" Come, Pretty."

You think it would be a compliment. Right. Inferior. Dirty. Powerless. I have a whole list of ways that word makes me feel. What else am I supposed to think about while I follow my "master" around the space station? How my life had fallen apart at Yavin, how some brilliant young TIE pilot had caused the whole debacle at the Death Star, how that brilliant young pilot turned out to be more than a pilot, a Sith Lord in training, and the son of Darth Vader himself? How I was lucky enough to survive Yavin, only to become this darthling's toy?

Yeah. Really pretty, Wedge. You're really a killer boy, drenched in cologne and cosmetics, ponced up like some Corellian whore, cheaper than the discount aisle at the Mos Eisley Wal-Mart. Fuck, yeah, the Darthling must be blind to call me pretty.

He should be the pretty one. Delicate, slender, with pale, unmarked skin and fine, gold hair. Even his eyes are light - blue, with flecks of green near the pupil. You think he'd have a soul of fine-spun light, ephemeral, especially if you can see him smile without reserve. His father calls him Luke. Someone named him after the light, Luke, light-boy, son of the light. I'm sure it wasn't Vader.

The rest of the men call him Darth Asper.

And I call him Master.

When I'm allowed to talk, that is. He's dragging me to the bridge again, so I can watch him and his father destroy yet another world. Or Rebellion fleet. Who knows what entertainment awaits us today? He likes to watch, see the flare of death out of the viewport as a myriad of light particles dissolves into space, taking with it the lives and hopes of thousands of beings. It's almost as if he absorbs the life that he and Vader destroy. He looks at me when it's all finished, eyes dark with lust. And Darth Asper, evil Lord of the Sith, drags his Corellian whore back to his rooms for a hard fuck.

You think vaping TIE pilots is hard? Try letting one fuck you fast, ramming his cock up your ass as soon as your pants are down, your hands scrabbling against the wall he holds you up against. His teeth sinking into your shoulder, his sweat-slicked chest pressed to your back, and that cock, that hard, hungry cock sinking inside you, pounding you until you're raw inside and out. You'll wish the pain lancing through your body and the pricks of red and yellow light behind your eyelids were the result of a torp hitting your X-Wing.

I know I do.

He isn't always that bad. Some nights he just lies on the bed, naked and clean, the smell of soap and wine clinging to the air as he drinks away the darkness in his eyes. He's so fucking young, younger than I am; I wonder if anyone's ever even touched him the way he makes me. He likes being touched, likes the feel of fingertips over his chest and stomach, my tongue running over his nipples and down the center of his torso, likes how I take him into my mouth, his cock bumping the back of my throat. And it makes me angry, not just because I'm this Sith boy's fuck toy.

But because his taste is so sweet on my tongue. Like the Telosian chocolate liqueur he dumped all over the two of us one night. Laughing giddily, he licked his tongue all over my face, wet and warm and reeking of that expensive alcohol. He squirmed beneath me, rivulets of golden liquid snaking over the smooth, white skin of his chest. I followed every one of those sweet rivers, chocolate and sweat and him in my mouth.

He had me fuck him that night. When he came, I swear I got a glimpse of why somebody named him light-boy. And it made me so mad, seething mad, that it couldn't be different. That I couldn't call him Luke and he wouldn't call me Wedge.

Fuck. I hate him.

He's tapping on the holo-map's control panel now, bringing up a display of the system Vader wants to get rid of today. A small planet, a few small moons. Who's going to miss them anyway, right? He turns to me, motions me to come closer.

" Come, now. Pretty, what do we blow up first?"

I've never felt so ugly in my life.

Finis

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