotic drug I float without fear.
Not sleeping, but at ease. The dark cold of space isn't so
scary like this. Not-quite dream images whisper many things
into my ears, but I can't care enough to listen to them. I feel
too good.
As great as the Ahluutan can be, the aftermath is horrible.
To me, it feels as though I have only just dosed up. To the
rest of the world, time continues to move at the same ecstatic
pace. Ahluutan is a lot like pod racing; big rush, very
dangerous, and all too soon it is over. The end starts with a
tug at my stomach, pulling me out of my floating haze. The tug
becomes a pull, the pull becomes a push, the push becomes a
spike-covered fist burying itself in my gut as the ice
re-emerges from the extract's grasp. I curl up, fetal position,
to wait for it to pass. The burn turns me inside out.
As bad as the coming down can be, going without would be worse.
With a deep breath, I am free of its strong grip, and the cold
returns with greater intensity. My skin tingles with the fast
disappearing fingers of warmth as I am left without my injected
insulation; beneath the thin coating of sweat and blood my
stomach flutters with chills. I am laid bare, and emptiness
rushes in to consume me. I allow myself a single cry of anguish
at my loss before I gather my cloak to hold on to what heat I
can.
I check the chronometer next to the bed. Only two hours have
passed. Three more until the ship awakens. Eight until we reach
Coruscant. Fifteen to the Trials. Never enough time.
It was a mistake to give into the temptation--too soon, and not
enough--and now I am worse off than before. I feel all the more
tired, only now it goes bone-deep. My bedding is soaked and
chilled with my sickness. My stomach is so bruised it hurts to
sit up. Blood from my wound stains my fingers, and beneath my
tunic I can feel its half-dried slickness covering my skin. I
am wrung out. Even the frenetic energy that comes from
shivery-jerky chilled muscles is used up by the drug, and I
have nothing left to protect me from space's embrace. The Force
is a drug-hazed blur at the edge of my mind. Weak, I am the
frightened child I once was, shivering alone in the cold space,
dreaming of being safe at home once again.
My knees quiver as I try to stand, and twice I fall to my
knees. My head is still swimming from the extract. I grip the
table with weak fingers, barely able to stand on my feet. My
strength is dulled, but in nauseating contradiction my senses
are too sharp. The room blazes with chemical light, the muted
sounds of the ship's propulsion pounds against my abused skull,
the wooden table overloads my mind with a thousand textures
grating against my hands. I am trembling too much to breathe
easily, and even this minute movement is exaggerated in
sensation. I wait for the dizziness to pass before I abandon
the coolness of my own cabin for my Master's. I need his
presence near me, even if he is asleep. I can't go through this
alone.
Each staggering step clears my mind of the drug's
after-effects, diluting its strength and dulling my
over-sensitive senses. The hall is empty, so there is no one to
witness the un-Jedi unsteadiness in the dozen steps to his
room. My hands still tremble as I key open his door, but I am
able to draw in regular breaths. Little light is let in with my
entrance as the door opens and closes around me.
Even the air here feels warmer. My eyes adjust to the darkness,
and I can see Master Kenobi's form curled on his side on his
bed. His back is to me, but I can see the outline of his head
above the thick blanket. It is a sight with which I'm well
familiar. I shared his sleeping space for the first years of my
training, his presence and his bodyheat a comfort in that
turbulent time of adjustment. I grew out of the need when I hit
puberty, finding the privacy of my own room more comfortable
than the arousing proximity of my naked Master, but even then I
would come in late at night to watch him sleep. Much of my late
night contemplations were occupied with the singular compulsion
to figure out why he would accept me as his padawan. He argued
with Qui-Gon about me. He agreed with the Council that I should
not be trained. Even now that I am on the cusp of becoming a
knight, when he looks at me a certain way, I can hear his soft
voice tell Qui-Gon, "The boy is dangerous." He has never
revealed his reasons for taking me on after Qui-Gon's death,
and I've yet to press the matter with him formally. I fear what
his answer might be.
