A Fragment

The world is meaningless to me in its current shape.

I have tried to remold it to a new image, a new form.

But the universe is a fractal. It resists me. I only create more chaos.
There is no order.

There is no place for his dream in the world.

As I stand in his shadow, I turn out the lights of the worlds who resist
him.

And when he stands to descend from his throne when the sycophants are
gone, he enters my halo.

"Demavend," he says.

"Palpatine." I smile. His eyes devour me, burning and poisoning.

"How many gods have you killed today?"

I feel the bile stir up in my gut.

"None."

"The new Death Star is almost complete."

He walks away from me and he peers at the hologram of the Galaxy which
he commands.

"I will be leaving soon," he says, but I know. He hasn't kept his
intention hidden from me.

I grow cold again. I pull my robes around me. The air has been sharp
with frost for me from the moment we met.

It is getting more difficult for me to pretend to be asleep.

The madness like a spiral in my head has become tighter wound and more
difficult to restrain.

He is hungry now.

Strange attractors.

We leave the throne room, stepping down the coiling concealed staircase.

Dizziness.

The world cracks under my footsteps like packed snow.

The Imperial Royal Guards stay behind.

I follow the Emperor.

He sucks my body heat reflexively. He drains life from everything.

Darkness, and red hues. Yellow lights; dispersed flickers.

At the bottom of the stairwell, I lean against a wall. Ahead of me, he
stops. Immediately.

"Demavend, do not make me angry with you."

I laugh.

I look at him.

"What can you do to me that you haven't already done?"

I arc a bolt of electricity between my hands.

I push away from the wall.

His lips twist.

He puts a hand to my forehead.

The madness turns. It's edging closer to the breaking point.

But... I don't care anymore.

He draws back.

To the bed.

He is a cold-blooded beast, but he has taken all my warmth.

I lean forward over him, and pull back the hood which obscures his face.

I run my fingers through his hair.

He licks my throat, chuckling.

I unclasp the dragon on his throat.

I undo the top of the robe under his cloak.

His skin is marked. Aging exacerbated by the Dark Side, by his passions,
by my own touch over these last few years. I know every nerve on this
body.

Pride in my ravages makes me smile, as I tremble with cold and
anticipation.

His hand has moved into my robes.

It moves to my breast, while he presses my head to his neck with his other hand.

Cockatrices have a touch capable of killing all life around them. They
burn, and contaminate.

He pinches my nipple. I bite at his skin.

I gasp. He topples me. We roll onto the bed, onto the red sheets.

I tear away at my clothes, and his hand slides down my flank like a
talon.

He is ravenous now.

His hand reaches my sex, and he presses on the muscle above my pelvic
bone with the base of his thumb. His fingers press into my flesh like
claws.

I push him off, up, to undress him, relunctantly.

"Palpatine," I say. "I am cold."

"And you will burn again."

He pushes me down.

His strength, multiplied by mine, hold me down. He holds one of my arms
in a lock in my back.

He spreads my legs. He goes down on me, twisting my arm until it hurts.
He licks my cunt, my clitoris, the inside of my thigh.

And he comes back up to graze my breasts with his teeth before kissing me.

I grin, and he grins back at me, feverishly.

His touch is the burn of liquid nitrogen, pouring into me.

His knees push down my thighs.

I can't close my eyes.

He pushes, penetrates me, cuts into me.

His breath is on my face.

I move my legs, capture his hips as he thrusts in again.

My eyes are open but my world goes pitch black.

I surrender. I burn.

Palpatine's grasp on my wrist turns to steel, and his other hand on my
breast will leave fingernail marks. I feel my skin breaking.

He hammers into me, throbbing; I can hear his pulse. My pulse. My heart
beating with his.

He has no mind now.

His release is a discharge which triggers mine. Energy waves, rocking
back and forth.

Sheer lust spent, sweating, shivering.

I shudder, feeling fire to my fingertips.

But I rise, and leave him alone in the bed.

I taste our fluids, licking at a finger. My legs are weak under me. I
clench my teeth.

He turns and looks at me. He is sprawled in the red sheets.

I climb back on top of him and wrestle him into submission.

"Do you know what I will do if you go to Endor?" I ask him.

His countenance is... unexpected. Palpatine trembles.

"No. I can't be sure of it, Demavend."

But he knows. I know that he knows what I will do. But he knows more,
and he has never said what that knowledge is. And now, as I lie down
on him, never minding the cold, I am afraid for him.

Ide Cyan 21-08-1999
This is a story I extemporised in the chat. It fits in with
a longer story that I've been thinking about for a while now, but
which I've had trouble writing. PWP is easier, I guess.