PAIN

Sometimes the pain is so great, you cannot get out of bed. You feel numbed by it, unable to concentrate on anything else.

Other times, you have to keep busy and do things because it is the only thing that keeps you sane…. if you are sane anymore—sometimes you are not sure.

Some days it’s all rage, rage, rage. How could he turn to the dark side? How could he kill children? How could your apprentice—your best friend and lover—become so twisted and so evil—and how could you not even see it coming? Other days it is just sadness…immense sadness and self-loathing.

The days go by slowly, in a blur. You can go weeks without seeing another living creature, and you rather like it that way because you hate yourself so much, and you truly, truly believe that this lonely exile is what you deserve. You are a failure and a waste—you should have fallen with your Jedi brothers during the purges. You feel guilty for surviving.

There is a grief that cannot be spoken because it is so deep and so awful. There is no one in the galaxy who will ever be able to understand how you feel, what you went through, and what it did to you.

Sometimes, when the pain is so great you cannot think any more, you cut yourself because the physical pain distracts from the emotional pain, and because when you bleed, at last you look on the outside how you feel on the inside, and that is somehow comforting.

You lay, twisting in the sheets, running your lightsaber down your arm, or your chest, or your leg, screaming in pain, and you wish for death. The saber burns and the pain is cathartic. You only wish that you had the strength and courage to lift the blade to your own throat and end your excuse for a life.

You fall apart on a daily basis. Anything can set you off—a memory, a child’s voice, an old photograph—and you can cry for hours. You never knew you could cry so hard or for so long. And when the tears subside, the pain does not. It is always there, like a constant, unwelcome companion. It is the first thing you feel when you awake in the morning, and the last thing you notice before sleep takes you at night.

When sleep comes at all.

Insomnia is the worst because the nights on Tatooine are even longer then the days, and you can spend hours doing nothing but thinking about the past, until you are sure that you have driven yourself insane.

Owen and Beru have grown to hate you, and want you nowhere near Luke, and you can hardly blame them.

Alcohol dulls the pain, so you drink far too much in an attempt to ease your soul. Sometimes you drink until you pass out. Many, many nights you end up vomiting and ill from alcohol, and that those moments, you promise yourself that you will stop drinking—but you don’t because you can’t.


And the only thing that gives you any peace, any respite from your pain is when he—the very person who has caused your pain in the first place—comes to visit you in exile on Tatooine.

He comes in the night, like a dream and a nightmare all at the same time.

You never know when he will come, or how long he will stay, but you live for these moments because it is all you have left of a life you once knew and loved.

It is your dirty little secret—and his as well. It started about a year after you made your home here.

In the beginning you thought that, perhaps there was hope. Maybe you could turn him back to the light, but that was wishful, foolish thinking. You told him you still loved him once and he just laughed at you, and called you a pathetic fool. He does not come to you to be redeemed. He comes to you for a fuck—and you give it to him now, not in the hopes of saving him, but of saving yourself.

He enters your hovel, and you stare at one another. You are naked and ready for him—you felt him coming before you saw him. He looks over your body admiringly, bringing his eyes to rest on your erection.

“Obi Wan…” he murmurs softly.

You lay there, dazed and aroused, as you watch him strip. You say nothing because you are incapable of speech. Then he lies on top of you, covering your torso with wet kisses and sharp bites and you hear yourself cry out in happiness at the touch

He pulls back and smirks down at you, knowing how he controls you; how much you still want and need him. You sigh, and stare up at him, pleading with him silently, to take this pain away. Your breathing is hard and you are trembling. His gaze softens slightly, and he nods, telling you silently that he will give you pleasure this night, and ease your pain. You close your eyes and let him have you-- grateful for this touch, this sex, this…thing you share, whatever it is….

And then his warm mouth is against your neck, kissing down your torso, biting at a hard nipple, and you twist and arch against him, moaning and pleading.

You wonder, briefly, when you lost your soul to Anakin Skywalker.

Was it that very first time, when you were alone together on a mission, he was young and beautiful, and horny and you let him have you to ease his loneliness? Or was it when he began to slip away and you were trying so hard to hold onto him, to keep him from self destruction, that you laid your soul bare to him, and tried to save him with sex and love and whispered promises late at night in your bed? Or was it when he killed everyone you ever loved, and destroyed your life, and turned to the dark side—and you still let him come to your bed and still made love with him? You are not sure, and it doesn’t really matter anyway….

He makes love to you, and you let him. You are pliant in his arms as he takes you. You close your eyes and cry quietly as he moves in you. You cry because you hate him, and you love him. You cry because you want this, but you should not. You cry because you are so lonely and desperate that you need him, even though you know he’s a monster and a killer and everything you are supposes to loathe. But gods, it feels so good…the pain recedes, and you try to enjoy the sex, enjoy the feel of his gorgeous body against your own. And you try to forget what he has become—a murderer and a sith—and what you are reduced too.

You slide your arms around his back, gently, and hold him close, and he allows it, slipping deeper into you. You kiss deep and hard and rough. His lips are still so soft…you never want it to end, because it is the only contact you ever have with another human being these days.

Both of you are completely silent during this most intimate act. The only sounds are the harsh breathing, the moans and groans of pleasure. His touch is tender, and you return his caresses, starving for physical contact, for connection. He seems to still have feelings for you, but you are not sure if it is caring, love, or just lust. You are not sure you really want to know.