I feel a cool draft across my face, and my folded arms convulse
around my chest. Already, the room is becoming colder. I
deliberate for all of ten seconds, then, feeling like the
foolish child I once was, I clumsily remove my cloak as I toe
off my boots. I use my loose tunic to wipe off the blood from
my stomach before rolling it in a ball to hide the evidence. On
top of it I fold my soft pants and cover the lot with my cloak,
leaving my clothing in a pile next to my Master's.
Fully nude, I hesitantly take the few steps to Obi-Wan's side,
unsure of my steps in my weakness. Lifting the blanket, I slip
in behind him. The sheets are tepid with his bodyheat, and they
warm me little as I perch at the edge of the mattress. My face
blushes with embarrassment at being here; I haven't needed to
sleep with my Master in years. It is an embarrassing sign of
weakness to need his comfort again; I'm getting too old for a
teddybear.
I try not to wake him as I nudge closer beside him on the
narrow bedding, but one of my icy feet accidentally brushes his
leg and he yelps awake. I feel my face burn all the more when
he turns on his side to face me, his powerful gaze peering
straight to my core.
Sleepy eyes blink, then clear with recognition. "Padawan," he
greets me, "what are you doing here?" His voice is modulated to
be neither pushy nor indifferent, merely serenely curious. I'm
familiar with this tone. He uses it when he knows there's
something wrong.
I am afraid he will send me away for disobeying his solitude
edict, which makes it all the more difficult to come up with a
reason to satisfy him so I can stay. "I couldn't sleep, my
Master." His bodyheat is just outside of my touch, feather-soft
and enticing. I shiver visibly at the agony of being so close
and so separate from it. " I'm cold." My words come out quiet
and small, trembling with my body's chill.
I think for a moment that he will send me away, but the worry
crease in his forehead softens into the amused nose-wrinkle
instead. Smiling widely, he opens his arms and lifts the
blanket, inviting me into his space. I don't need to think
about it at all; my body knows exactly what it wants. I leap
the distance between us, slamming into his body in my
desperation for comfort and warmth. His arms come down and
bring the blanket with them, and suddenly I am enveloped by
velvet heat. It is as wonderful as I remember it to be;
Obi-Wan's arms are like the suns' rays wrapping around my bare
skin, only softer and more solid.
I am no longer the small boy I was, and my taller frame doesn't
fit as nicely with his slight body. I slide down in the bed so
that I may lean my face against his chest, and his breath
catches from the shock of the cold of my forehead. I whisper a
soft "I'm sorry" but I'm not sure he heard it. I cannot hear my
own words over the rush of heartbeat against my forehead. His
hands on my back are two bright suns burning away the morning's
chill. To be near him again--it quiets my mind and heart like
nothing else. This is a peace no drug could ever bring me. His
body protectively replaces the heat stolen from my body, and I
absorb it wantonly.
Oh, I am so tired. The weight of three restless, drug-filled
days falls over me, and I am nearer to sleep than I have been
in a long time. Everything goes that special kind of hazy, the
good kind where you are safe and nothing can hurt you, and you
are happy to give over to the nothingness on the other side. I
nuzzle into his soft chest for a while, soaking up his presence
like a starving man at a banquet. My mind is naturally falling
to rest outside the influence of any drug but his comforting
touch. His scent is serene and powerful, and it entices my
senses with its sweet/sour desert wind. So much like being
home; laying in Obi-Wan's arms like this suggests the solace of
the nights of my childhood, but with one big difference. I am
no longer a child; I am a man on his way to knighthood.
"Thank you, my Master," I whisper into the hard muscle beneath
my lips. Peace which had alluded me for so long comes. The
Force hums joyfully to his proximity. Better than the drug,
better than just about anything. Content and sleepy, I roll my
hips to slip a leg over his, and feel something rise up to meet
me.
