I'll finish what I've started. Mature content and some ridiculous sex in between. Thinking about renaming the whole story "Jedi sex-therapy" or "Jedi tantric sex" but I'm just not that kind of tawdry... yet.
Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing.
E. E. Cummings, Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond.
He had only the glimpse of that long glistening thing beneath her coat before. But now it appears in all its glory: it's dark blue sky covered with myriad of stars, again multilayered silk chiffon. And not the synthetic type, but the real thing, exclusive and hard to come by. His eyes fall to the plunging neck-line that finishes practically only inches above her navel with an intricate broche. Bare arms, except for two golden bands placed below her shoulders (probably again some sort of statement, but for now, he can only admire how lean and muscular her arms are against those delicate rings) and by the look of it, bare back – her beautiful strong back.
But above it all, that pure smile of hers, so genuine and almost addictive.
"Sit with me", she says like she owns this place.
His tiredness gets the hold of him as he tackles her on top of that bed.
Stop smiling so wonderfully.
If he is destined not to sleep that night and if Luke's spirit is destined to haunt him, he might as well show the master his apprentice's nakedness.
"I could arrest you for disobedience, Jedi", he snarls at her. "Would you like that? Would you like to spin the wheel all over again?"
He doesn't wait for her to answer. He gives her no opportunity to answer.
His hand rushes to the mound of her desire and finds her already soaking wet and tingling with yearning.
There is that Jedi cunningness wrapped up into a delicious package – she was already priming herself for this in that window-sill. Using the wine to relax herself, but not touching herself – oh, no – she was waiting for him to do it, to let him do her dirty work. She had all of this all planned up in her deviant mind that is even more devious than his is.
And as this realization dawns on him, adequately slowed down by the rush of oxygen supply to places other than his brain, he can hear her faint voice inside his head.
I was afraid you'll die.
I was afraid you'll kill Satine.
If the lighting would strike him down right there, it would be a lesser surprise. He relaxes the grip (it wasn't strong to begin with – he just wanted to wipe that stupid, beautiful smile off of her face).
But he won't budge. He is mad with her still – with her beauty, and her taunting him, and her making him feel all these bloody feelings all at the same time like a floodgate was opened.
"I killed many other Nite Owls", he barks at her but doesn't pursue the matter any further. The pain in his temples is a thunder.
I secured them honorable deaths. Now they are all in the state of aay'han. I could show you that; connect you with your brave bitch of a friend through Force… but I have to deal with you first. Teach you things.
That outrageous neckline serves as an instruction manual.
He dives into it and down under to the tip of her desire.
Gods, that scent.
He inhales that scent, signifying both longing and belonging.
He breathes in the air from that life-giving place.
His hands go up to reach her and find her breasts tingling like the first time. Rising and falling in the rhythm of his own breathing.
He never believed it was possible for two beings to be so synchronized. It was coming to them so naturally and so effortlessly.
He exhales, but breathes in again, greedily. Pregnant? No, not yet. But he feels acutely she can. He feels almost to the point of pain she would let him plant his seed inside. The lining is ready. There is peace, and strength, and tenderness and Force in that deep, velvety place.
But will the Force allow it? A possible new abomination such as him, or even worse than him?
The Force speaks to him. Bargains with him. Teaches him. Scolds him. Shows him what he needs to become so that...
Gods, he sniffed Sith ashes like this to gain insight and power, and now this. It's just ridiculous. It just goes to show how everything in the existence has an irony in its very core.
But while the Sith gave him power and gave him insights, they also put the load of destruction and emptiness on his back. Stench of death. The death of all deaths.
But this... this is something altogether different. Power, but mercy too. Control, but tenderness as well. And above all - life, pure and fresh and unpolluted.
Visions come his way. Vision of him and her observing a small cradle. A peaceful, barely sentient creature, no more than a bundle wrapped in softest of fabrics.
It could be his future, if only he...
But as soon as he allows himself a moment of tenderness, the cold hand of darkness comes from behind and pulls him back like a rabid dog that he is.
It will never let him go.
He hates the Resistance and the Jedi even more than he despises First Order and Snoke. He sacrificed all so he might become what he has become. This is the new era of Force wielders – and he won't give up on all this power he has now over planets and nations, even if it means sacrificing even more – her, the remnants of himself, his sanity, and whole planetary systems. If she expects that her virginal inquisitiveness and her rudimentary Jedi ways are enough to reform him, oh, how woefully wrong she is. How stupid and how pathetic. How tediously quickly her presence became boring. His teeth clench in the sheer torment and embarrassment of how wrong she is.
To make things even worse, she is completely unaware of this. How can you? How can you be so selfish in your own lust?
Her hips arch up to where she expects to meet his mouth and his tongue. But he steps back. It's an effort, but he wants her to capture just a tiny fraction of the torment he endures every single bloody second of every day – torn apart between the comfort and the honorable burden of the Light, and the decadent, unbridled call of the Darkness.
This won't go the way you think, Jedi, he hisses to her in his mind and relishes in his obscene blasphemy.
