Stuck on where this is going
Oct. 5th, 2004 02:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdWIP
Any suggestions to keep this from turning into Black Fire would be appreciated.
Warning: Luke-abuse, unfinished, probably R rated.
Come the voice whispered through his dreams.
Luke went, sliding further down the chasm of dark pulsating redness to where his lover awaited him. In the waking world, Han belonged to Leia, a claim Luke would never intrude upon, but here, in this dreamspace, he was all Luke’s. The soft lips that kissed him, the broad hands that caressed him, the lightly haired body that surrendered to his kisses and caresses. As they made love, in yet another inventive style, Luke shouted his passion, demanding pleasure from his lover, and receiving it beyond his dearest imagining.
He woke, as he always did these days, exhausted, his clothing in tatters, dirty, with blood drying from the wounds on him. His sheets and belly were sticky with drying semen. He staggered to the fresher to check the night's damage.
Almost nothing on his face or hands, aside from a crack in his dry lips. He remembered that one: the kiss, so very long and hard, making him dizzy, making him need, making him say yes to everything. He drank, wincing at his sore throat.
The marks were never visible outside of his clothing. But the ligature around his neck was new and disturbing. No cuts this morning, but a spate of fresh welts had appeared all over him. He didn't remember those either. He had only made love in the dream, not been brutalized.
Luke dressed quickly, made his bed and left, knowing that dwelling on his dreams would only make his day impossible. He had to see Leia. And Han. The two of them together were absolutely right, yet completely unbearable. The Force darkened around him, and he wrenched his thoughts to his X-wing and Artoo.
Some thought it inappropriate that the last Jedi flew a simple fighter, especially one so battered by war. The Republic council offered him ships time and again, all better appointed. He'd refused them all.
Luke swung by the landing platform to check on the little droid. "Are we all fueled, Artoo?" He smiled at the answering whistle. It sounded as if his droid was as impatient as he was. "I'll bet we're leaving soon. Leia wants to see me." A knowing bleep followed him out of the hangar.
After Luke left her office, Leia looked at her lover. He was staring after her brother, unable to clear his mind of the haunted look on Luke’s face, or the bruises he’d barely seen under the edges of Luke’s clothing.
“Han, go with him on this one. Take the Falcon. I’m worried about him.”
You’n me both, sweetheart.”
But the trip, a routine public appearance at a formal signing, was uneventful. Luke had slept well, even dreamlessly, untroubled by the proximity of his desired lover. But Han had walked into the lounge while Luke was exercising with the training remote. Shirtless, the Jedi’s back was a mass of scars, and the fading bruise around his throat frightened Han into silence.
The moment passed as Luke powered down his saber, shut off the remote and put his shirt on. Han could think of no good way to raise the subject, and this cool automaton in place of his friend did not invite questions.
The Jedi persona was one Luke had always assumed on public occasions, at least since Endor, but Han had thought it merely a mask. From some dimly remembered book of his misspent youth he recalled the phrase “When you wear a mask too long, it becomes your face.” He wondered if Luke even knew the difference any more.
They returned to Coruscant in silence.
“Think I’ll just sack out here. Her worship doesn’t much like me coming in after 0030.” Han stretched and started toward his cabin. “You’re welcome to stay here too, Luke. It’s late, and the streets are full of scum.”
“You could stay at my place,” Luke ventured. “My food synth at least puts out more than kaf and fried kippa. The couch makes out into a bed.”
“Got any beer?” Han asked. The trip had been dry, with the Falcon obstinately producing only water and kaf.
Luke smiled, at ease for the first time in ages. “I have a couple bottles.”
“If you can handle me snoring, you got a houseguest.”
They made their way very cautiously to Luke’s apartment. Two armed men were more than any of the street rats wanted to tangle with, and they made it without incident.
Luke’s cooler produced the promised beers, and the food synth cranked out slow-basted dewback ribs with a minimum of fuss. They ate and drank in companionable silence, until the chrono chimed 0100.
Fatigue seemed to blanket Han, and he yawned. Luke went to a wall-cupboard and produced bedding to make up the couch, his own weariness apparent in his slow movements. Had he been bolder, or had Han not been committed to his sister, he’d have offered his own bed. But he tossed the pillow onto the couch without any indication.
“You want a shower?” Luke offered.
