Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars, which is now – apparently – the property of Disney.
Author's Notes: This is a companion piece to the first chapter of Alexis.
Why did you want this? Surely you've grown past it after all these years. But you've let him in: into those places that have been sacrosanct for so long. You can't remember when you last performed this ritual, when you last desired to. But he blithely wandered into your orbit – a graceful, graceless, boy with soft blond hair and light steps.
In this era of your life, you no longer encounter innocence. Yet it alighted in your garden quite unexpectedly, with such guileless cerulean eyes. And you pounced on it – such novelty – no, such nostalgia.
You didn't even need to persuade it to want you – you haven't needed to persuade anyone for an achingly long time. And now you will have that beautiful innocence right where you want it – naked beside you.
His body is the very architecture of pleasure, his movements utterly unaffected. But you – you pause. You don't remember what its like to move like that – your youth is blurred, bright, and inaccessible. And watching him carelessly shedding layers like unwanted skin – you wish you could climb out of your body and caress his, but you're stuck in your concealment, the most you can do is slip off your shoes, so your bare feet sink into the luxurious carpet, up between your toes.
He's looking at you again, puzzled; a curious animal. He makes his way toward you, gazing not into your eyes but at your hands – is it because he can't bear to look at your face? As for you, you can't help but stare at his sex, nestled between his quick strides. The animal dares to take those hands from you and holds them, "…sire?"
Ah yes, you're expected to do something. You hope he doesn't expect you to initiate this; you suddenly don't have the energy. And you remember how much you dislike yourself; and you hate that. But he seems to sense what you're feeling – his speck of a presence radiates reverence and you feel this just might be bearable as he treats you like a delicate vase that could shatter any second; you feel like you could shatter any second, but then you'd be alone in your bedroom with a corpse, and that thought is even more demoralising.
Under the covers then, with you and your prize, and you can smell the sickly scents you poured him earlier on his tongue. You run your fingers across his smooth chest, nipping a nipple between two milky nails, causing him to grunt and his length touches you quite unexpectedly. Liking this, you begin to calm down, but are arrested by his hands – wide and far-reaching – curling around your body; you can read in his thoughts that he's amazed by how insubstantial you really are, thin and knotty… and then he draws away your shell.
You can't help but flinch as mortification courses through you. He, unguarded, projects his horror, his disgust: his pity. Smash his beautiful face in! Rend his neck from his body, make him suffer! And you raise those hands of yours to shoot straight into his heart, but he grips them and guides them around his hips, as he leans into you and whispers blandishments in your ear, because he genuinely feels sorry for you.
Now it's his tongue and not his words and you sigh, the tension oozing out of you. You don't even feel irritated at his pity – why would you arrest his stupidity, anyway? Feeling generous, you let him experience your enjoyment of his mouth in your ear, your power unconsciously magnifying the feeling. He growls and you can feel him against you again. You're unused to a lover who doesn't see with the eyes of the Force, so you're unprepared for the response. Because now he's pulling at your clothes, actually yanking them upward from around your legs and he flings your robes across the room, where they land – ludicrously – atop one of your favourite sculptures. You respond by burying yourself under the sheets, using your own mouth to attack his flesh, causing him to shiver delightfully: "Ah! – Ah! – Your Majesty! – Ah!" which strikes you as hilariously funny, and your laughter echoes in the tent the two of you have made with your bodies.
But as you laugh, he stills, "What is it?" you ask, insinuating yourself into his body – you always did favour them tall. You even sound concerned because you like this one. He hasn't a scrap of artfulness about him and you're so bored by those crawling, artful beings. And he does look so much like…
"I… don't know if I can do this… sire." Again, he doesn't look at you and you wonder whether it's because of your appearance or because you could have him killed so very easily. And then he begins to cry. You gather him to you – hush, hush… a little perplexed. You comb his short, officer hair (you'll insist he grow it if you keep him) and massage his scalp with your skeletal digits. You open his innocent soul and search for his distress.
You really can't channel your passions into this one. You've overwhelmed his simple mind, like a child oblivious to what might cause his doll to break… you've become so used to flooding your dominions with your signature; and you poured yourself into this little creature without a thought. Closing your eyes, you reign yourself in – you've almost forgotten how it feels – to be so contained. It reminds you of how it used to be, when your control was essential to survival. It reminds you of how you used to be – and you like that.
He lets out a long breath and then suddenly inhales, like a mammal emerging from the water. His cheeks flush prettily, embarrassed to be so weak in front of you; a rush of apologies follow, but you bat them away graciously. He deserves indulgence for your error, after all.
Awkwardness now stalks between you as he stares, to cover his shame, from the bed out at your chambers. The Emperor's Bedroom… his awed mind echoes, and you can see he's in awe of himself too – that he's lying here next to you – and very frightened. You drape a skinny, ivory arm across his chest as he gazes at your exquisitely tasteful surroundings. And because you want him to stay here with you, and because you feel unconscionably generous, you ask: "Would you like to leave?"
