Disclaimer: I do not own Anakin Skywalker or Chancellor Palpatine. They belong to George Lucas.

Author's Note: Writers get a little tipsy and get an idea so utterly bad that they're afraid to write it down. This is my idea, which I have now geared up the courage to commit to writing. Enjoy.

Under the Affluence of Incohol

Every so often I ask myself – what am I doing? What daimonhas swung low and whispered in my ear? What desperate, hot need has clawed its way up the black walls of my insides, panting, to flood out from my lips? It is depravity.

What I feel when his mouth trails up my skin is so different from those men and women of spring and summer. This is my autumnal passion, final harvest; I feel it in the marrow, when I bend a wrist to stroke his hair – wild and muddy like dying leaves – as his breath seeps through my skin.

In another wing of this very apartment complex, Padmé Amidala is working. She will be pouring her heart into the composition of yet another barren pacifistic offering, whose still birth I shall, no doubt, have to preside over. Curious, I extend my awareness to eddy around her, feel her sigh of longing for the lakes of Naboo and warm arms wrapping around her. Her lover, her husband… She wonders what dangers he may, even now, be exposing himself to…

"Why are you laughing?" the raw voice asks from between my shoulder-blades, the aroma of last night's Sullustan brandy still trailing over his tongue. "You're not still drunk, are you?"

I probably was – unfortunately, using the Force to once more attune my misplaced sobriety was not an option with a Jedi in my bed. "Anakin…!" I admonished, "A Head of State is never drunk, he uses alcohol merely as a tool to grease the conversational wheels and close the distance between himself and his audience – to further rhetorical intimacy…" Yes, definitely drunk. I rolled toward him and wrapped my arms about his neck, a little afraid of where more talk would take my addled speech.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled, and I returned his smile with one of my own, our eyes laughing at that secret of ours hidden in my pedagoguery. But Anakin Skywalker blinks my words away and his lips part and close nervously before he speaks. "I don't know how to think about you anymore." He confided, looking away. The middle-distance gave him the confidence to continue, "I mean, I used to think of you as the uncle I never had, and now… but we're not quite that either… And then there's the Supreme Chancellor and the Jedi Knight…" he trailed off, shrugging, as if it were of no importance. But the focus in his deep blue eyes gave him away.

I am your guide, I am the chrysalis from which you shall spring, a Sith'ari. I am your visions, I am the nameless dread, and the subtle embrace. I am your Master. None of which provided me with an acceptable reply. To me everything seemed such a seamless whole where we were concerned though he could not, naturally, appreciate this as yet. It occurred to me that I was a being so used to switching between incongruous roles that I hardly noticed myself doing so. My true self, Darth Sidious, was a dangerous genius attempting to destabilize Chancellor Palpatine's beloved Republic – we were rivals locked in interplanetary dejarik. At some shallow level I realized I believed this, strange though it seemed. I prefer Palpatine to myself – he is so much more amusing – and within the foil that is the Chancellor there are different aspects of his relationship to Anakin:, confessor, lover, father, friend, mentor, and superior… I long for the day when I shall introduce him to Lord Sidious. But he was still waiting for an answer. I decided to give him the truth: "I do not know, Anakin. In some ways I think I am more confused than you are."

A grin, "You're humoring me!"

"Not at all… treasure this moment, indeed, for a politician just told you the complete truth." The colours of the room seem to be drinking each other.


As he closes the gap between us I can feel the droopy softness of his skin, no longer perfectly aligned to his body. His clear eyes are set into a bed of crevices. And as he smiles now, these deepen like fault lines during an earthquake. A man is old enough to be my grandfather gives me a little smile in lamplight and leans close to kiss my neck. Only, if I had a grandfather, he would be long dead, a slave worked to death on some nerf-shit planet on the outer-rim. He could never embody such refinement as the man before me; he could never voice the sentiments that caressed me in my dreams. No – no grandfather of mine could ever compare to His Excellency, the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic.

