Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George Lucas. No copyright
infringement intended. No money is made out of this.
Feedback: Sure! This is my first slash fic ever, so please be
gentle! (on private email only, please).
Author's comments: Heartfelt thanks to Vermilion Flame for the
extraordinary beta she did for this story. This ficlet wouldn't
have been the same without her suggestions and comments.
I am a monster.
I cannot think with clarity. Fear seizes my stomach and I feel
green bile creeping up until my mouth is flooded with its foul
taste. Fear? Ha. Who says Jedi do not feel fear? I may be a
failure as a Jedi, but I'm afraid now, and no soothing litany
manages to heal the festering wounds in my heart.
I'm lying on my bed, looking at the ceiling. Its sheer
blankness is my only comfort. I wish my mind could be filled
with that blankness, that emptiness, that nothingness. I wish I
could forget myself. That's the only way the monster would
surely die. Master, I doubt I can live past this. I can't. I
can't. I can't.
I try to find sense in books. My monstrosity, it must be there;
somebody else must have felt it. How many pages have I turned
in search of knowledge? How much time have I wasted when
everything I need to know about myself is in my heart? But
that's a cauldron of boiling screams I have no strength to
uncover now. Not now.
I can't tell how it all started. You are not guilty, my master.
You may have kindled the fire, but it was me who fed it until
it rotted my blood and took all sanity from my mind. At first I
thought it was the almost requisite crush all padawans have on
their masters. Then I flirted with the idea that I might love
you. Now, the monster has shed its cloak and it's revealed in
its majestic abjection. I desire you.
I don't want you to love me. I just want you to fuck me. Any
moment, day or night, I dream about the things I wish you would
do to me. You shoving your cock down my throat, making me move,
milking it. You ramming rough fingers up my ass, rasping a
laugh at my virgin tears. You pressing my face into the pillow,
pounding and pulsing until you come so copiously deep inside
me.
Each new fantasy spears a swelling blister in my heart, filling
my veins with its venom. I must reek of this yellow poison, for
you are beginning to notice. I must dress these bleeding welts.
I must stitch these gashes up. I must wrap my heart in perfumed
scents until you're no longer suspicious. And then, I'll return
to my sticky, stifling fantasies, where you are no more than a
ruthless rapist and I his willing victim.
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