Warning: Violence, sex.
The Dance Of Desire (Bonus Chapter)
Vader's Dream / Anakin's Obsessions of the Mind
Oh ma douce souffrance
Pourquoi s'acharner? Tu recommences
Je ne suis qu'un être sans importance
Sans lui, je suis un peu paro
Oh my sweet suffering
Why do you attack incessantly?
I am just a being without importance
Without it, I am a bit lost
Une dernière danse
Pour oublier ma peine immense
Je veux m'enfuir que tout recommence
A last dance
To forget my immense pain
I want to run away, for everything to begin again
Darth Vader closes his eyes and lets his dreams take him away to a dark night on Tatooine.
He remembers the feeling that encompasses him, how much he wanted to play with fire back then as he crept through the village of the Tusken Raiders. It was only a matter of time until he was burned. He had suppressed so many of his volcanic urges, he was bound to watch them bubble up sooner or later. And they did boil over, in all ways, from all sides when he could no longer cope. And he was hooked from the very first drop – dipping his toes in a torrent of temptation. Quenched by the relief of getting what you want, be it revenge, power, the restlessness of lust.
He approaches the first tent and feels a familiar sense of indulgence as he taps into an egomaniacal state.
Not dissimilar from the all-consuming hunger he finally fed the first time he made love to Padme.
Anakin takes his first steps into Padme's bedroom in the Naboo lake retreat. She's standing there with a sense of gaiety, looking like an angel in her white lace wedding gown with myriad pearl seed details and sheer sleeves. She is love, glamour, charm with an allure, where sensuality is explored, where all the senses come to life, making him feel oceanic – in a sea of unpredictability, liberation, where anything is possible – like he has raised to a higher state of consciousness, euphoria seeping out of every pore as he trembles with excitement. Life is opening up for him as he is about to be subject to, for the first time, the true vibrations of getting your heart's desires.
He strides towards her as she pulls off her veil. His fingers reach for her, leaving a palpable trail along the sides of her neck – it is sensual, feminine, too delicate to touch. It felt like he was breaking the law to cradle such a vulnerable part of her because it made him feel so full, so greedy, like he had something valuable in his hands that he was never going to give up. His lips find hers and the tip of their tongues touch. He scoops her hair off the back of her neck and overpowers her with a voluptuous kiss, inhaling as much of her as he could like she was a zesty wine. His hands possess her body, down her sides, outlining her curves, gliding down her thighs. To touch the one you love felt like landing on the moon – you're unstoppable. He scrunches up the lace material of her dress in his fists, dissipated, dying to unite their heartbeats, febrility, and dreams as he lifts her skirt above her hips.
He lifts open the tent flap and he is quivering for a release of all his pent-up anger and frustration. He aims his lightsaber behind two of the sand people and feeds a voracious void as he slashes both of them, wanting to treat them as callously as they treated his mother. He has no compassion to look at them as living, breathing beings and he was ready to lose his own humanity if it meant he would now have the chance to take control and fix what they broke. He can now unshackle himself from the restraints placed on him all his life, no one can hold him back anymore. He is about to experience a flagrant freedom – and it feels so good to finally give into revenge.
And it feels so good to give into this impulse as they undress each other. To finally give into a burning desire and take what you want religiously. Anakin is aching with desperation as his eyes gaze upon Padme's naked body. He fights to close the space between them, forcing her backwards to the bed. She falls back onto the mattress and his body settles over her – skin upon skin, raw, emotional, colourful, magical. His mouth hovers over hers, their lips only lightly brush against each other's, a shivering elongated tease – he can taste her before their tongues touch. The rhythms of their breathing synchronize, heavy, a sped up pace as their hips align. To feel her skin under his makes him dizzy. His hand traces a line in between her breasts, devoted to every curve he can fit in his spread out fingers. Watching her melt by the touch of his hand, he realizes he paralyzes her as much as she paralyzes him. His fingers swipe past her stiff nipple.