His eyes flash toward the doorway – a world unencumbered by the confusion you arouse! A safe world – but no, he's already turning back to you, trusting himself to your keeping, blue eyes so brave, jaw set. You put a finger to your withered lips, forestalling any words of resolution. Drinking him in, as he smiles in acknowledgement of your kindness, you beckon him close once more, slipping him a mere whisper of your feelings, as he lands on you – stroking his tongue along the folds of your cheeks – caressing that malformed skin that clings to your skull. You were never vain of your appearance, and you've used these features for political capital – but it's not your face. But every contact with his talented lips allows you to experience what you were, as you are now.
A hand through your now sparse hair, another down where you've kept yourself in mourning for what was – the rhythm of a smooth palm stirring things you thought dead long ago. And as you begin to play with him too – exploring his perfection – the thought hits you in horrific realisation: you haven't anything by way of lubrication!
He'll produce something, certainly – you don't know if you're even capable of it. Have you anything else you might use? Cologne, soap, aftershave, liquor, no, no, no… What you enjoy using are the delicate, hypnotic oils of your home planet, occasionally something more exotic; which means – since you've decided you're not compromising – that you'll have to comm. Sate, who will doubtless fetch some from somewhere.
It's a tricky decision, but in the end you scramble across the bed, getting amusingly tangled up along the way, and put your finger on the comm.. You feel embarrassed for a moment, a little mortified by your inattention to such things. "…Your Majesty?"
How to phrase this delicately? The boy is looking at you, head to one side, across the dark sheets; he strokes the underside of your exposed foot and you shiver, closing your eyes. So you speak in High Nabooan – your native language – to conceal your blunder: "I require ia'elé oil. Have a droid deliver it," you cut off the communication before the vizier has a chance to respond so you don't have to hear his reaction.
Meanwhile someone is sucking each toe of your left foot with admirable attention to detail and you let yourself sink into the pillows as now your right foot is gently lifted to experience the same treatment. You moan a little to let him know you're enjoying yourself; and he suddenly springs up the bed, landing beside you. And although you could easily equal his acrobatics – you're still an accomplished duellist, after all – you've no desire to. Your ancient body complains when you practise and unnecessary movements tire you more than you care to admit.
But the boy doesn't expect you to see to his needs (you'll enjoy proving him wrong later), so now he's sliding down your front towards your navel, like the industrious, loyal fellow he is, and… did you really just quiver in excitement? Surely not! And… great departed sith lords… edging his mouth over your member –
– The droid clatters into the room and he pulls away in surprise. Your teeth set in frustration and the only reason you don't destroy the droid as soon as it sets down the crystal bottle on its tray is because that would probably unnerve the lad, which would be counterproductive. You slowly press him back into you, twining your fingers through his hair, guiding him back, sending him reassurance.
Now the beautiful creature is rolling his tongue, causing you to sigh and smack your lips, although you're still nowhere near erect. With his ministrations, and if you concentrate, you can force your sluggish, aged blood to obey your commands. Slowly, too slowly, it does your bidding – but oh once it does! You cry out – helpless not to – as the sensation envelops you: you, grown so used to exploring little but the metaphysical; you, who wrote yourself off as a physical being what feels like centuries ago; you, an inviolable wreckage of flesh and bone, you, you, you! Are experiencing something wonderfully, unexpectedly, indescribably, visceral!
…Incapable of the smallest movement, everything impossibly heavy, you look up at the face which hovers above you, golden brows raised, observing your satiated weakness. With difficulty, you reach a hand up to touch the side of that face, which the boy takes with both hands and presses into his cheek, slightly stubbly. If you were younger, you would flip him onto his back and repay the favour – making him squeal delightfully – but you really can't muster the energy. All you can do is lie here, cushioned and coveted, while your new pet glows with the happiness that comes with bringing you – his galactic sovereign – such pleasure. Many beings would – have – killed for the opportunity.
But you're not interested in them and their sordid efforts. You're interested in this bright young thing, now nestling beside you quietly. You roll into him and find a comfortable spot in the cavity of his neck. Because you really want to show him how much you appreciate his advent, and you really can't bestir yourself, you decide to cheat, leaving the precious ia'elé oil untouched. There will be time for that another night.
So. You sneak a hand down through his pubic hair to wrap around his thick scrotum and close your eyes, mind entering into the darkness between your two bodies. You'd say his name right now… very slowly, but you... can't remember it. There's another name, unutterable, in the back of your mind. Throwing him a smidgeon of passion, you cause him to jerk, but he's anchored fast by your hand. You repeat – a mite stronger – careful with his delicate consciousness, and as he writhes in response you allow your other hand to dance across him.
Like a marionette he arches to your impulse, the only nub of dissatisfaction that you can't straddle his hips and push yourself into his arse, just as your power invades his mind, the rich scent of ia'elé flowers burning against you. But you shepherd him towards his own climax, so much of which he cannot understand, as his liquid blends with your skin and his hoarse cries cease, leaving him gasping, trembling, in your arms. You release your grip.
"How, how did you…?"
Knowledge is not for this receptacle: "I have my ways," is your oblique reply and because you tested his loyalty long ago, you allow yourself to drift off to sleep, not bothering even to rinse yourself of sex, enjoying the stickiness; and the dusky smell, so rare nowadays, tickles your nose as you slumber.
What he thought about the matter, you really couldn't care less.