“Nah, I’ll catch one in the morning, if that’s ok.”
“Fine. Get some rest.” Luke dimmed the light and went to his fresher for his own shower.
Han listened to the water, and tried not to imagine Luke under the water. He loved Leia, but lately everything seemed to go wrong. He’d lied. Leia didn’t care if he came to her bed at 1800 or 0200, as long as he came to it, something he was doing less and less as their arguments grew more and more frequent. She wanted more from him than he could give to any one person: his love, his commitment, his freedom. Chewie had the first two, but he’d always known that Han required the third, so he’d picked up stakes to roam as a freebooter. Leia would tie him to one place in a way Luke never would. He’d been having thoughts like that a lot lately.
Somehow the thought of Luke, standing under the water, letting it pour over the well-defined chest, wash across the welts he’d seen, appealed. Somewhere along the lines the beautiful smart-mouthed kid had grown up. And where had he gotten those welts? What was he doing that would cause them? Who was giving them to him and why did he want them?
Han Solo was no stranger to the seamier side of sex, having seen almost everything in his years in downport. What did Luke need, and could he supply it without the pain? He jerked his thought convoy off that flight plan.
The water turned off, and he listened to the soft footsteps in the hall and the bedroom. Sharp Corellian ears caught the soft squeaks as Luke climbed into bed.
Leia would be happy to see him tomorrow. They might not fight for two days. That would be a nice change. Thinking of his spitfire princess, he drifted into a light doze.
*Come* the voice whispered. Han’s voice. Did he know how much Luke had wanted him all through the trip? Luke went, the walk through the hall impossibly long in the dreamspace, to where his lover awaited him.
Han jerked awake to the sound of the door opening. A quick glance at the chrono showed it was just after 0200. He reached for his blaster and saw a short figure melt out into the Coruscant night. Hugging the wall, he followed silently.
Down, down and down Luke traveled, Han his shadow. Han snagged a cloak from a street vendor to blend in better. Luke walked with a purpose, and was soon opening the door of a shabby building in the twentieth level. Han caught it before it could swing shut, and slipped in, hiding behind some shelves.
Luke paused and knocked before entering the next room. A glimpse of the interior showed several people in masks, but Luke did not wear one. Han saw a tall man with dark hair bend over and kiss Luke and Luke’s arms went around him willingly.
That last stabbed at Han like very little ever had. For some reason, he’d always expected Luke to be there, alone...waiting for him? The thought came out of nowhere, and seemed to fit.
The shelf held one last mask, and he slipped it on, wincing at the tickle of the feathers that framed the shape of the Sardan flamehawk. As if he belonged, Han opened the door on a scene out of the debauched imagination of a libertine.
Luke stood in the center of the six people, visible Force-waves crackling off of him to wash over them as the taller man kissed and stripped him. He shifted under the man’s hands, all sexual tension and desire. Han joined the circle, feeling the energy penetrate him, arousing and invigorating, and tried to act as if he was one of the group.
When the man ran his hands over Luke’s chest, and pinched his nipples, Luke moaned. Han heard his own name, spoken with desire, before the energy turned harsh in the next moment as the fingers returned to pinch and then clamp. He saw Luke’s eyes were open, but unseeing. The tiny sharp teeth of the clamps drew blood and strengthened the Force flow even more, and around him the revelers were sighing, and gasping. Some had begun touching themselves or other participants.
Silently he tripped his emergency locator beacon and sent a prayer to Luke’s Force and Chewie’s trees that the enforcers would be prompt in finding them. It went unanswered as the leader brought a heavy multi-bladed whip down across Luke’s shoulders. Han restrained himself, knowing he couldn’t shoot all seven of them. Luke didn’t seem to notice the blow, but the Force parasites were starting to climax. Han heard several distinctly feminine yelps.
On the third blow, his hand started for his blaster when he heard the sound of sirens and footsteps. As the enforcers kicked the door in, Han tore the mask from his face, and drew. The blaster was set for stun, and he managed to get three of the partiers, the enforcers taking down the rest.
Luke still stood in the center of the room, naked, unseeing. Han draped the cloak over him and flinched as he gently opened the vicious clamps. He tossed the hateful things away and wrapped Luke in his arms. Luke blinked, slowly, as if waking up.