And with a wave of his hand, he tosses wood logs, flips over tents, drags building blocks to reveal the hidden enemies who were panicked, seeking cover from him. They try to fight back but quickly realize it's a losing battle; they cry out to each other to ensure the safety of the tribe, urging the women and children to get a head start as they flee the area. As the men form lines surrounding the vulnerable, they put forth their weapons and shields, hoping their combined strength will put a stop to the terrorist. But Anakin kept taking methodical steps towards them, like he was in no hurry. He was going to catch up. As the sand people raced across the desert, Anakin jerked two fingers and, using the force, he pulled the weakest link towards him only to knock him on his back.
Anakin yanks Padme's legs back, moving her down to the centre of the bed only to flip her over onto her stomach. He feels a swirling sensation inside, a tantalizing addiction, an irresistible provocation as her buttocks press against his pelvis. His finger travels ever so slowly in between her shoulder blades before resting on the small of her back.
A suitless Vader's hand flails ever so slowly to lower the factory doors on Mustafar, locking the Separatist leaders inside. And it becomes a dance, a game, as his lightsaber thrashes from one side to the other – taking lives meant nothing at this point. He valued life less and less as each kill terminates a layer of his own humanity. It is hard not to become drunk with power once you are no longer the helpless 8 year old. He is now undefeatable, he can coerce any being, he can make anyone do whatever he wants with no push back. He shoves people from one side to the other, clearing the way of his path – almost gleeful, his darkest moods, caprices aroused by the corruption of the force. The decadence he can cause is now an inflamed thrill. And he has had a taste; there is no going back. It is the closest he can get to feeling alive. The last raw emotion he has left before he fully rises as Darth Vader – all the power of the force is in his hands.
Anakin worships Padme's hips and derriere, loving how docile she is in his hands. It makes him feel alive, commanding, masterful. He can barely restrict the ardent eruptions of lust ripping out of him; he feels a devouring urge to have, hold, and influence her. He takes hold of her behind, giving each cheek a squeeze.
Vader squeezes the throat of a separatist, and music begins to play in his head. Every tone, every note rumbles with energy. No instrument should be left dormant, unplayed. He doesn't miss a beat (or a person). It is merely an art form now – he is no longer sympathetic to the pain of others; they are simply obstacles... and Vader has never been fond of obstacles – he didn't have the patience for them. He can now only hear the thrash of symbols as he cuts through everyone in his way, his arms unconfined like an orchestra conductor.
His eyes turn the colour of yellow amber, transforming into a full-fledged Sith and he knows he has done it – he has allowed himself to be seduced by temporary, fleeting satisfactions. The more lives he steals, the more his own is lost. And finding alleviation in these titillations won't last long; he will suffer in the morning once the high disappears and he is left feeling empty again because he has trained himself to refill through all the wrong things, excesses, self-serving notions devoid of any real meaning. But right now, he doesn't care that this won't fully satiate him. He is volatile, sucked into the oblivion as he stabs Viceroy Gunray.
Anakin enters Padme from behind and the senses, the sounds, the scents take him to heaven. It is only when he makes love to her that he can combine his burning passion with spiritual human emotion. This is the true definition of happiness. It is soulful, long-lasting, a connection that rings deep in the soul – unlike the shallow depths the Sith chase. If only Anakin could hinder his quest for curated gratification and understood what patience really offers. Padme is the last emblem of love he has left and he can't help but start to take advantage of her giving nature because he wants her vitality, devotion, and warmth all for himself. He knows how easily his own could slip away.
He won't measure up to the Jedi's standards now that he has wielded himself in her, deeply attached himself to her. There is a throbbing fire enveloping his flesh every time he slides into her. The sensation of their bodies entwined is symphonic – his heart matches the beat of drums; the orchestra plays again, a gradation of intensity and as he smoulders with passion, swelling with enthusiasm as his engorged member is submerged in her wet essence, here come the violins.
