"Dammit, Diebin," I mutter softly, letting my head fall into my hand as I continue to stare at the computer screen.

The depressingly empty computer screen.

"Why can’t you just learn to write your own damn stories?" I can feel the headache starting, right behind my eyes --it’s only a tight pinching feeling now, but I can feel the full-blown migraine just begging for a chance at me.

I’ve been staring at this screen for two hours already, not even making the pretense of doing work anymore. All I want is to go to bed, preferably nestled down between a pair of hunky Je--

I stop the thought right there.

"What have you done to me, Diebin?" I say it out loud, even though I’m in the room by myself. A year ago, I would have shot myself before getting anywhere near anything having to do with "Star Wars." Now I’m sitting in front of a computer, trying to write Jedi smut, and dreaming about a delicious threesome with a pair of fictional characters.

Insane. I knew Diebin was insane when I met her. I guess I just didn’t realize how communicable it was. Didn’t realize that I would be joining her in insanity before a month was over.

Enough random thoughts, I tell myself. Let’s write a little more smut, make Diebin happy. Then you can curl up in your bed and watch an Ewan movie.

I continue to stare at the computer screen. I’m running out of things for Qui-Gon to do. Damn. One hand creeps up to rub at the back of my neck, a nervous habit I picked up in High School. I wonder if other writers have this problem. Do they run out of erotic ploys? Probably not. I just am not cut out to be a smut writer.

Leaning back, I cross my arms over my chest, staring at the story that simply refuses to write itself. Letting my eyes drift closed, I try to think of what Qui-Gon would be doing to me if he were here. I am somewhat alarmed at how many possibilities immediately leap to my mind. That’s it. No more Qui-Smut for you, young lady. Or Obi-Smut either, for that matter. Oh, but if he were here . . .

My musings are interrupted, however, by the sound of keys being depressed slowly on my keyboard. Eyes flying open, I stare blankly at the large hands, almost too large for my keyboard, peeking out of dark brown sleeves. I can feel the whisper of fabric against my bare arms, the rough fabric pressing against the back of my neck where my low cut tank-top ends.

Oh dear god . . .

The fingers move slowly, as if unfamiliar with the keys. Trying to ignore the fact that there is a strange man standing behind me, I fix my eyes on the screen, mesmerized by the words appearing there.

My lord, he’s writing my smut for me.

The man -- what little logic Diebin hasn’t pounded out of me tells me that there is no rational way that he could be Qui-Gon -- continues to type, acknowledging my suddenly strangled breathing with a low chuckle. It is only then that I realize how close his mouth is to my ear -- all I would need to do is tilt my face just a little to the left--

I freeze in my seat. Too terrified to move. Too terrified to think. I’ve now officially joined Diebin in the category of "hopeless lunatic." Of course, as far as I know, she’s never had a full-blown hallucination -- so maybe I’ve surpassed her.

My eyes are still locked on the screen. Reading what he’s writing -- what he’s making Qui-Gon do to the character in my story. What he’s making himself do to the character in my story . . .

Oh my god . . .

"I’m hardly god," a low voice says directly into my left ear, his breath tickling my neck. I can feel a few strands of hair fall across my shoulder, causing the bare skin of my arm to form goosebumps. I don’t even have to look at it to know what color it will be. My eyes slide shut and I feel myself tilting my head back to rest against the rock hard shoulder . . .

Dear lord . . .

"That’s the fourth time you’ve said something like that," the man comments, his long fingers still busily typing away on my computer. I can feel his arms inching closer around my body, bracing me between them.

I force myself to breath -- normal breaths, and not the whimpering gasps I’ve been managing so far. I’m ignoring the musky scent of his robe as it brushes my cheek. I’m ignoring the feeling of the incredibly strong arms that are pushed against my body. I’m ignoring the way his mouth drops to my neck and . . .

Suddenly the only thing I’m ignoring is my common sense. Rational thought be damned -- there is a Jedi Master sucking on my neck, and if this is just a massive hallucination -- hell! Why didn’t I start having them sooner?

The large hands have long since left the keyboard, trailing up my legs to rest on the arms of my chair. Detaching his mouth, he gives my chair a brief spin, and I suddenly find myself staring up into the eyes of Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master. That’s it, I’ve lost it. Well and truly lost it. I’m stark raving mad.

He’s got his legs spread apart slightly, trapping my knees between them. His hands are on the back of my chair now -- I’m truly trapped, and not minding it a bit.