I shift closer, and I feel it again jab me. Quick pain lances
through an injection wound not quite healed as something hard,
yet soft, bumps against it. A dream-like image of a large
syringe flashes against my eyelids, but that is just silly. It
is too large and too warm to be a needle, not to mention rather
blunt. It takes long moments before my nearly asleep mind can
grasp hold of the correct concept. I turn my face down, rubbing
his chest with my short-cut hair, but our bodies prevent me
from see that which I feel twitch in response. "Master, you're
hard," I inform him incredulously, peering through the darkness
at his face. His arousal burns a line across my bruised
stomach. This never happened when I was young--in fact, I had
come to the conclusion years ago that my Master had no sex
drive at all. Surprise, surprise. I still have so much to learn
about my Master.
"Ignore it, Anakin. It'll go away." His voice is strained, and
I can feel its deeper undertone vibrate against my chest. It is
no mere physical reaction to having a naked body pressed to
his. My Master truly desires me--I can feel it in his voice.
I don't want to ignore it. I'd never seen my Master with a
lover, though I had imagined myself in that place numerous
times in my young teens. I wiggle a little lower into his arms
and am rewarded by a flash of heat across my upper abdomen. His
arms are stiff, dancing the line between pushing me away and
drawing me closer. My arms are loose and holding his hips to
prevent him from moving one centimeter away. I look up to his
face, asking for leave to do as we both wish.
"No, Anakin," he orders sharply. His mercurial eyes tell me to
back off with his strictest gaze. His arms shift to grasp my
shoulder, ready to kindly and gently rebuff my offer, but when
my hand grasps the base of his erection, he crushes me to his
chest instead as his body tries to curl up upon itself--upon
me--in pleasure.
Oh, if I had thought he was warm before, I was wrong. This is
heat! This is sunlight and hearthfire and `saberblade all
contained in the swollen flesh I jerk in my hands. I lean back
far enough to watch his face, but the rest of my body remains
in tight contact with his reddening flesh, drinking in his
responses. His dark blonde head rolls back and forth on the
pillow, alternatingly hiding his face and laying it bare to my
gaze. His eyes remain closed.
"Stop. No, Anakin, please--I can't--Don't!" Whatever else he
was going to say is cut off by the gasping of his orgasm. My
Master is beautiful when he comes. Every muscle clearly defined
beneath his pale skin holds tense an eternal moment, then
relaxes completely, all at once at rest. His body is on fire,
and I am scalded by the heat of the liquid between our bodies.
My Master falls away onto his back next to me, gasping for
breath and serenity.
I confess I am somewhat dazed. It happened too fast. Years of
fantasies had not prepared me for the suddenness of his orgasm.
Somehow, I thought one as experienced in the Force as Obi-Wan
would have lasted longer. Then again, it has been many years
for him. It has not been so long for me.
Gathering the viscous fluid from our skin, I use it to slick my
own hardened flesh. He has yet to touch me, but I am already
prepared for the next step. Perhaps it is the remnants of the
Ahluutan extract speaking, but I can't recall being as aroused
by a lover as I am by my Master now.
He is boneless as I slip between his legs, hooking my elbows
under his knees. Pressing forward and down opens him up to
completely expose his genitals. Framing his round face, his
knees are nearly brushing the sheets as he bows beneath me, but
his Jedi flexibility keeps the position from being too
uncomfortable. He moans a little as my slickened organ slides
past his oversensitive skin, so I lean down to press a quieting
kiss against his lips. He had bitten the lower at some point,
and the kiss is slick with coppery oil. I suck the blood from
off the wound, cleaning him to soothe the little hurt. Wrapping
my long arms under his shoulders and back, my sticky fingers
catch in his hair and lift his head to easier reach his soft
lips. He is too drained to kiss me back, but I don't mind.
Having him near is all I need.