He approaches the final Separatist leader. Each step he takes towards her is a thumping sound, operatic; his abilities are reaching octaves that increase the frequency of his thirst for power. The woman's pleas are nothing but songs in his head. His mind left the scene, his soul has abandoned him, his heart has flown away, hidden under the darkness where he has built a home with the remains, the lies he tells himself. He is impervious to her screams. Her cries drown out...
...One screams in terror.
The other screams from pleasure...
...Every noise around him is muffled by Padme's loud, soft moans. There is no sound more harmonious than listening to her submit to him with gratitude for what he gives her, a profound eroticism, a meaningful connection. A deep connection he has searched for, hoping it would bring him stability. She kneels up against him, letting the back of her head rest on his shoulder. His lips linger on her earlobe, on the side of her neck. He is engulfed in her flavor, texture, driving himself wild as his hands surround her possessively. His finger trails down her stomach, and further down, conquering in between her legs . . .
Vader's lightsaber trails along the woman's abdomen, and further down, to slice her from hip to hip. The soul leaves first, diminishing into thin air as she falls to her physical death.
Anakin pushes Padme back down onto the mattress; she waits for him on all fours. He takes his place inside her, wanting to pound into her many times over just to perspire in the feeling again – the beautifully agonizing infatuation with a ferocious potency, the delicious sense of being in her – where he regains his soul. He starts off with slow, subtle thrusts, giving her heartbeat time to settle as she becomes dissolved with rapture. But watching her happily give herself to the fervid insanity, an orgasmic promise, has him quickly overcome with a violent rush to torment her, making her need him as much as he needs her. He knows that as he satisfies her, he is making them become one so he can own her and soak up as much joy from her as he can. He has to be reminded of the gift of discipline, he must learn how to achieve true calmness so his anxieties won't make him erratic, failing to control heightened emotions, a dysregulated nervous system – so he can stop testing himself and those he loves, pushing them away.
He clutches onto her hips, and slams into her to dominate, claim, make her a part of his flesh, knowing she will forever be dependent on him for such exaltations. Beams of sweat drip from his hair as he feels her walls tighten around his shaft. The violins are louder now as he pulls her closer and closer, making her hips dance for him. She yelps as he ravages his way in deeper, holding himself inside her for a while to wholeheartedly take in her glorious warm fluid that lathers his shaft. As he fills her up, he waits, a moment in the stillness before he percolates through a yearning obliteration.
And in the silence, the red glow of a now suited Vader's lightsaber shines as it ignites, turning on every light bulb in the minds of everyone on the rebel ship. The group of soldiers come to the realization that they are doomed when their door is sealed shut. There is no exit strategy, only a massacre to witness as the Dark Lord seizes their guns. Vader subtly glides through like a thunderous storm, an elegant rain, a dark cloud, a whirlwind of cyclical movements with all his lightsaber swings and gouges – and his black leather gloves sting with rapacity, seeking every soul in the room – maybe he would find some repletion, maybe he could feel full for a while... tame his anger at least until it is granted a rebirth again, a seasonal habit over and over - never completely sated, never free from urgency, compulsions.
There is no peace, only suffering. The suffering has become a high in the throes of mania. He fails to self-stimulate, self-soothe; he must take whatever is luminous in others. Protection has morphed into control. He draws one of the troops to him through the hallway, rising him to the roof of the ship and feeds a deliciously vandalistic appetite as he crushes the rebel's throat with the closing of his fist.
Closing his fist tightly around Padme's soft hair strands, Anakin tugs her hair back to plunge himself deeper into her centre. He can feel her quaking from the inside as her moans grow louder from the overwhelming delirium so he slows down, pumping in slowly, soothingly. His hand now glides to the front of her neck as his upper body leans on hers and his knees weaken. Only with her can he be gentle, considerate, where he feels calm and safe. She stabilizes him, humanizes him, reassures him with an emotional bond. His face becomes buried in her tousled curls while his fingers wrap around her neck, handling her with tender loving care.
Darth Vader snatches another rebel by the neck, basking in the man's struggle, in watching someone so powerless in your hand. But the action is quickly losing its appeal. Murder has become monotonous, he is watching his own flames within him die of asphyxiation as he wraps his fingers around his victim's neck, recognizing the vanquishing of heat from the man's body as he chokes him out – wishing he felt some spark of life flare up in himself.