You feel him come inside you, and hear his sigh of completion, and then he is sagging against you, sated. He struggles to slow his breathing and regain control of himself, then pulls off of you and stands next to the bed, looking at you with a mix of contempt and pity. He stares at you, even as you lay naked before him, open and vulnerable and craving him so badly that you think you might go insane just from your need for him. You feel used and humiliated, but at that moment nothing matters except physical pleasure—and you will do anything to achieve it.

You twist in the sheets, trying to cover your nakedness, embarrassed by your arousal. He stops you, and takes your hand, guiding it to your erection silently. You let him guide you, as his lips ghost against your lips. You try to deepen the kiss, but he pulls away, and you whimper in frustration.

He laughs at you, and you feel cold and wretched.

“Touch yourself,” he commands.

You are hard, painfully so, and you know he will not pleasure you, so you must do it yourself. He watches as your hand slips around your erection. He smiles wickedly as you begin to stroke yourself slowly, gasping.

You lay yourself out before him, displaying your body in a way that you would never do for anyone else. You are lewd and coarse for him. You touch yourself, and shove your own fingers inside yourself desperately because it has been far too long, and it may be months before you have a chance to do this again, so you do it. You lose yourself in the blinding pleasure of sexual obsession, and release.

And you don’t want this…you don’t want to debase yourself like this for him—perform for him, as you have so many times before. But you can’t stop yourself. You bite your bottom lip, and close your eyes against the unbearable shame, as you arch helplessly into your palm while the Sith Lord watches you masturbate.

It doesn’t take long—it never does. You groan like the whore you are, as you come onto your own belly, the semen splashing hot against your skin. You are breathing hard and writhing on the bed, turning your head from side to side.

You tremble as you come down from you orgasm, so intense, always so intense… you feel his warm tongue on your belly—he’s licking up your come, and you gasp out loud at the thought of him licking and drinking your pleasure. You grasp his blond curls in your hand, and force his mouth harder against your belly, listening to his hoarse grunts as he eats your come. You grunt and groan like an animal in return, staring up at the ceiling of your hovel, dazed and lost in ecstasy that only your former apprentice—now Darth Vader—can make you feel.

“Oh god…” you groan, as he licks you, “Oh, please…gods…please…”

You have no idea what you are pleading for. Are you pleading for more? For him to leave you alone and stop? For him to kill you so that the pain can finally, truly be over for you? You do not know, and he doesn’t care.

He’s licking and mouthing at your softening sex now, mouthing at your balls, eating the come that has dripped down there. The pleasure is so intense—even better then your orgasm. You feel drunk with pleasure. Then he kisses you, and you taste yourself in his mouth.

Sometime later, you lay very still next to him. He’s on his back, naked, with one arm slung over his eyes. You are lying on your side, just watching him. You reach out and gently ghost your fingers against his swollen, beautiful lips. He removes the arm from over his eyes and stares at you with azure eyes as you close the distance between you.

“Anakin…” you whisper, just as his lips close against yours.

Then you kiss—so softly and slowly it feels like a dream. He gasps into your mouth as your tongues slip against each other, and you have never felt so sexually wanton, so alive with pleasure, so drunk with need and desire.

“Oh…” you groan, desperate, and you lose yourself in the kiss, grunting and making soft keening noises into Vader’s mouth, wordlessly begging for more sex, humping against him shamelessly.

“Easy.” he whispers against your overheated skin, but you cannot slow down or stop—you need this. He lets you have it. You come against his hip, your liquid spilling and spreading over his taut belly. You scream obscenities against his shoulder, angry at yourself, at him…at the universe. Orgasms give you pleasure; they do not give you peace.

He’s hard again. He pulls you against his long, lithe body, and you stare at each other.

“You’re so lonely…” he says, caressing your cheek softly, “There’s so much pain for you…”

You nod silently, closing your eyes against his words. You kiss endlessly, writhing against one another, naked and sticky with semen and sweat.

Then you are sliding down his body, kissing as you go, until you reach his sex.

You take him in your mouth without him having to ask. You want this more than he does—you need it to ease the pain; to help you forget.

He gasps in surprise when you swallow him whole, and suck softly and lick gently, trying to make it last.

It never does.

He comes down your throat with a loud grunt, and you take all he has to give because you need it. His taste is sweet and bitter at the same time. You love the taste.

After he’s finished coming, you remain down there, holding his softening sex in your mouth, unwilling to let it go, sobbing softly against his navel. You moan in pleasure as you feel his large hand find your erection and begin to stroke it gently. His sex slips from your mouth now as you whimper in need, and come into his hand, whispering his name—his old name—over and over again, as your curl into a foetal position at his feet.

He pets your hair gently as he slowly extracts you from his body, and you can feel how he pities you, how he feels sorry for you because he knows how awful your life is now, how deep your pain is.

And then, he is pulling away, even as you beg him to stay. And you feel the pain returning, and you hate yourself for needing this so badly.

You hear him dressing, as you keep your eyes closed, lying naked on the bed lying so very still.

“It hurts so much…” you mutter.

“I know…” he replies.

When you open your eyes, he is gone and you are alone. Again.

You curl into a ball on your side and cry for hours because you hate what you have become—and what you do with him. You hate yourself and you want to die—but you know, even then, that he will return and you will allow it all to happen again because even if he is Darth Vader now, without a trace of Anakin left, you need his touch. Because its his touch that, even for a short time, takes the pain away.