Oh, so tight! So good! My Master is relaxed from his orgasm; it
is almost easy to slip inside regardless of the lack of
preparation. It is a sublime joy to have his body under and
around mine. Sensations elude every description. My deep
descent into the smooth, feverish sheath is only stopped by the
bulk of my own body; I want nothing at that moment more than to
crawl inside and become one with his fire. His body seems to
echo my need; he pulses around me, trying to swallow me whole.
I want to connect with his hot center and never be severed from
it. I pause there, resting fully inside of him. We are finally
as close as we can possibly be physically--entwined, entrapped,
enraptured. Any closer and we would be the same person. My mind
opens, searching out to connect with him while giving him every
opportunity to establish the bond on his own. My brush of
Force-will is repelled by the shields I find locked down in
place. I try again, harder this time, and fail. I can touch his
thoughts, but he won't let me become one with them. I want
inside all the way. I send out another tendril, punching hard
against that which resists, and I am rebuffed.
It must be the extract still in my system. I cannot find my
center well enough to fully use the Force yet, and it is
keeping me from connecting with him. I snarl lightly at my
failure, cursing myself once more for giving into the Ahluutan.
His eyes open at the deep sound I make.
I am seized by their azure flame, and Force connection doesn't
seem so important anymore. It is enough for this time to be a
physical joining as I am incapable of anything else. I can
almost see myself in the clear ocean depths of his eyes, like a
picture drawn in watercolour on a piece of glass. I thrust once
and see him wince. The fire changes shape on the glass, burning
away the cool water of my portrait. Upon the glass, the Force
shows me a vision--I see myself and my Master as we would look
to an observer. Our bodies are two halves of a same circle,
reflecting opposites at every glance. One hot, one cold. One
young, one old. One light, one....
I thrust hard with my hips, and the mirror-vision shatters.
Obi-Wan's eyes close with a whimper of distress, and I am not
concerned with visions, only with the sensation of being
devoured by my Master's heat. The joy of his sharing his heat
with me is overwhelming, and for the first time on this long
journey, I feel that the cold inside is lessening. Obi-Wan is
my sunlight and savior; held so tight inside him, I feel I
could save the universe.
He is moaning something, and the closer I come to my own
release, the easier it is to understand him. It is soft at
first, then grows louder and inharmonious to my pleasure.
"...p, Master. Please Master, please he..." The words are
strange on his lips, strained and breathy. I've heard him call
the older Jedi `Master' several times, but he never used it
towards me. In fact, I haven't heard him use that exact tone of
voice since...
I cannot hold the thought in my head as Obi-Wan is swiveling
his hips to twist beneath me now. So close, so close, and then
there is that inner snap. Tension crescendos and dies. My
Master's name is on my lips as I orgasm, but it never leaves as
Obi-Wan screams out at an earsplitting volume a name.
"Qui-Gon!"
I am drenched with sweat and semen, panting against his hot
chest, but I cannot feel that heat anymore. A different type of
cold touches me. He called out his Master's name, not mine. The
realization hurts worse than the Ahluutan drug's aftermath. My
stomach twists and falls, and my heart tears to tiny, pulsing
fragments.
It had been a lie. He wasn't sharing his heat with me at all,
only with an apparition of his past, a figment of imagination.
I am stunned, then stung, and finally I cannot stand to be
anywhere near my beloved Master. I leap from the bed and dress
quickly in my pants and cloak. I am already out the door when I
hear him say my name. Too little, too late.
I do not return to my cabin; it is too cold there, and if I get
near my little blue friend I fear I will take the entire vial
in my desolation. I shield myself in case he searches for me
and wander barefoot through the large ship's corridors. My joy
has turned to sorrow. The first time I've felt a strong
connection to my Master, and it is not my name that his lips
speak, but the name of a dead man. Again, he has rejected me.
For a Jedi, there is only serenity--but what do you have when
you've been so profoundly betrayed? What happens when there is
only emptiness and cold, with no hope of release? My Master
never taught me how to deal with this emotion. He never showed
me how to find serenity when it was he himself who had
shattered it.