“Han?” He looked around at the surroundings. “I was dreaming of you. You were making love to me, but not here.” Still disoriented, Luke shook his head.
“Jedi Skywalker, are you injured?” asked the Captain of the Enforcers. Luke shook his head, and raised a hand to pull the cloak closer, seeming to regains his dignity. Until he saw the blood on his hand.
“Han?” He looked at his body under the cloak. “What did you do to me?” he demanded of his friend.
Before Han could answer, the Enforcers were cuffing him, too. “Wait a minute! I was down here to rescue you!”
Luke turned his back and contemplated the blood on his stomach as Han was taken out with the rest of the people.
“Solo. Visitor. Ten minutes.”
Chewbacca ambled into his cell, shaggy head looking dejected. *Little One, you have chosen bad company to be arrested in.*
“Chewie, I didn’t do anything, ‘cept follow him.”
*Their leader, Anteanin D’bre, has implicated you in their rituals. They used Luke as a conduit for the Force. He has been raped, not physically, but spiritually, Little One, and he grieves to his soul to think you were part of it.”
“I wasn’t part of it, Chewie.”
Chewbacca sniffed hard. *I believe you, but they do not. The Princess, Luke, the high ones with their courts. You are in great jeopardy right now. There is no bail set.*
“I tripped the flamin’ alarm and summoned the Enforcers! Why would I do that if I was part of it?”
*D’bre says you wanted Luke for yourself. And you do, Princess or no.*
“Damn!” Han sat down hard. “Yes. I want him. Took me long enough to figure it out, and now, I’ve lost him in the process of saving him.”
Chewbacca had no words to comfort his friend, but swept him into a furry hug that lasted until the guard returned for him.
The trial was a nightmarish haze of accusations, and lies from the others he had been taken into custody with. Every night Luke could recall an attack coincided with a night Han had not spent with Leia. He could see her suspicions, already fueled by his many absences harden into concrete guilt, making him wish he’d just gone ahead and broken it off when the fights started getting intolerable.
The verdict of “guilty” and the sentence to twenty years on the Rinac Rehabilitative Center brought no emotional response from Luke or Leia. They turned away, leaving together. The guards led Han back to a waiting cell for transport.
Any suggestions to keep this from turning into Black Fire would be appreciated.
Warning: Luke-abuse, unfinished, probably R rated.
Come the voice whispered through his dreams.
Luke went, sliding further down the chasm of dark pulsating redness to where his lover awaited him. In the waking world, Han belonged to Leia, a claim Luke would never intrude upon, but here, in this dreamspace, he was all Luke’s. The soft lips that kissed him, the broad hands that caressed him, the lightly haired body that surrendered to his kisses and caresses. As they made love, in yet another inventive style, Luke shouted his passion, demanding pleasure from his lover, and receiving it beyond his dearest imagining.
He woke, as he always did these days, exhausted, his clothing in tatters, dirty, with blood drying from the wounds on him. His sheets and belly were sticky with drying semen. He staggered to the fresher to check the night's damage.
Almost nothing on his face or hands, aside from a crack in his dry lips. He remembered that one: the kiss, so very long and hard, making him dizzy, making him need, making him say yes to everything. He drank, wincing at his sore throat.
The marks were never visible outside of his clothing. But the ligature around his neck was new and disturbing. No cuts this morning, but a spate of fresh welts had appeared all over him. He didn't remember those either. He had only made love in the dream, not been brutalized.
Luke dressed quickly, made his bed and left, knowing that dwelling on his dreams would only make his day impossible. He had to see Leia. And Han. The two of them together were absolutely right, yet completely unbearable. The Force darkened around him, and he wrenched his thoughts to his X-wing and Artoo.
Some thought it inappropriate that the last Jedi flew a simple fighter, especially one so battered by war. The Republic council offered him ships time and again, all better appointed. He'd refused them all.
Luke swung by the landing platform to check on the little droid. "Are we all fueled, Artoo?" He smiled at the answering whistle. It sounded as if his droid was as impatient as he was. "I'll bet we're leaving soon. Leia wants to see me." A knowing bleep followed him out of the hangar.
After Luke left her office, Leia looked at her lover. He was staring after her brother, unable to clear his mind of the haunted look on Luke’s face, or the bruises he’d barely seen under the edges of Luke’s clothing.
