I previously posted this on the KFM site, so someone might have already seen it there. It's pretty dark and creepy, so be warned.


I open my eyes and stare into the vast emptiness of the chamber. There is little but several grey pillars, standing like silent guardians around the abnormally large bed we lie in. Our sanctuary in the middle of nowhere. Her head is resting comfortably on my chest, her right arm and leg wrapped possessively around me, while the stinging spreading from my back to the rest of the body reminds me exactly how we ended up like this. That's going to leave some really interesting scars, but do I care? I smile down at the top of her head and trail a finger along her bare arm, down and back up again. Her smooth dark skin shimmers in the candlelight.

Candles. Another one of her ideas. She always enjoyed adding new elements to our little rendezvous. Not that she ever needed to try too hard to keep my interest…

It's been like this for… how long? Six months? Maybe more, maybe less. Time isn't of much consequence here, though quite a lot has changed since we crushed Sion and Traya and took over the Academy. The remaining Sith, the ones we hadn't slaughtered, have pledged themselves to her as the new Dark Lord. As have I and the rest of the crew. She put me in charge of training her new army of assassins – real ones, not like those pathetic Force-junkies that walking corpse had been sending after us ever since Peragus. She says no one could teach the recruits as much about pain and torture as I, and I'm doing my best to live up to her expectations.

I glance out one of the tall windows. Storm clouds. Always more of them. With each passing day it gets easier to listen to this graveyard of a planet, to feel the sheer power of the Dark Side surrounding it. She has taught me to feed on it, to shape it, to command it. She's made me more powerful than I could ever imagine. And each day I feel I'm losing pieces of myself. I can no longer tell if it's the real me that's slipping away or the identity I forced upon myself years ago, when I left the Sith. I don't even know if I care. Never had time to reflect on this. She senses it when I'm having doubts, and she's always there to lift these worries off my shoulders. And so, after my Force training and other duties are complete for the day, we come here – to this room, to this bed – and she makes me forget everything. Everything but the pleasure and pain she gives.

The others call me her man-whore. They don't understand. They never could. Even if there is some truth in what they say, I couldn't care less. Whether I'm hers or she's mine doesn't matter. When I'm with her, inside her, when our bodies are joined in a dance of debauchery, in all the chaos that is our lust and vented anger, I find a center. I find something stable, even if it is the vision of my own death.

She's like a dark flame, swallowing me whole. There is nothing but death and destruction at the end of the path she had chosen; the path I chose to follow because of her. And yet I stay. When she tells me to kill, I kill. When she wants my body, I'm there to fulfill her needs. And if she ever told me to throw myself into the poisonous depths here, at Malachor, I swear I would. The irony of this makes me laugh each time I think about it. I've hunted and killed Jedi for years and now I'm willing to die for one.

A part of me hates her. Not because she used to be a Jedi, but because of the darkness she carries within herself, injecting it into everything she touches, like some kind of venom. I can almost feel her under my skin, damaging, corrupting… addictive. She is my drug, my escape, my sweet oblivion. And if there was any love left in me, in either of us, I think I would love her. I don't pretend nor try to understand it, the mixed feelings I have for her. I've gotten used to being trapped in this limbo, between hatred and adoration for the only person in this galaxy who understands and accepts me for what I am.

She stirs in her sleep with a quiet moan that sounds like my name. Just another evil trick she's playing on me – letting me know she needs me to make me all the more dependant, as if that's even possible. I don't really mind this kind of manipulation. I like hearing her say my name, whether it's murmured in the middle of the night or screamed out loud in the heat of passion, with her fingernails ploughing through the skin on my back. I live for these moments of ecstasy and suffering. I long for her touch, so cold, yet like fire. And I always come back for more.

The itching becomes hard to stand and I realize attempting to sleep is pointless. I untangle her limbs from mine, gently so I don't wake her. She's reluctant to let go and I feel a smile creep across my lips. Maybe I'm not the only one who's desperate for more after all…

I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. As my feet make contact with the floor I suddenly feel her hand on the small of my back. Surprised, I begin to turn my head, but she doesn't let me look at her. I breathe heavily as her fingers move up slowly, barely brushing the skin, her touch sending wave after wave of craving through me. The next thing I feel is her tongue trailing up my spine. I can't help but shiver at the sensation, followed by a jolt of the Force as she channels it. I almost do not wish this to end. I close my eyes and let her do the healing, tasting her power through our bond. Then the pain ensues.

It has to be painful of course. It's all a part of her plan, a test. I clench my teeth and repress the groan that's trying to escape my throat. I don't shut it out, but endure, just as she taught me. The deep scratches on my back close in an instant and the agonizing feeling is gone. All that remains is her hot breath on the nape of my neck.

"Jaq," I hear her whisper in my ear. "Come back to bed."

I eagerly obey. I know I have succeeded in this trial. And as I lose myself in her and let her sink her nails in my flesh once again, I find that I look forward to whatever she has in store for me next.