I pass by several ship's personnel, but they do not pay me any
mind. A lone Jedi wandering the halls in his dark cloak is
nothing for concern; it is best to leave such people to their
own devices and yourself to yours. I feel their weak minds
flash past mine, and not for the first time I realize that it
would be so easy to crush them all with my powers. For the
first time, though, I do not suppress this dark need, merely
hold it in check.
I don't know how long I wander the abandoned halls as one by
one my senses shut down, leaving me alone with the Force. Yes,
it has returned to me from the exile of the extract, but there
is no solace from its presence. It reflects my new turmoil,
seething and dark-striped power that bucks and flows in halted
jerks. I let the tormented Force guide my steps to a large
hanger. The thought of commandeering a craft and leaving this
vessel and my Jedi life behind is tempting, but a dark figure
pacing between the small fighters halts my aborted escape.
"Ah, young Skywalker!" the figure calls out before I can hide
from it, and I can see beyond my grief that it is Chancellor
Palpatine genially waving a hello with that vapidly vacant
smile of his. The dark urge to forever wipe that hated
expression from his face is so near I can taste it. I cannot
will myself to greet him as happily, and his face falls from
its practiced political beaming as he approaches me. "You look
troubled, my friend. I do hope there isn't a problem with the
ship." His silken voice flows like rock-filled oil over my
skin.
I shake my head in the negative, but cannot dredge up the empty
words to set him at ease. Unfortunately, the gesture loosens
the tears that had been clinging to my lashes all this time,
sending them splashing down my cheeks. If he is shocked by the
sight of a Jedi losing emotional control, the Chancellor does
not let it show in his face. A heavy arm comes to fall across
my slumped shoulders, and for a moment, I fight it. I have been
through too much and have no strength left. Palpatine turns my
attempt to shrug his arm off into a willful embrace so that I
have no choice except to turn into it.
I bury my grief in the cool fabric of the offered shoulder. It
is not as warm or as soft as my Master's, but it is all I have.
He holds me close as the worst of the shudders pass, then he
pulls away all but the single arm across my back. I am weak as
he directs me to his quarters on the other side of the ship
from my own.
His quarters are almost as chilly as mine; large and empty of
any human presence, space has done its duty and devoured every
modicum of comfort that might have been present in the
forbidding chambers long before we enter. His usual entourage
of guards and companions are ensconced in their own rooms,
sleeping peacefully in the relative safety of the spacecraft. I
sense their blank minds, but I cannot read the Chancellor. This
should disturb me, but I cannot make myself care anymore than I
can make myself stop crying.
Palpatine pulls me along like a soggy puppet, sitting me on the
couch by his side. His arm never leaves my body though I squirm
against his chilling presence. I would rather be alone, but I
cannot make myself leave him. "Tell me what happened, my
friend," he speaks the command solicitously enough.
I do not want to talk about it, but all the same the words
describing the fiasco in my master's room come to my lips
unbidden and unwanted, dripping monotonely from my whispering
lips beyond my control. The bland look of aristocratic
superiority thankfully leaves the older man's face, but there
is no sympathy to be found there. As I get more uncomfortable
with the personal aspects of my speech, he leans closer to
support my weak frame against his chest. I can't shake the
chill uncoiled in my belly; it seems attracted by his touch and
rises to congeal where our flesh meets through the thin fabric
barrier of my cloak. A smile dances on the corners of his thin
lips when I reach the end of my short tale and taper my words
to nothing.
"Poor little Anakin," he purrs near my ear. "So vulnerable. He
doesn't deserve such a devoted padawan."
I do not deserve the title Palpatine so glibly bestows upon me.
What use is a padawan that cannot even bond with his master?
"What is wrong with me?" More tears fall, chilled by
Palpatine's too-close breath. "Am I so disgusting? Am I so ugly
to him that he must imagine another?"
