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Hurt Me	By : paint-it-red Category: Star Wars (All) > Het - Male/Female Views: 5105 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars, or any associated characters. I’m not making money from this fic.

Chapter List
- 1-Painful
- 2-Vile
- 3-Shock
- 4-Disorder
- 2
- 3
- 4
You sighed as you sank down to the floor beside your own front door. You’d just entered your room after a long day of running errands for a certain, rather demanding Senator. Things had been chaotic, politically, in your part of the star system as of late... however, you were not in the habit of being well-informed as to the nuances of the bureaucratic strife surrounding you. You were too often mired in the challenges presented by your own job to care. Anyway, the Senator always made arguments in favour of his actions that, to you, seemed like they made sense.
You’d had a mostly uneventful— but very long and tiring— day, and all you had wanted to do for the past several hours was fall down. Now that you could, you did— as your back slid down the wall, you tilted your head up to look at the ceiling and sigh. As the sound escaped you, a short row of hooks beside the entrance caught your eye: Hanging on one of them was a cloak; ragged and stained in spots, and the colour of dark wood.
Smiling, you felt grateful for the reminder that the jobs assigned to you were not all bad. Boring, sometimes, but not all of the time— and when they were exciting, they were veryexciting. You sighed again; contentedly this time, as you reached up to finger the hem of the hanging garment, remembering the night you’d obtained it. You had neither washed it nor used it since then, and it had felt like quite a long time...
A wistful look came onto your face as you continued to stare up; finally, you stood and grasped the fabric in two large handfuls. You gathered it up to your nose and breathed in deeply, trying to catch the scent of its original owner. You had done this often; more often after you’d first obtained it, but still frequently enough that you could call it a habit. The smell had become less prominent with the passage of time, as was natural, but your brow furrowed today as you thought to yourself, It smells like... well, like he’s just been wearing it.
You shrugged to yourself, and simply enjoyed the aroma for a few moments, until a quiet, low sound manifested very suddenly behind you. You froze, and the noise turned into words, barely audible and seeping with derision, “I believe that belongs to me.”
You spun around, quickly, because you both recognized the voice and knew that its presence here should have been impossible.
It was possible, however, because standing in your room— undeniably genuine; a solid and living object, dressed in black with thick leather accents— was, in fact, the owner of the cloak hanging on your wall.
You couldn’t believe your eyes— it had, truly, felt like so long. You had not been punished for visiting him of your own accord before, but neither had you been afforded even a single opportunity to be near him again. You knew he hated you; as well he should, and to see him standing before you without having had to seek him out felt surreal.
“Anakin?”
He was as beautiful as he ever had been, although there was a new pallor to his skin and sickness behind his eyes that you couldn’t help but notice. He looked like a handsome prince who had not slept for weeks; a brutally strong warrior with a deep-seated fearfulness and torment that was slowly overtaking him. He didn’t answer you right away, but his lip quivered as you spoke his name, so you said it again, as though it were a question.
“Anakin?”
He strode toward you expressionlessly; when he reached you, he grabbed his garment and wrenched the fabric from your hands. He held it himself for a few moments, squeezing it tightly, before dropping it to the floor and meeting your eye. He looked angry, but his first words to you were an admission: “You were right.”
“I was—?”
“I need you,” he interrupted. “I need you now.” He moved in close to you; very close, until you were pressed between a wall and a wide chest swathed in black and bound by leather.
He had caught you off-guard— both other times you’d mingled with him, you’d had the upper-hand; you had been prepared. This time, however, he was the one ambushing you. Not that you were about to complain, but you certainly weren’t ‘on’— your reservoir of wit had run dry after the length of your day, your body and mind were tired, and you looked at him with a mixture of confusion and unintentional sympathy as you began, “I don’t und—“
He interrupted you again, this time by forcing on you a violent, predatory kiss— he was not kind or gentle as he placed a gloved hand— the one fashioned of metal; you could feel it— flat on your chest. He pushed it hard against your breastbone to ensure you could not escape him. Then, he ran his tongue over the tiny chips he had inflicted on your teeth the last time he’d kissed you roughly like this; the last time he’d beaten you about the head and called you a whore.
You struggled instinctively, although your eyes opened to look at what you could see of him as he pressed into you— dark and brooding as before, but now with an unsubdued mania that shocked, intrigued, and frightened you all at once. He was pale and sweating; very tense, and without any hint of the inner restraint that you’d had to work so hard to overcome before. As he drew back from your mouth, you looked over his always-divine blonde waves, wildly tangled and sticking with fresh sweat to his neck.
You straightened your back; looked up into his perfect blue eyes, and noticed there was another colour shot through them; something sickly. The fingers on the hand he was using to press on your chest clenched; dug into you, and you gasped before asking, “What’s going on?”
He seemed to be able to look straight through you with those eyes of his, and he did as he answered, “I told you— you were right.” His other hand came up to your head; also covered in leather. He used it to touch your hair gently but briefly before gathering it in his hands just as you had his cloak, and pulling hard. “I need you. You’ve come to me twice, and each time, I’ve hated it; hated you. But each time, my new powers...” He winced at the admission, “...They’ve grown.” He released your hair and you started to look down to shake your head, but he took your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced you to tilt your face back upward. “Look at me. I said, I need you.”
Having gathered yourself somewhat by now, you did not flinch; instead, you smiled, and, unmoving, “Alright— what do you need me for, Ani?” Your hands were free, and you daringly— stupidly, If you were being honest, but you didn’t care— slid them around his waist; past his lightsaber, over the heavy leather of his belt. You clasped them together around his back and smiled at him sweetly. This wasn’t the night you’d planned, but you also were not disappointed.
You weren’t prepared, but you did want him— wanted him badly, as you had every day since the first time. The longer he stood close to you, the worse it got; between his broad shoulders, handsome features, tortured eyes, and delicious sweat borne of anger and fear... how were you to have resisted him?
He’d paused for a moment; now his breathing had become less even, and his lip trembled before he spat out, “I need to hurt you,” followed by an echo of some of your first words to him, “So nothing can ever hurt her.” For a second, his eyes looked glassy and wet, but he blinked it away.
You had the distinct feeling that he was acting very much unlike his typical self, but you didn’t mind— you liked this Anakin Skywalker. This was the Anakin you had tried so hard to draw out; the Anakin whose abuse you had relished, and whose violent touch you craved. So what if he had done the hard part of the work for you this time?
Warmth welled up inside of your belly; you could feel yourself becoming wet and swollen at a combination of his harsh voice and imposing physicality. Your arms were still snaked around him, so you squeezed; pulling him in. Then you whispered, “You’re a smart boy, Ani...” and giggled as you nuzzled his chest.
He took a step away from you, still glaring with derision. You prepared yourself for the sensation of a leather palm striking your cheek, but Anakin was full of surprises today.
He drew back, instead, with a closed fist; sultry mouth wrenched into a scowl. Before your face could register your shock, you were falling fast to the floor. All you could feel were your throbbing head and hungry, aching core as your skull hit sleek tile with a pop. The last thing you saw before your vision faded to black was a roughly-hewn coil of rope set on the floor behind this strange, willfully dark Anakin’s feet.
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Hurt Me