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nanceficsMy sophomore effort at "Star Wars" parody fic, of the what-might-happen-if-George-Lucas-and-Candace-Bushnell-had-a-hot-yet-tragic-flannel-and-Manolo-filled-one-night-stand variety. Apparently, watching HBO reruns and partaking of the monkey crack leads to scary things. *G* Cross-posted to that wacky little crackhouse known as ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
unlimitedepower.
Sex and the Sithy, chapter 1: Scenes from the Café Galacticka
Author: Robin Nance
Story Type: Parody, Anakin/Padme, implied Anakin/Palpatine
Rating: PG-13ish
Summary: In which the Jedi does the Chancellor, the Chancellor does the Jedi, some back-story gets fleshed out, and everyone has these kick-ass shoes....
*****
Ah, Coruscant – if you ain’t here, you’re no freakin’ place.
At least that’s what the Board of Tourism would have you believe, and even though some marketing type must’ve been in a pretty pissy mood the day he coined that cheerful little slogan, it’s basically true. If there’s any planet that separates the men from the boys and the movers from the shakers, this is it. And if Coruscant is the crown of the galaxy, Galactic City is the biggest, sleekest, hippest, most happening jewel in that crown. There’s nothing about our capital city that isn’t out-and-out magical, from its senatorial processes right down to its shoe sales, and believe me, those are two things I know well. Even its nicknames reflect its social, cultural and political importance: The Metropolis. The Epicenter. The Soul of the Galaxy. The Big Blood-Ruby. A Steaming Pit of Back-Stabbing Bantha-Fuckers.
…Okay, so technically that last one was coined by the former Chancellor of the Republic when Security was escorting him out of his office, thanks to his being stupid enough to get caught up in the arbitrary scandal du jour. But hey, it always gives my boss a giggle, and that usually adds up to a good day for me.
Incidentally, my name is Sly Moore. I happen to have my own pet name for Galactic City, and that name is “home.” Oh, once upon a time, I was one of those typical wide-eyed younglings who dreamed of leaving her backwards Ghost Nebula crap-pile of a birth planet for bigger and better things. Fortunately and less typically, I had the right skills, I met the right people, and pretty soon it was good-bye Umbaran crap-pile, hello Office of the Honorable Senator from Naboo. Enter one arbitrary scandal du jour, exit one disgruntled former Chancellor, and now I’m personal aide to His Excellency the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic – score one for the little bald girl in the grey dress. If you think I miss good old Umbara, you really haven’t been paying attention.
Nowadays I’d describe myself as your typical Galactic City career girl – which is another way of saying that I’m a single professional female adrift in a world of men who’re unavailable, unattainable, uninterested in women, or just plain uninteresting, with very little room in between all those “un’s” to find a happy medium. The one consolation? I’m most definitely not alone in this search for happiness and the company of intelligent male life-forms in my little corner of the universe. Don’t believe me, just ask my friends.
And speaking of those friends, this is exactly where you’ll find us on any given afternoon, recuperating from a long day of politics-as-usual as we enjoy a little sun, a little female bonding, and the occasional Coruscanti Cosmopolitan or three at the Café Galactika. Hey, we may come from different worlds, and I mean that literally, but we girls have to stick together. And don’t be fooled by the laughter and the pink drinks on the table – if you happened to tally up the accumulated political clout and connections that our little group enjoys both in front of the podium and behind the scenes, I bet you’d be pretty impressed.
“Sly, you are such an instigator! I can’t believe you talked me into buying these shoes – I told you they make my ankles look fat!”
…or maybe you’d just be wondering why the current Senator from Naboo has her robes hiked up over her knees and her feet on the table. Because I’m pretty sure everyone else in the Café is wondering exactly that right now.
“Padme, sweetie, your ankles look fine – as do your knees, as does everything else further on up there that I really don’t want to see, okay?”
“Sorry, sorry, it’s this pregnancy, oh god, I just knew this would happen. I’m puffing up like a bloated nerf carcass and pretty soon everyone will know and I still have no idea what we’re going to do or if Ani is even happy about this whole thing and I don’t think I can survive all these months without alcohol in my damned Cosmopolitan oh shit! …So you really don’t think my ankles look fat?”