Anakin feels Padme flaring up, heat surrounds her body, her glistening skin melts with his as he tightens his sweaty, slippery grip on her neck. She begs for his strength, loving his verve, masculinity, the unrestrained ardor he brings. And this is the last place to find a source of life's spices. Because together, she has never felt more of a woman, he has never felt more of a man than in this moment when they combine their emotions, amorous melodies, and mystic creations, inventions and strengths of the soul in love.
It is these characteristics that keep him alive; his irrational wonders, his jealousy, his shadows, his sexual demands, his need to belong to someone.
When he is alone, he is waiting for death. Because without her, life has no range, no silkiness, no poetry. He doesn't even have fear anymore, nothing to shake, cry and pulse for. He had sabotaged everything when she died due to his fear. And now he has even sabotaged his fear. He feels and fears nothing as Darth Vader.
He missed being a red-blooded man, with all the intricacies, flaws, whims that accompany that feeling. He wants to find a balance between innocence and perversity, the variations of maturity and wisdom. But he settles for a found freedom in roughness, a misrepresentation of liberty, in uninhibited brutality as he throws a soldier across the hallway.
He flips Padme on her back. He now rests his body over her; his hand grazes up her thigh to the round curve of her hip; her fingers splayed across his back. His mouth is lured to her neck, to skim lower, to devour her breast, tasting its sweetness as he pounds into her with a virile intensity. Inside her he can feel the staggering buildup... He is about to relish the physical, sensual rewards of living.
As he stands before Count Dooku with both lightsabers aimed at his head, he is tempted to relinquish any and all discipline he had gained from his Jedi training thus far. He had returned to the chaos of his childhood. The immature instincts of a vengeful boy. He struggles to fight the ticking time bomb that invigorates him. The longing to overpower is flowing through his veins.
He used to channel his animalistic impulses into her, to give passion, to selflessly make her happy – because she soothed the monster within that craved to be fed. She gathers him in a blanket of light.
Now he channels his animalistic impulses into his enemies, to take energy – distractions for survival – to selfishly fuel dark, cultivated behaviours.
He can't contain himself for much longer as he gazes at her cherry lips, slipping his thumb in her mouth to revel the touch of her healing tongue. But it only spurs him on further, he can't pull back from the brink. His now wet thumb drags down her neck, he is becoming devastatingly woozy as his appendage stiffens inside her, about to blow.
He is ready to let loose as he aims both lightsabers against Dooku's neck and with a surge of electricity coursing along every inch of his flesh, he is about to puncture his skin. The hunt for triumph is over. He feels superior, unraveling with the explosive win as the lightsabers meet at the cross–
–and he feels that sweet release. Anakin comes inside Padme – finally surrendering, with a burning passion, to the burst of desire.
He collapses on top of her and her hand massages his head, entwining her fingers in his hair, providing him with a spiritual sustenance as he closes his eyes.
He got what he wanted – relief, stability, tranquility, fulfillment, release... he can now evolve into a state of serenity and therein lies strength.
Vader wakes up from his dream, from torturous imaginations, from trying to seek serenity and stability in different ways. The reward gained through the shortcuts, the fast roads, will never be as fulfilling as the ones achieved through means of effort and patience.
To find a balance within himself, to earn peace and end suffering, he must work with the changes, shades, and patterns of life. . .and learn to let go.
Je remue le ciel, le jour, la nuit
Je danse avec le vent, la pluie
Et je danse
I move the sky, day and night
I dance with the wind, the rain
And I dance
Que d'espérance
Sur ce chemin en ton absence
J'ai beau trimer
Sans toi ma vie n'est qu'un décor qui brille, vide de sens
Only hopelessness
On this path in your absence
I slaved away in vain
Try as I might, without you my life is just a shiny display, empty of meaning
Derniere Danse - Indila
(Last Dance - Indila)