"You’re not crazy, you know," Qui-Gon tells me, letting one hand trail down my neck and across my collarbone.

"Could have fooled me," I respond, amazed for a moment that my voice is still working.

"Do you want me to give you a long and confusing explanation of how I’m here?" he asks me, leaning forward to kiss my neck softly. "Or should I just pick you up, throw you on the bed, and show you why I’m here."

I don’t know what scares me more -- that I’m stopping to question, or that I already know the answer.

Something makes me hold back. "How about you tell me why you're here first," I ask him, trying to ignore the way the feeling of his beard scraping against my neck gives me goosebumps. Trying to ignore the part of me that is demanding to know why I'm questioning a hallucination obviously bent on my pleasure.

"Dreams are a powerful realization of the Force." His words are muffled against my throat, and the feeling of his lips moving against my skin makes my head drop back, giving him more room to explore.

"And you're here because of the Force?" I ask, voice trembling. Suddenly I'm staring into a pair of bright eyes, my nose brushing lightly against his.

"I'm here because of your dreams," he responds. His hands have wrapped around me by now, lifting me effortlessly out of my chair. Standing just shy of six feet, there aren't many men who make me feel small, but somehow he manages it quite nicely as he lowers me to the bed, tugging teasingly on the oversize boxers I wear as pajamas -- a remnant of my last boyfriend's tendency to leave his clothing at my house.

As I feel lips on my shoulder, I'm past the point of questioning. Past the point of caring. I still haven't gotten over my last heartbreak, and if my imagination has decided to supply a nice, solid hallucination of a Jedi to make me feel better -- well, it's about time my imagination started earning it's keep.

"You still don't understand the power of the Force." My fingers tingle as he speaks against the palm of my hand, nibbling the tips of my fingers as he lounges next to me. "I'm not a hallucination, and neither is my Padawan."

"Padawan?" I choke the words out, trying to suppress the dirty thoughts of glitter and leather that always seem to accompany the word Padawan. Oh, gods. The Jedihunks girls and Sith Chicks have turned me into some kind of sex fiend --

A low chuckle brings me back to reality -- if lying on a bed in the embrace of a fictional character can be called that -- and I instantly realize that I'm sitting in a room with a man who can read thoughts.

A hand trails down my spine, the feeling of my shirt caressing my skin unbearably sensual. I stare at Qui-Gon in stunned disbelief -- one of his hands is resting under my head while the other is holding my hand --

"Correction: two men who can read thoughts," says a horribly mischievous voice behind me, and I immediately try to repress a groan. And I was just thinking about him in leather and --

Qui-Gon smiles, the hand behind my head tightening in my hair and drawing closer. For a few moments his face hovers over mine. "My Padawan doesn't wear leather," he says softly before diving in and capturing my lips in his.

Over the roaring in my head, I faintly make out the words, "Although I would, if the Council didn't get so uptight about it." As I try to make sense of the words, Qui-Gon's mouth becomes more insistent, and I'm overcome with the urge to try to regain some hold on the situation.

Damn the Council . . . I think faintly, trying to give as good as I got in the battle going on over my lips. The Jedi Master is determined, however, and I eventually subside, letting him have control. Maybe I should get one of the Obi-Chicks to go and mind whammy the Council once . . . I bet they would if they knew that was all they needed to do to see the Padawan in leather, and probably doused in glit--

"Those really aren't appropriate thoughts for someone being suffocated by the most sensual Jedi Master of all time," Obi-Wan comments, still only running his fingers up and down my spine. Unable to reclaim my lips for the time it would take to form a response, I settle for reaching over and grabbing his braid -- oh gods, I've got the Padawan's braid wrapped around my hand! -- and pulling him towards me until I can feel the tickle of his breath against my bare shoulder.

"She's getting feisty, Master," Obi-Wan mumbles from where his face is crushed against my neck. "Do I have to continue simply observing?" There is no audible response -- Qui-Gon is still determined to suck every last bit of air out of my lungs -- but obviously they're using their Jedi mind powers, as it is only a few moments before I'm overcome by the sensation of a pair of very warm lips parting to suck on the bare skin of my shoulder.

If this is a hallucination . . . it's got to be one of the most realistic ones anyone has ever had.

DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction written in appreciation of Star Wars; to promote the franchise and to keep it alive. All characters and settings original to Star Wars are copyright to Lucasfilm, Ltd. The rest is copyright to the author.