"No!" His voice is sharp, crackling with angry power. "Never,
Anakin." His other arm comes around to grasp my far shoulder.
My braid is caught beneath his hand, and the pull is painful
enough I must concentrate not to wince. I find myself pinned
beneath his heavy weight as he leans over me. All together I
feel eclipsed in his shadow.
"Why can't I be good enough for him?"
"Oh, Anakin," he laughs against my temple as he holds me close
in a quick embrace. "You are so much more than 'good enough.'"
I shake my head atthis, unbelieving of his empty words of
comfort. "You are so much better than he is, and he's jealous
of you. Always has been."
I snort at the ridiculousness of his statement, though the look
in his eyes makes me want to run away. "Jealous? Of me?"
"Whose name did he call, hmmm?" I do not answer, I hadn't told
him, yet he knows. "Qui-Gon Jinn. His long dead Master." The
venom placed in the speaking of Qui-Gon's name burns my cheek
where it falls. "He's hated you since the day his master chose
you as his new padawan. It's not your fault," he wipes away my
drying tears with a quick swipe of his hand, following its
track with an icy finger. "You have so much potential. So much
more power than Obi-Wan can ever dream of. Qui-Gon knew this,
and tossed him aside the moment he saw you. And for that he
hates you."
"Chancellor, you go too far," I warn, though at the back of my
mind I don't feel so sure of my words anymore. Throwing off the
hand hurting my braid, I try to defend him, "My master--"
"--He would have left you to rot on that Force-forsaken planet
as a slave if he'd had his way." I shut up at the harshness of
his tone. "He's never thought of you as anything but another
pathetic lifeform his master foisted off on him to take care
of. You are a burden to him. You took his place in his master's
heart, and he's been making you pay for it ever since."
My cloak had fallen open at sometime during my talk, and one of
Palpatine's long fingered hands finds its way between the folds
to rub against my bare stomach. His touch ignites every sore on
my belly, and the latest begins to bleed against his palm. I
twist under his painful caress, but I can't escape his powerful
hold on me. "He's pushed you so far away, it is no wonder you
take such drastic measures to find some peace."
I wrap my hand around his wrist, pulling to no avail at the
powerful column of flesh to keep it from my injuries. "What do
you know about it?" I challenge.
He laughs at this. "More than you think I do, Skywalker. You
have a powerful destiny ahead of you. Obi-Wan keeps you from
knowing your potential. I can help you fulfill your destiny."
The insistent hand slides under the loose hem of my pants to
grasp at my penis. I totter back in disgust at his touch, but
he is so strong and I am so weak.
To my horror, I harden under his hand. "No!" All at once, my
body reacts--twisting, hitting, fighting back with all my
failing strength. I need to escape; this can't be happening.
My hands are captured before they can make solid contact with a
jaw, and in a large-handed grasp they are held above my head.
My legs are tangled in his tunic; with his weight between them,
I can't kick hard enough to get him off me. The dark-striated
Force lashes around us, but it does not attack Palpatine as I
wish it to. It wraps around me in tight bands until I cannot
move or even breathe.
Chaos. Chaos and pain. I can't breathe! But his hand is still
busy at my crotch, and through my struggles for breath I can
feel such pleasure. I don't want this! Please stop. "Don't," is
all I manage to gasp with the last of my oxygen. My orgasm
comes unbidden to my body as my eyes cloud over from
asphyxiation. I black out from the combination of sensations.
Air returns in frozen abandon to my lungs, and I swallow it in
large gulps. I do not see Palpatine, but I can feel him in the
room. He no longer blocks my sense of him, and I can read the
evil intention through the Force. I have to get out of here. I
try to move, but I am stuck. The dark-hued Force aura holds me
to the couch with as much struggle as one would pin a bug. The
cold air brushes against my bare skin like an over-friendly
snake, and I realize I am completely naked. To my shame, I am
still stained with the evidence of my body's betrayal.