“Han, go with him on this one. Take the Falcon. I’m worried about him.”
You’n me both, sweetheart.”
But the trip, a routine public appearance at a formal signing, was uneventful. Luke had slept well, even dreamlessly, untroubled by the proximity of his desired lover. But Han had walked into the lounge while Luke was exercising with the training remote. Shirtless, the Jedi’s back was a mass of scars, and the fading bruise around his throat frightened Han into silence.
The moment passed as Luke powered down his saber, shut off the remote and put his shirt on. Han could think of no good way to raise the subject, and this cool automaton in place of his friend did not invite questions.
The Jedi persona was one Luke had always assumed on public occasions, at least since Endor, but Han had thought it merely a mask. From some dimly remembered book of his misspent youth he recalled the phrase “When you wear a mask too long, it becomes your face.” He wondered if Luke even knew the difference any more.
They returned to Coruscant in silence.
“Think I’ll just sack out here. Her worship doesn’t much like me coming in after 0030.” Han stretched and started toward his cabin. “You’re welcome to stay here too, Luke. It’s late, and the streets are full of scum.”
“You could stay at my place,” Luke ventured. “My food synth at least puts out more than kaf and fried kippa. The couch makes out into a bed.”
“Got any beer?” Han asked. The trip had been dry, with the Falcon obstinately producing only water and kaf.
Luke smiled, at ease for the first time in ages. “I have a couple bottles.”
“If you can handle me snoring, you got a houseguest.”
They made their way very cautiously to Luke’s apartment. Two armed men were more than any of the street rats wanted to tangle with, and they made it without incident.
Luke’s cooler produced the promised beers, and the food synth cranked out slow-basted dewback ribs with a minimum of fuss. They ate and drank in companionable silence, until the chrono chimed 0100.
Fatigue seemed to blanket Han, and he yawned. Luke went to a wall-cupboard and produced bedding to make up the couch, his own weariness apparent in his slow movements. Had he been bolder, or had Han not been committed to his sister, he’d have offered his own bed. But he tossed the pillow onto the couch without any indication.
“You want a shower?” Luke offered.
“Nah, I’ll catch one in the morning, if that’s ok.”
“Fine. Get some rest.” Luke dimmed the light and went to his fresher for his own shower.
Han listened to the water, and tried not to imagine Luke under the water. He loved Leia, but lately everything seemed to go wrong. He’d lied. Leia didn’t care if he came to her bed at 1800 or 0200, as long as he came to it, something he was doing less and less as their arguments grew more and more frequent. She wanted more from him than he could give to any one person: his love, his commitment, his freedom. Chewie had the first two, but he’d always known that Han required the third, so he’d picked up stakes to roam as a freebooter. Leia would tie him to one place in a way Luke never would. He’d been having thoughts like that a lot lately.
Somehow the thought of Luke, standing under the water, letting it pour over the well-defined chest, wash across the welts he’d seen, appealed. Somewhere along the lines the beautiful smart-mouthed kid had grown up. And where had he gotten those welts? What was he doing that would cause them? Who was giving them to him and why did he want them?
Han Solo was no stranger to the seamier side of sex, having seen almost everything in his years in downport. What did Luke need, and could he supply it without the pain? He jerked his thought convoy off that flight plan.
The water turned off, and he listened to the soft footsteps in the hall and the bedroom. Sharp Corellian ears caught the soft squeaks as Luke climbed into bed.
Leia would be happy to see him tomorrow. They might not fight for two days. That would be a nice change. Thinking of his spitfire princess, he drifted into a light doze.
*Come* the voice whispered. Han’s voice. Did he know how much Luke had wanted him all through the trip? Luke went, the walk through the hall impossibly long in the dreamspace, to where his lover awaited him.
Han jerked awake to the sound of the door opening. A quick glance at the chrono showed it was just after 0200. He reached for his blaster and saw a short figure melt out into the Coruscant night. Hugging the wall, he followed silently.
Down, down and down Luke traveled, Han his shadow. Han snagged a cloak from a street vendor to blend in better. Luke walked with a purpose, and was soon opening the door of a shabby building in the twentieth level. Han caught it before it could swing shut, and slipped in, hiding behind some shelves.