Padme Amidala is known for three things in this part of town: one, she holds the distinction of being the youngest person ever elected Queen of Naboo; two, she’s one of the most respected and admired members of the current Senate despite her youth; and three, she can project more weepy angst in a single breath than anyone else I know. The angst factor has risen a hundred-fold since she found out that she and her husband are expecting in a few months, probably because “expecting” may very well turn out to be shorthand for “expecting to find herself out of a job and her husband bounced out of the Jedi Knights due to that pesky no-marriage clause he ignored.”
He’s ignored a few more clauses than that, but you didn’t hear it from me – at least not in present company.
“Listen to Sly, honey, your ankles are fine. Your relationship isn’t, but what the hell’s surprising about that? He’s a bastard. All men are bastards. Selfish self-involved sex-obsessed bastards.”
If you look through that haze of cigarette smoke and bitterness you’ll catch a glimpse of the senior member of our little trio, Mon Mothma. I suppose you could say she has it all – style, glamour, a commanding role on the most important Senate sub-committees, and a “secret” Senator boyfriend with a not-so-secret wife. Talk about a progressionist – she probably should’ve quit while she was ahead.
“Mon, don’t say that! I love Anakin and he loves me. We’re just going through a rough patch, that’s all – as long as we’re together I just know we’ll survive everything that comes our way.”
“…because it’s a many-splendored thing and love conquers friggin’ all, blah, blah, blah. I can’t believe you’re still regurgitating that pabulum. I was your mentor in the Senate since you were practically a toddler, honey, the least you could do is learn something realistic from my shitty relationships. Or better yet learn from Sly and substitute footwear for a sex life.”
“Hey, I have a sex life! My footwear life just happens to be more active and satisfying at the moment, that’s all.”
“But Mon, that’s what marriage is all about, isn’t it? It’s about loving the person so much that you’re willing to sacrifice everything for him, and trying your best to comfort him when he’s upset that the Jedi Council doesn’t appreciate him, and understanding when he has to spend all those long nights at the Chancellor’s apartments guarding his bedroom – Sly, did you just choke?”
“…erm, yeah, just swallowed my drink a little too fast. But Mon has a point, Padme – Anakin doesn’t seem particularly interested in how all these changes are going to affect you.”
“Oh no, he cares, really he does – he’s just stressed right now because he’s torn between being my husband and being the Chosen One. It’s nerve-racking having to keep up proper public appearances.”
Over time and many a Cosmopolitan, I’ve discovered that there are three simple yet powerful little words that will make Senator Mothma’s head explode faster than a padawan virgin over a four-credit hooker, and Padme had just uttered them: “proper public appearances.”
“Oh, give me a friggin’ break about the ‘appearances’ thing, Padme – maybe he can’t fall all over you in front of the holo-cams, but if he really loved you like he says he does he wouldn’t hide behind Obi-Wan Kenobi and pretend you don’t even exist when you’re at the same fundraiser event, would he? He wouldn’t be too gutless to even make eye contact if you happened to be walking into the same room at the same time. He wouldn’t sit in his pod with his hands folded primly and a stick up his Alderaani ass while you were getting your head handed to you by the Military Acquisitions Sub-Committee, especially after all the promises he made while he was putting his stick up your ass in the pantry off the Senate cafeteria fifteen minutes earlier, would he?”
"..."
"..."
“…Mon, we’re not really talking about Anakin and me anymore, are we?”
“Okay, first off, ew, I’m never eating in that cafeteria again, and second, we’ve all figured out that Bail Organa’s a bastard, Mon, so why are you still seeing him? It’s not like he’s going to leave his wife, and even if he did I’m not sure why you’d want to keep him.”
“Oh come on, Sly, what’s the alternative? We all know how horrible the dating scene is for women like us. Once you’re perceived as powerful or influential the men either run away terrified or they turn into sycophantic little suck-ups to curry your favor. Bail’s not much of a boyfriend, but he’s no suck-up and he’s good in the sack, so why should I dump him when there’s no replacement on the horizon? At least I can look forward to something a little more orgasmic than buying the perfect pair of black boots – even if all I’ve been getting lately is an after-hours quickie in the Senate gym.”