He pushes her flat belly down, and the sensation of his rough palm against her soft skin pushes her even further to the pinnacle. He seems to be doing everything right and the exact way she wants it, and it makes him even madder – if that was possible.
You won't have it your way.
He distances himself from her and towers her. Straightened up, he is fully aware of how short-breathed he is and how tight his pants feel. He tears off his shirt in one single movement and loosens the belt on his pants.
She is a terrifying sort of beauty – with that dress spread around her like the night sky, she looks exactly the part: his Empress lying on his bed like in the middle of a galaxy. Floating peacefully and self-assuredly in his Empire, subverting his own power so even he starts to wonder whose Empire is it: his or hers?
And what is even more outrageous is that she is not afraid, not a bit. She looks from beneath, her eyes languid and soft, and she downright purrs at him. She loosens the shoulders of her dress and now her aureoles show – it didn't take too much movement for that.
You won't have this your way.
He is almost tempted to summon RY-418. Make her do a threesome. Make her watch while he kisses RY, hold her against the wall and make that obedient soldier come and come again.
But he does something for her exclusively. He starts stroking himself violently. He hurts himself in the process, but proceeds through the pain.
Channel the pain. Pain is good. Pain makes you stronger. Absorb its strength before it is dissipated.
He'll finish himself off before she can do anything else. Even if she offered herself naked, even if she spread her legs and showed him all her shame and all her wickedness, he won't give in.
To his small triumph, she does indeed frown a little and halts. And then she sits up and her dress practically falls on its own from her shoulders. Her glistening skin emerges from the night sky, like a goddess reborn. She is still sitting as she pulls him to her. He tries to make a step back, but then loses his grip.
And there they are – the small, fluttery, deadly things on him, sparing with his hands on his lower abdomen and around his member. It's ridiculous, but she is determined and more flexible and quicker.
No.
Now she strokes him gently and slowly, trying to decipher his reactions. He is torn in all possible directions – one part of him wants those deadly things of off him, the other screams at her not to stop, the third begs him to go into her full force ahead, and the faintest nagging voice tells him to back off completely. It's a struggle, a new kind of it. His feet dangling over floor, the dark Force choking him, the dark lighting striking him to agonizing paralysis, minutes passing like eternity, his mind closing and giving into complete darkness because it is the only way to survive and to overcome… lights inside extinguishing. Is she aware what he can endure and what he has already endured? Of course she is not, joyful, chirping, friendly to everyone and everything from droids to trees and animals and people and all alien races little Jedi.
He almost goes to the same old dark haze of Snoke's torture, but this new tormentor does something new – something Snoke, luckily, didn't perform. She kisses the crossbow wound. She sucks on it intently, tenderly and compassionately. She licks it. Her hands tighten around his buttocks. Then she goes slightly down and he roars.
The dark haze is gone, and exaltation and shame set in. There is something both exhilarating and insulting in seeing her dark crown above his organ, her velvety lips on his tip. She will receive the best of him, his best flesh and his best form – and not this.
He pulls the residuum of her galaxy off of her. He lowers himself over her with a growl. She is completely naked now and it pumps new blood into him. He goes straight into her and feels he'll burst open like a bloody ripe jaquira fruit in a second. He realizes watching him do that selfish act on himself didn't deter her or served as a killer for her libido – on the contrary, it made her even greedier. Her legs lock around his waist and it's a tight grip. She is strong and demanding – true imperial conduct.
And then she goes on and does something completely democratic.
"I love you", she whispers softly in his ear and he can feel the genuine tenderness and the care she has for him. The genuine concern he'll get killed by one of his innumerate enemies or that he'll just descend even further into the darkness. Her longing and her fear of losing him.
He thinks he'll just lose all his magnificent build-up at this sort of democracy bullshit, but he doesn't. Why doesn't he?
She keeps her legs around him, fastening him in, pointing him the direction. Her small feet touching him from the behind, her small hands on his back and on his neck.
He quickens, and she clings to him like he was the last remaining stone to climb on in a deluge. Many nations had the story of the great flood. This was theirs. Her center so wet and so hungry he practically dissipates completely in her. They come almost in absolute unison, only she is there slightly before him - like they finished off the guards in that accursed place of greatest pain and greatest pleasure, in the Throne Room.
It's good – he can see every single second of her orgasm and it relieves him of his headache, miraculously.
She unlocks him only when he's completely limp and lets him fall on her side. Two naked bodies, completely exhausted in mutual paroxysm, contend, tranquil even – he wishes he had a single large mirror on the ceiling so he might have the whole scope of that glorious picture just hovering above him, etching its way into his memory. He needs to push so many nightmarish memories from his hemispheres, and he'd gladly trade all of them off for this exact night.
But that darkness, although subdued, runs through his veins for too long to be so easily manipulated – it seeks revenge almost immediately and starts tormenting him even through the post-orgasmic haze.
"If I'm killed, you're free, Rey", he says again in his low voice.