Luke paused and knocked before entering the next room. A glimpse of the interior showed several people in masks, but Luke did not wear one. Han saw a tall man with dark hair bend over and kiss Luke and Luke’s arms went around him willingly.
That last stabbed at Han like very little ever had. For some reason, he’d always expected Luke to be there, alone...waiting for him? The thought came out of nowhere, and seemed to fit.
The shelf held one last mask, and he slipped it on, wincing at the tickle of the feathers that framed the shape of the Sardan flamehawk. As if he belonged, Han opened the door on a scene out of the debauched imagination of a libertine.
Luke stood in the center of the six people, visible Force-waves crackling off of him to wash over them as the taller man kissed and stripped him. He shifted under the man’s hands, all sexual tension and desire. Han joined the circle, feeling the energy penetrate him, arousing and invigorating, and tried to act as if he was one of the group.
When the man ran his hands over Luke’s chest, and pinched his nipples, Luke moaned. Han heard his own name, spoken with desire, before the energy turned harsh in the next moment as the fingers returned to pinch and then clamp. He saw Luke’s eyes were open, but unseeing. The tiny sharp teeth of the clamps drew blood and strengthened the Force flow even more, and around him the revelers were sighing, and gasping. Some had begun touching themselves or other participants.
Silently he tripped his emergency locator beacon and sent a prayer to Luke’s Force and Chewie’s trees that the enforcers would be prompt in finding them. It went unanswered as the leader brought a heavy multi-bladed whip down across Luke’s shoulders. Han restrained himself, knowing he couldn’t shoot all seven of them. Luke didn’t seem to notice the blow, but the Force parasites were starting to climax. Han heard several distinctly feminine yelps.
On the third blow, his hand started for his blaster when he heard the sound of sirens and footsteps. As the enforcers kicked the door in, Han tore the mask from his face, and drew. The blaster was set for stun, and he managed to get three of the partiers, the enforcers taking down the rest.
Luke still stood in the center of the room, naked, unseeing. Han draped the cloak over him and flinched as he gently opened the vicious clamps. He tossed the hateful things away and wrapped Luke in his arms. Luke blinked, slowly, as if waking up.
“Han?” He looked around at the surroundings. “I was dreaming of you. You were making love to me, but not here.” Still disoriented, Luke shook his head.
“Jedi Skywalker, are you injured?” asked the Captain of the Enforcers. Luke shook his head, and raised a hand to pull the cloak closer, seeming to regains his dignity. Until he saw the blood on his hand.
“Han?” He looked at his body under the cloak. “What did you do to me?” he demanded of his friend.
Before Han could answer, the Enforcers were cuffing him, too. “Wait a minute! I was down here to rescue you!”
Luke turned his back and contemplated the blood on his stomach as Han was taken out with the rest of the people.
“Solo. Visitor. Ten minutes.”
Chewbacca ambled into his cell, shaggy head looking dejected. *Little One, you have chosen bad company to be arrested in.*
“Chewie, I didn’t do anything, ‘cept follow him.”
*Their leader, Anteanin D’bre, has implicated you in their rituals. They used Luke as a conduit for the Force. He has been raped, not physically, but spiritually, Little One, and he grieves to his soul to think you were part of it.”
“I wasn’t part of it, Chewie.”
Chewbacca sniffed hard. *I believe you, but they do not. The Princess, Luke, the high ones with their courts. You are in great jeopardy right now. There is no bail set.*
“I tripped the flamin’ alarm and summoned the Enforcers! Why would I do that if I was part of it?”
*D’bre says you wanted Luke for yourself. And you do, Princess or no.*
“Damn!” Han sat down hard. “Yes. I want him. Took me long enough to figure it out, and now, I’ve lost him in the process of saving him.”
Chewbacca had no words to comfort his friend, but swept him into a furry hug that lasted until the guard returned for him.
The trial was a nightmarish haze of accusations, and lies from the others he had been taken into custody with. Every night Luke could recall an attack coincided with a night Han had not spent with Leia. He could see her suspicions, already fueled by his many absences harden into concrete guilt, making him wish he’d just gone ahead and broken it off when the fights started getting intolerable.
The verdict of “guilty” and the sentence to twenty years on the Rinac Rehabilitative Center brought no emotional response from Luke or Leia. They turned away, leaving together. The guards led Han back to a waiting cell for transport.