“Dammit, Mon, stop having sex in my workplace, I use those facilities! And for the record for both of you, I do have a sex life…occasionally. Not at the moment. But I have one. And I’m appalled at how little you two have learned from hanging out with me – nothing is more orgasmic than buying the perfect pair of black boots.”
I love the girls, really I do, but we’re on amazingly different wavelengths at times, and I’m not just talking about the ultraviolet-spectrum thing. Sure, sex is great, and I won’t deny that I’ve had my share of quality time with the occasional lobbyist with the tight rack, or the Corellian hottie who owns the hip nightclub on the ground floor of 500 Republica…or a very drunk, never-to-be-repeated mistake involving a certain buff tattooed Sith Lord and two six-packs of Iridonian frat-house ale (and did I mention that was a mistake?). But confusing a galactic booty call with love everlasting is akin to suicide, if you ask me. Give me a hot pair of footwear over some schmoopy male any day – the shoes don’t wear out and need a nap ten minutes after you put them on, they’re still there in the morning when you wake up, and hey, if you get tired of them – look, here comes another shoe sale!
…But just try to impress those facts on my buddies, who, despite their less than stellar choices in the romance department, would very much like to see me all coupled up and riding in the first-class section of the co-dependency shuttle right beside them. Misery loves company, I guess.
“So c’mon, Sly, isn’t there anyone out there you’d want to call a potential Mr. Forever Love? There’s nothing as wonderful as having an adoring husband waiting at home for you. Even if he isn’t really home all that much and he has to sneak over from the Jedi Temple.”
“We’re really starting to worry about you, honey – if you keep spending all your time in the Chancellor’s office people are going to assume you’re banging the boss.”
“Um, you two are aware that I work for the Chancellor, right? He kind of expects me to actually spend time in his office. Although, once again for the record, I am not banging him.”
“Oh, I’m sure Mon was just kidding, Sly. Honestly, I can’t really picture Palpatine having sex with anyone, can you? He just seems kind of above it all – like the Republic is his first love and anything else would just be a distraction.”
“Padme, is the pregnancy frying your brain? Of course Palpatine has sex – he’s a man, ergo he’s a selfish sex-obsessed bastard like the rest of them. C’mon, Sly, you’re there every day, surely you’ve heard the rumors – everyone’s talking about how different he’s acting lately. He’s in a perpetual good mood, he’s even better-dressed than usual – it’s like he doesn’t give a damn that he was recently kidnapped or that he’s in any kind of danger. He’s showing all the signs of a guy who’s getting some regular action – no doubt from some nubile young thing with a perfect body, because that’s what all men want instead of a mature successful woman, the bastards….”
“Mon, you’re such a cynic! I still don’t believe it. Besides, he and Anakin are extremely close and Ani’s never mentioned any women hanging around the office, besides you of course, Sly. I don’t think he’d want to get involved with someone while his life is in danger, anyway. Why, just recently Ani spent a week at Palpatine’s Naboo beach house as his unofficial bodyguard and he told me they were the only two people in the whole complex. He called it the most vigorous undercover work he’d ever done – Sly, if you keep choking on your drink like that the bartender is going to cut you off.”
“Erm…oh, look at the time, I forgot all about my afternoon meeting with Mas Amedda, so back to the office I go. Hang in there, girls – I’ll meet you at the Galacticka Mall tomorrow, OK? Big sale at Jimmy Naboo so I hope your feet are ready for stiletto thongs!”
Oh, by the way, that would be another name for Coruscant-- "the place where my boss and my best friend are banging the same Jedi and I have to keep everyone's stories straight so I don't open my big mouth and say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person." Bet you prefer the bantha-fuckers nickname now, don't you? I admit there are days when it all gets crazy and complicated enough to make me actually fantasize about leaving it all behind and running away to a quiet little home in the country -- preferably another country on another planet at the ass-end of the galaxy. If I thought I could ever find Manolos and a decent pedicure in a place like that I might even go through with it.
Speaking of footwear – and you may have noticed I always do – I’m getting the distinct feeling that the next addition to my closet may be a pair of tap shoes. Because lately all I seem to be doing is dancing around this pissy little thing known as the truth, and a girl’s got to accessorize properly, right?