With a sad cry I call out to my Master with my mind, but the
Force call is caught and crushed before it can leave the room.
"He isn't listening to you, but I am." Palpatine's dangerous
voice whispers over my shoulder, and I shudder to be away from
it.
"I hate you," I try to shout, but my voice comes out pitifully
thin and broken from my damaged throat.
"Good, my apprentice," he praises as he steps into view before
me. I don't know how I had never seen it before, but the Dark
Side is black hole around him. It destroys every particle of
light that surrounds him, swallowing it so that he moves
surrounded by empty space. He steps forward, and the emptiness
that surrounds him shoots forward to surround me. "Before we
are finished, hate is all you will feel."
I feel thrown out an airlock and abandoned to the vacuum of
space as he descends on my prone body. My mouth is covered with
slick, cool lips.
Ugh, his taste is rancid! I turn my head to the side, gasping
for cleansing breath. He takes it as an invitation to dive into
the skin of my neck. He sucks in a patch, then bites it. "Ow!
Stop!" I scream when he pinches a nipple, but a large hand
muffles the sound.
Oh Force, this can't be happening. Cold hands trace over every
inch of my body, pinching here and there. The ball of ice in my
gut spreads at Palpatine's call, numbing my mind. A dark
lassitude comes over me, and I am too frightened to try to
fight back anymore. This can't be happening. Obi-Wan, why
didn't you warn me about him? How could you not know what
Palpatine is? Why have you abandoned me?
In a quick motion, I am spun and pressed into the couch
cushions, barely able to draw enough air to breathe under the
weight. Utter helplessness, a questing blunt probe, undeniable
pressure--Then I am stabbed. The world shatters.
No no no no no no no! Stop! Owwwww! No! I don't want this!!
It's cold! It's COLD! I want warmth! I want Obi-Wan's warmth!!
Noooooo! I don't want you! I don't want this! I don't! It's
coooooold! Stop, oh please stop stop stop stop! Ooooooohhhhhh!
Please, Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan! Save me! He's hurting me!!! Save me!
Obi-Wan!! It hurts! Ow, it's cold, too cold! Master! Master!!
Please help me!!! Help me, Master! Please Master, please help!
Obi-Wan!
I begin to whisper the frightening words aloud, as though it
could dissuade the Chancellor from his horrible task. He grunts
in my ear with every thrust. Every inch of his intrusion is
scarred upon my memory with manic detail. I call out to my
Master one more time with my mind, but it is thrown back in my
face by harsh shields. Palpatine is right--he is not listening
to me. I am alone with this monster.
I think he is close; I hope so. His thrusts are shallower,
quicker. The pain has lessened, but not by much. My abused body
burns with the ice shaft that spits me apart. Each time it
plunges inside me, its tip touches the cold that sits inside my
gut, sparking energy and making me shudder. My internal cold
grows, fed by his touch. My rage grows as my calls are
unanswered and my body is battered.
I want to kill him. I want to break free of his hold and hit
him until his face is no more than raw meat. I want to cut off
his prick and shove it down his throat until he chokes. I want
to run to Obi-Wan and be held and comforted. I want to be
covered with Palpatine's blood as I rip him to shreds with my
bare hands. I want to be saved. I want to destroy. I want this
to end.
Then I feel the first splash of ice that coats my bowels. His
hand grasps my braid and pulls it out of my skull with a
horrible snarl. My full voice is loosened by the snapping pain
at my neck and backside, and I scream, "Obi-Wan!" hoping beyond
all reason that he will still rescue me from this nightmare.
The resounding laughter of Palpatine is the only answer. From
the other side of the ship, I can't even feel any reaction from
Obi-Wan to my distress. My shining knight is cut off from me.
He doesn't know. He doesn't know that Palpatine--what
Palpatine's done to me. And I am...relieved at this. He doesn't
ever have to know. I can hide this. I can. No one needs to
know. I can hide it like I hide the Ahluutan. No one will know.