I love my wife. I love how she always smells of the wildflowers of Naboo, I love the way she looks at me with her dark eyes – and I feel like I'm the only being in the galaxy apart from her. He would never look at me like that. With him, I'm always aware of all the other people who aren't in the room with us, all those beings he's dismissed in order to touch me. Padmé could exist without the universe, not so Palpatine. I couldn't image him walking in a field alone with me, just being silly. Who and what he is are so irrevocably fused together – there's no dichotomy as with Padmé and Amidala – no public and private. I could be fucking a penniless nymph or a queen; she's simply woman when we're alone, nothing else. But he's – I shouldn't use this word but I have to – royal from the silver of the hair on his head to his balls. He smells like a heady wine, dark and expensive. I love him.

Isn't it strange – but I can't choose between them. I know Padmé loves me more than Palpatine does; he's always talking over me, asking things I can't answer, causing me to say things I never thought I'd consider telling another soul. I know he enjoys my company, I know he cares for me, but he doesn't love like she does – it's not in his nature to be so abandoned.

"I love you, you know?" I say, returning his kiss.

"What about Padmé, don't you love her too?" I'm surprised his voice follows my train of thought. This is the first time he's directly compared himself to my senator. Usually, he only mentions her when discussing practicalities – never my relationship. There doesn't appear to be any bitterness to his words, but that's no measure of his thoughts. His eyes are glassy.

"Yes – but it's not the same. You're very different people – how could I love both of you the same way?"

"Explain." It's a serious word but he tosses it off with the carelessness of the true autocrat, tilting his head and leaning back into the comforts of his pillows. A veined hand reaches for the bottle of wine we brought to bed and a used glass, but I intercept and call them to my hands, pouring him a drink as I begin to talk.

"I know you don't respect Padmé and it's more than just a matter of political differences. But she's an angel. She gives herself fully to whatever she's doing – her vitality is amazing, even when she knows she can't succeed…"

His lips are thinning, too much time spent on Padmé. Force, I'm not the only one tipsy… I hand him the glass of wine. "But you… I can tell you things she would never want to hear. You never judge me and you… you're unbearably exciting."

Raised brows, "More exciting that a young, nubile senator?" His lips are wine-stained; it looks almost like lipstick.

I swallow, knowing what a faux pas it would be to qualify his particular brand of excitement. "Umm… yes, but I didn't mean that you're better at umm… you know." He gives me a look, making me squirm. But I can't find the words that will make that exquisite excitement sound like a decent thing, a worthy thing. At best he'd call me a snob, at worst he'd be disgusted by how shallow the sentiment was. But it isn't shallow, not at all.

"It's because I'm the supreme chancellor, isn't it?" His voice is coaxing, accepting.

"No! And… yes…" I look away, unable to meet his gaze. Force, I wish I was sober! "I never really met you as a senator – I was too young, I suspect you didn't even notice me until after the battle of Naboo. So you've been chancellor for about fourteen years because I'm twenty-three now…"

He smiled; compressed upturned lines. "I hope this isn't some misguided attempt at flattery." His eyes said: smooth, Anakin, really smooth.

"What I'm trying to say is that I could never imagine you as anything else. You belong at the galaxy's helm. No one could ever compare to you. It's not about the fact that you're the chancellor. It's about what makes you such a brilliant one. The air crackles when you speak, and what you say is always so right, and it carriesinto everything you do, even making love." I dared to glance down at him again.

Sipping his wine, he looks me over speculatively. "Mmm…" I can tell I've succeeded in flattering him and he's too modest to reply. He drinks me in for several minutes, both of us silent. He places his glass down on the bedside table with a clink, and rolls onto his stomach, away from me. I lie on top of him, placing my chin in the curve or his neck and shoulder.

I blow in his ear, trying to return to a more playful mood, distract him. "Let's play a game… get us out of this mood." I realize belatedly that it's Padmé this tactic works on. Palpatine thinks it's juvenile. Fuck.

He twists his neck to look at me. "What did you have in mind?"

I'm so surprised by his interest that my mind goes blank. "Hadn't got there yet; you know me – I never plan more than one step ahead… Anticipation is distraction."