Oy, Palpatine doesn't pay me enough for this crap.
*****
unlimitedepower.Sex and the Sithy, chapter 1: Scenes from the Café Galacticka
Author: Robin Nance
Story Type: Parody, Anakin/Padme, implied Anakin/Palpatine
Rating: PG-13ish
Summary: In which the Jedi does the Chancellor, the Chancellor does the Jedi, some back-story gets fleshed out, and everyone has these kick-ass shoes....
*****
Ah, Coruscant – if you ain’t here, you’re no freakin’ place.
At least that’s what the Board of Tourism would have you believe, and even though some marketing type must’ve been in a pretty pissy mood the day he coined that cheerful little slogan, it’s basically true. If there’s any planet that separates the men from the boys and the movers from the shakers, this is it. And if Coruscant is the crown of the galaxy, Galactic City is the biggest, sleekest, hippest, most happening jewel in that crown. There’s nothing about our capital city that isn’t out-and-out magical, from its senatorial processes right down to its shoe sales, and believe me, those are two things I know well. Even its nicknames reflect its social, cultural and political importance: The Metropolis. The Epicenter. The Soul of the Galaxy. The Big Blood-Ruby. A Steaming Pit of Back-Stabbing Bantha-Fuckers.
…Okay, so technically that last one was coined by the former Chancellor of the Republic when Security was escorting him out of his office, thanks to his being stupid enough to get caught up in the arbitrary scandal du jour. But hey, it always gives my boss a giggle, and that usually adds up to a good day for me.
Incidentally, my name is Sly Moore. I happen to have my own pet name for Galactic City, and that name is “home.” Oh, once upon a time, I was one of those typical wide-eyed younglings who dreamed of leaving her backwards Ghost Nebula crap-pile of a birth planet for bigger and better things. Fortunately and less typically, I had the right skills, I met the right people, and pretty soon it was good-bye Umbaran crap-pile, hello Office of the Honorable Senator from Naboo. Enter one arbitrary scandal du jour, exit one disgruntled former Chancellor, and now I’m personal aide to His Excellency the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic – score one for the little bald girl in the grey dress. If you think I miss good old Umbara, you really haven’t been paying attention.
Nowadays I’d describe myself as your typical Galactic City career girl – which is another way of saying that I’m a single professional female adrift in a world of men who’re unavailable, unattainable, uninterested in women, or just plain uninteresting, with very little room in between all those “un’s” to find a happy medium. The one consolation? I’m most definitely not alone in this search for happiness and the company of intelligent male life-forms in my little corner of the universe. Don’t believe me, just ask my friends.
And speaking of those friends, this is exactly where you’ll find us on any given afternoon, recuperating from a long day of politics-as-usual as we enjoy a little sun, a little female bonding, and the occasional Coruscanti Cosmopolitan or three at the Café Galactika. Hey, we may come from different worlds, and I mean that literally, but we girls have to stick together. And don’t be fooled by the laughter and the pink drinks on the table – if you happened to tally up the accumulated political clout and connections that our little group enjoys both in front of the podium and behind the scenes, I bet you’d be pretty impressed.
“Sly, you are such an instigator! I can’t believe you talked me into buying these shoes – I told you they make my ankles look fat!”
…or maybe you’d just be wondering why the current Senator from Naboo has her robes hiked up over her knees and her feet on the table. Because I’m pretty sure everyone else in the Café is wondering exactly that right now.
“Padme, sweetie, your ankles look fine – as do your knees, as does everything else further on up there that I really don’t want to see, okay?”
“Sorry, sorry, it’s this pregnancy, oh god, I just knew this would happen. I’m puffing up like a bloated nerf carcass and pretty soon everyone will know and I still have no idea what we’re going to do or if Ani is even happy about this whole thing and I don’t think I can survive all these months without alcohol in my damned Cosmopolitan oh shit! …So you really don’t think my ankles look fat?”