"He'll never want you now," the words spoken directly into my
ears, filled with derision and brutally honest truth. "Unable
to defend yourself against a single man. A disgrace! He won't
even be able to look at you after he hears what you've done."
A new horror consumes me. "Don't--don't tell," I beg, afraid to
have him know my humiliation. I just want this to be over.
Palpatine pauses for a moment, and I feel his pleasure sparkle
through the Force as I am tortured on the moment. "I won't tell
him." My relief is short lived. "I won't need to. He'll be able
to smell the Rage on you. The darkness is alive inside you, my
apprentice. He'll never accept you now." Finally the great
weight of his body is removed from my back, but his coldness I
think will never leave. I hear his footsteps move to another
part of the room, and I want to cry at my impotence. "Run back
to him, if you want. I won't stop you." The invisible bonds
release my body.
My arms ache as I move them, and my body shudders with lancing
pain as I curl in on myself. If I could move, I would have run
across the room and torn the look of smug satisfaction from his
dead eyes. My thoughts are black with hate, and the Dark Side
calls to me to take its power and strike Palpatine down. I
fight it, but it is a battle whose end is already written in
the soulless stars. I have already given so much to the Dark
Side, and once you give in, it colors your destiny.
"Stay with me, my young apprentice," his hollow voice echoes
through my inner turmoil, "and I'll teach you to never be the
weak one again. I'll show you power as you never dreamed.
Fulfill your destiny and join me."
I shake my head, unable to move anymore despite the fact he has
released me from the Force bonds. The small movement sends
sharp pins of agony from the torn flesh where my padawan braid
had once sat. "It is your choice, my apprentice." His footsteps
recede as he walks to a side door.
"I hate you," I whisper with every particle of fury I have in
my bloody body.
"I know." And he leaves me to suffer and choose alone.
Wetness trickles down my thigh; I'm sure most of it is blood. I
am covered with it. My neck is slick with oily redness, and my
stomach still leaks the vital liquid from the aggravated sore.
I can't move to wipe it away; I'm frozen like a statue. I think
I will never feel heat again. There is nothing that can melt
this cold, I know it. There is something new inside me that
nuzzles next to the ice that had always been there--a darkness
planted there by Palpatine's cock.
The Jedi live in the light, guided by the Force to be Guardians
of the Universe. Someone who has touched the Dark Side cannot
become a Jedi. I've not only touched it, I've been fucked by
it, reveled in its evil rage, wanted to use its retched power
to deliver revenge. Hours away from my Trials, and I fail the
greatest test of my abilities. I am such a failure, no wonder
Obi-Wan has never truly embraced me as his apprentice.
Oh Force, the Trials! How could I have been so stupid to think
I could hide anything during the Trials? Everything will come
out then, and I won't be able to hide what I've done! I'll
never be a Jedi. The dreams lied to me.
I lie naked on the couch until the morning comes to the ship. I
do not want to see Obi-Wan's face when he sees how I have
failed him--he has rejected me enough times in my life to make
my decision easy for me.
I stand, padding softly to the grand bedroom. Every step closer
to the closed door brings me greater assurance in my new power.
The door opens with a negligent gesture of the Force. I step
over the threshold and am embraced by the lightlessness within.
Palpatine is there, curled up on his side with his back to me.
His skin looks hard and uninviting, but I climb onto the soft
mattress behind him. He does not startle at my cold feet, but
he turns to look at my face. "Apprentice." He smiles.
"What is thy bidding, my Master," I reply.
Cold, dark space swallows me, holds me close to an icy wall
from which there is no comfort. Evil power swims around me,
whispering sweetly into my ears before it trickles into the
delicate openings like poison. I hold on tight to what power I
can, claiming it for my own so I will never be weak again.
Obi-Wan's heat shrinks and falls away to become a small,
luminous dot amid a vast ocean of black seething hate.
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