"And are you distracted?" the chancellor's voice is coy.

"You tell me." I press my erection down on him.

He chuckles and pushes me; I slide off. "I've got an idea," I love the slyness in his face when he talks about sex. "Why don't you play a powerful sith lord who's taken this unfortunate chancellor hostage?"

"You want me to play Dooku?" I make a face. Eww… there's something I never want to think about.

His expression mirrors mine, "Don't be silly. You'd be Dooku's master…" His voice slides from silk into sandpaper as he wraps his mouth around the last word.

I'm starting to get where he's coming from. "I can do that," I smirk and he smirks back. I pick my cloak off the floor and arrange it on my shoulders, pulling the hood forward. "Come on, you have to get dressed too, otherwise it's not realistic." I cross my arms and try to look menacing while he dons his robes of office a little haphazardly. When he finishes, he sits down in one of the chairs opposite the bed, looking up at me, waiting; telling he expects me to begin. I grin, spoiling the image of brutal menace, and retreat to the doorway. One, two, three…

"Chancellor, a pleasure to finally meet you," I sweep into the room, smiling down at him in triumph. "I hope our hospitality has been congenial."

Two pink spots of fury suffuse his cheeks, "I am a civilian – you have no right to hold me here. I demand my release."

"I think not." I reach down to stroke the side of his face and feel it warm with anger, "you are far too valuable to me…" he flinches away from my touch.

"Nothing you force me to sign will be of any value." Ooh, thanks for the hint.

"How ignorant do you think I am? Besides, I'm quite content to use you to pay for my side of the war for the next few years."

"You cannot think we will accept this. Do you think I am too proud to sacrifice myself?

"I'm not questioning your willingness to die for your cause. But I intend to make it impossible for you to do so."

Quicker than I would have thought possible, Palpatine snatched up a stylus that had been sitting on the table next to him and made to drive it into his neck. I growled and curled my fingers into talons and thrust them forward, shaking with tension.

He looked at me quizzically, raising his eyebrows, stylus pressed against the veins of his throat. "Force lightening," I whisper, out of character. For a second he looks like he's about to burst out laughing but then he gives a low whimper and collapses to the floor, gasping, his suffering incredibly convincing. I almost want to tell him to stop even though I know he isn't really in pain. Finally I let my hands drop and bend over his crumpled figure. "You must accept this, Your Excellency. You will find me not nearly so unpleasant if you do."

"I cannot…" The anguish of it is both heartbreaking and exciting.

I cock my head to one side, staring down thoughtfully. "Must I continue? Must I… break you before you see reason?" He just stares up at me defiantly, his eyes blazing with distain.

I sigh dispassionately. "So be it." I gather him up and fling him onto the bed and he tries to evade me, shuffling backward, but his long robes trap his limbs and impede his efforts.

"Please…" That word is so sweet. "Please…!"

"No, Chancellor Palpatine." I shake my head, "your words will avail you nothing." I snatch at his robes with my prosthetic hand, ripping through expensive material. Suddenly I feel hot pain and I realize he's sunk his fingernails into my cheeks, tearing down flesh. I scream in pain and go for his wrists, pressing them into the mattress. He writhes, trying to free himself. I extend my tongue and lick his face, easily avoiding his snapping teeth.

Then my body is boiling over and I use my weight to pin him whilst I draw up his robes. He squirms as I put my cold mechanical hand on his inner thigh, working my way upward to encase his sex in metal, using my other hand to flip him over in my arms and caress his arse. His breathing is laboured and I bite into the nape of his neck, breathing into fine silver. Nobody will ever know how I felt at that moment because it is something I carry around with me in the most intimate recesses of my thoughts.


Anakin Skywalker is a Jedi who is a future Sith Lord, pretending to be the Sith Lord, whilst fucking said Sith Lord who is fucking the Jedi and pretending to be the chancellor being fucked by the Sith Lord. Darth Sidious shuddered as they achieved release and it seemed to him that all the complexities he ever wove into the galaxy spun around him and gurgled down into one concrete thought: This is what happens when I drink too much.