Padme Amidala is known for three things in this part of town: one, she holds the distinction of being the youngest person ever elected Queen of Naboo; two, she’s one of the most respected and admired members of the current Senate despite her youth; and three, she can project more weepy angst in a single breath than anyone else I know. The angst factor has risen a hundred-fold since she found out that she and her husband are expecting in a few months, probably because “expecting” may very well turn out to be shorthand for “expecting to find herself out of a job and her husband bounced out of the Jedi Knights due to that pesky no-marriage clause he ignored.”
He’s ignored a few more clauses than that, but you didn’t hear it from me – at least not in present company.
“Listen to Sly, honey, your ankles are fine. Your relationship isn’t, but what the hell’s surprising about that? He’s a bastard. All men are bastards. Selfish self-involved sex-obsessed bastards.”
If you look through that haze of cigarette smoke and bitterness you’ll catch a glimpse of the senior member of our little trio, Mon Mothma. I suppose you could say she has it all – style, glamour, a commanding role on the most important Senate sub-committees, and a “secret” Senator boyfriend with a not-so-secret wife. Talk about a progressionist – she probably should’ve quit while she was ahead.
“Mon, don’t say that! I love Anakin and he loves me. We’re just going through a rough patch, that’s all – as long as we’re together I just know we’ll survive everything that comes our way.”
“…because it’s a many-splendored thing and love conquers friggin’ all, blah, blah, blah. I can’t believe you’re still regurgitating that pabulum. I was your mentor in the Senate since you were practically a toddler, honey, the least you could do is learn something realistic from my shitty relationships. Or better yet learn from Sly and substitute footwear for a sex life.”
“Hey, I have a sex life! My footwear life just happens to be more active and satisfying at the moment, that’s all.”
“But Mon, that’s what marriage is all about, isn’t it? It’s about loving the person so much that you’re willing to sacrifice everything for him, and trying your best to comfort him when he’s upset that the Jedi Council doesn’t appreciate him, and understanding when he has to spend all those long nights at the Chancellor’s apartments guarding his bedroom – Sly, did you just choke?”
“…erm, yeah, just swallowed my drink a little too fast. But Mon has a point, Padme – Anakin doesn’t seem particularly interested in how all these changes are going to affect you.”
“Oh no, he cares, really he does – he’s just stressed right now because he’s torn between being my husband and being the Chosen One. It’s nerve-racking having to keep up proper public appearances.”
Over time and many a Cosmopolitan, I’ve discovered that there are three simple yet powerful little words that will make Senator Mothma’s head explode faster than a padawan virgin over a four-credit hooker, and Padme had just uttered them: “proper public appearances.”
“Oh, give me a friggin’ break about the ‘appearances’ thing, Padme – maybe he can’t fall all over you in front of the holo-cams, but if he really loved you like he says he does he wouldn’t hide behind Obi-Wan Kenobi and pretend you don’t even exist when you’re at the same fundraiser event, would he? He wouldn’t be too gutless to even make eye contact if you happened to be walking into the same room at the same time. He wouldn’t sit in his pod with his hands folded primly and a stick up his Alderaani ass while you were getting your head handed to you by the Military Acquisitions Sub-Committee, especially after all the promises he made while he was putting his stick up your ass in the pantry off the Senate cafeteria fifteen minutes earlier, would he?”
"..."
"..."
“…Mon, we’re not really talking about Anakin and me anymore, are we?”
“Okay, first off, ew, I’m never eating in that cafeteria again, and second, we’ve all figured out that Bail Organa’s a bastard, Mon, so why are you still seeing him? It’s not like he’s going to leave his wife, and even if he did I’m not sure why you’d want to keep him.”
“Oh come on, Sly, what’s the alternative? We all know how horrible the dating scene is for women like us. Once you’re perceived as powerful or influential the men either run away terrified or they turn into sycophantic little suck-ups to curry your favor. Bail’s not much of a boyfriend, but he’s no suck-up and he’s good in the sack, so why should I dump him when there’s no replacement on the horizon? At least I can look forward to something a little more orgasmic than buying the perfect pair of black boots – even if all I’ve been getting lately is an after-hours quickie in the Senate gym.”
“Dammit, Mon, stop having sex in my workplace, I use those facilities! And for the record for both of you, I do have a sex life…occasionally. Not at the moment. But I have one. And I’m appalled at how little you two have learned from hanging out with me – nothing is more orgasmic than buying the perfect pair of black boots.”
I love the girls, really I do, but we’re on amazingly different wavelengths at times, and I’m not just talking about the ultraviolet-spectrum thing. Sure, sex is great, and I won’t deny that I’ve had my share of quality time with the occasional lobbyist with the tight rack, or the Corellian hottie who owns the hip nightclub on the ground floor of 500 Republica…or a very drunk, never-to-be-repeated mistake involving a certain buff tattooed Sith Lord and two six-packs of Iridonian frat-house ale (and did I mention that was a mistake?). But confusing a galactic booty call with love everlasting is akin to suicide, if you ask me. Give me a hot pair of footwear over some schmoopy male any day – the shoes don’t wear out and need a nap ten minutes after you put them on, they’re still there in the morning when you wake up, and hey, if you get tired of them – look, here comes another shoe sale!
…But just try to impress those facts on my buddies, who, despite their less than stellar choices in the romance department, would very much like to see me all coupled up and riding in the first-class section of the co-dependency shuttle right beside them. Misery loves company, I guess.
“So c’mon, Sly, isn’t there anyone out there you’d want to call a potential Mr. Forever Love? There’s nothing as wonderful as having an adoring husband waiting at home for you. Even if he isn’t really home all that much and he has to sneak over from the Jedi Temple.”
“We’re really starting to worry about you, honey – if you keep spending all your time in the Chancellor’s office people are going to assume you’re banging the boss.”
“Um, you two are aware that I work for the Chancellor, right? He kind of expects me to actually spend time in his office. Although, once again for the record, I am not banging him.”
“Oh, I’m sure Mon was just kidding, Sly. Honestly, I can’t really picture Palpatine having sex with anyone, can you? He just seems kind of above it all – like the Republic is his first love and anything else would just be a distraction.”
“Padme, is the pregnancy frying your brain? Of course Palpatine has sex – he’s a man, ergo he’s a selfish sex-obsessed bastard like the rest of them. C’mon, Sly, you’re there every day, surely you’ve heard the rumors – everyone’s talking about how different he’s acting lately. He’s in a perpetual good mood, he’s even better-dressed than usual – it’s like he doesn’t give a damn that he was recently kidnapped or that he’s in any kind of danger. He’s showing all the signs of a guy who’s getting some regular action – no doubt from some nubile young thing with a perfect body, because that’s what all men want instead of a mature successful woman, the bastards….”
“Mon, you’re such a cynic! I still don’t believe it. Besides, he and Anakin are extremely close and Ani’s never mentioned any women hanging around the office, besides you of course, Sly. I don’t think he’d want to get involved with someone while his life is in danger, anyway. Why, just recently Ani spent a week at Palpatine’s Naboo beach house as his unofficial bodyguard and he told me they were the only two people in the whole complex. He called it the most vigorous undercover work he’d ever done – Sly, if you keep choking on your drink like that the bartender is going to cut you off.”
“Erm…oh, look at the time, I forgot all about my afternoon meeting with Mas Amedda, so back to the office I go. Hang in there, girls – I’ll meet you at the Galacticka Mall tomorrow, OK? Big sale at Jimmy Naboo so I hope your feet are ready for stiletto thongs!”
Oh, by the way, that would be another name for Coruscant-- "the place where my boss and my best friend are banging the same Jedi and I have to keep everyone's stories straight so I don't open my big mouth and say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person." Bet you prefer the bantha-fuckers nickname now, don't you? I admit there are days when it all gets crazy and complicated enough to make me actually fantasize about leaving it all behind and running away to a quiet little home in the country -- preferably another country on another planet at the ass-end of the galaxy. If I thought I could ever find Manolos and a decent pedicure in a place like that I might even go through with it.
Speaking of footwear – and you may have noticed I always do – I’m getting the distinct feeling that the next addition to my closet may be a pair of tap shoes. Because lately all I seem to be doing is dancing around this pissy little thing known as the truth, and a girl’s got to accessorize properly, right?
Oy, Palpatine doesn't pay me enough for this crap.
*****
