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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
- 3
- 4
You woke to a persistent, dull pain in your head, quickly superseded by the distinct and strange sensation of being pulled in more than one direction. You ripped open your eyes; it was difficult, and they stung as the light hit them. You looked around as best you could, lifting your head a few inches off the bed, and this was how you realized two things:
Your four limbs were bound to the four corners of your bed, and you were naked. But why—? You supposed he hadn’t wanted to waste time and energy keeping you in place with his mind— or perhaps he simply relished the sight of you so obviously helpless. There was no way for you to know, and no time to think about it.
You panicked briefly, then you remembered what had happened when you’d come home, and an illogical relief swept over you as your eyes scanned the room for Anakin.
You heard him before you saw him— “Are you looking for me?”
Smiling through bleary eyes; able to feel your jaw and most of your face swelling, “I thought you wanted me to leave you alone.”
“I told you— I was wrong. And I can’t afford to be wrong now.” He stepped out from the shadows at the far side of the room; still dressed, still imposing; still wild in a way you’d had to force before.
“I knew you would do anything to keep from hurting her,” you said, knowing that he loved poor Padme; yes— but more than that, he loved being able to have her. He didn’t understand the difference, and it made you feel his pain all that much more poignantly.
He said gravely, “It’s so much more, and you would never understand.” He stepped over to you; you could hear his boots click; his dark tunic rustle, even faintly smell the scent of his gloves.
He trailed a single finger up your leg, still swathed in thick leather, and continued, “The Senator says that women like you are good conduits for darkness. I resisted that, at first— but now I think he’s right.” He reached your centre and immediately pushed two digits into you; they were flesh, you could feel their warmth through the material. You’d already been beginning to drip in want of him before he’d knocked you out; you were still slick with desire. His fingers entered you with little resistance, although the sudden stretch made you moan— which made him snarl, but he didn’t say anything else.
You looked away from Anakin and down at your body to where his fingers were buried inside you; as you did, he curled them inward, and you whimpered. He withdrew them as if they’d never entered you, and took another step up to the head of the bed, where he kneeled down beside your face. You turned your head to look at him, and confirmed, “I think he’s right too, Ani. What are you going to do?”
He leaned in close; all you could see of him was his beautiful, angry mouth, a quivering chin, and trembling strands of loose hair. In a deep, raspy whisper, “I’m going to hurt you.” He reached up and grabbed the same huge, wrenching handful of your hair as he had before; twisted it harshly to make you yell, and added, “No matter how much it hurts me.”
He threw your head down as he let go, and stood up. You wondered what he would do, when he answered immediately and wordlessly by clamping a large hand over the whole of your neck. He didn’t press at first; just looked at you, presumably to gauge your reaction. You didn’t give him one, so he went slowly— first his index finger, then the middle one, pushing. He paused as you drew in a wheezing, shuddering breath, then continued on to drive his last two fingers down until they, too, were stopped by bone and cartilage.
You could not squeeze even a bit of air in or out of your lungs by this point, so you started to writhe, but Ani had tied you tightly, and you succeeded only in bucking your hips up and down. He seemed to draw some pleasure from this; you saw his lip curl into a subtle smirk before he pressed down with his thumb, and began to close his whole hand shut.
Black started to invade the edges of your vision again, and then he let go. As you gasped and panted, you looked at him. You had no idea what expression was on your face, but inside, you felt a well of fear begin to bubble up from the depths of your stomach and spread. It dawned on you that you did not have anything remotely resembling the upper hand in this situation; that Anakin was in total control, as he so liked to be— and that he was also deeply unwell.
He’d expressed reluctance, restraint (if rudimentary), and a greater desire to push you away than destroy you, before. You sensed that those scales had now tipped somehow, and besides that, he had invaded your territory this time, instead of vice-versa. This made you feel uneasy as he leaned down again to look closely at the marks on your neck.
You wondered, in passing, if this was the punishment you thought you hadn’t received for visiting him without permission. Actually, you’d thought not being allowed to see him had been the punishment— and it had been effective; you’d hated it— but perhaps this was the real correction you ought to have been expecting. This thought both frightened you, and made the soft flesh between your legs continue to drip and swell.
He felt this conflicted nervousness; you knew he did, and he used hard metal digits still concealed by thick black leather to gently stroke the fingermarks encircling your neck. He could feel you drawing in sharp breaths as the seams of his glove brushed over sensitive skin. He leaned close to your ear, and whispered, “Don’t scream.”
You barely had time to see the flash of teeth he bared as he moved to bite your neck with unrestrained force. In spite of his instruction, you released a shrieking yell. He twisted his head on his way up so as to catch your bruised flesh in an excruciating way and you screamed again.
Now standing above you, he drew back— this time with an open palm, you thought gratefully— and smacked you hard in the side of the face. You bit the inside of your cheek; a tiny amount of blood began to coat your tongue, and as you opened your mouth to speak, he slapped the other side of your face, too. Your teeth hit your lip hard on impact, and more blood gushed down your chin.
Harshly, “I said, ‘don’t scream’.”
You couldn’t wipe your mouth, so you ignored the stream of crimson, and replied with a pout, “You made me.”
That hint of a smirk again; then, “Whore.” He reached back down to your cunt; gathered two fingers full of sticky wetness, and thrust them deep into your mouth. He pushed on your tongue, then tickled the back of your throat to make you gag. You bit down instinctively, but registered only pain as you realized he’d not used his natural hand.
After watching your eyes tear up, he pulled his fingers away from your face and stopped just to stare for a moment with disdain at the blood that dripped off. Then, he brought his hands to the front of his tunic and began to unclip first his weapon, then his belt, and placed them on the floor beside the bed. Unbound, he lifted the garment up over his head and discarded it, too. He did not, yet, remove his gloves.
Even in your current position, you found your eyes were unable to take in enough of his sturdy elegance to satisfy you. Your hands longed to explore every last inch of the powerful, athletic physique he was presenting to you, and it elicited a painful hunger deep inside of you to know that you couldn’t. As you thought about handfuls of soft, blonde tangles and strong, writhing muscles, he placed an inhumanly hard thumb and forefinger next to one of your own cold, erect nipples— and he flicked it.
You winced; he covered your breast with his hand and squeezed hard enough to leave angry, red streaks on your skin before running his palm harshly and haltingly along your ribcage, over your hip, and down to your thigh. He stopped and lingered there; looked up at you, and said, “You’re not like my wife. I’ve put her in a...” His voice wavered; he looked down, buried his feelings of love, and guilt. “...vulnerable place.” He regained his composure. “But I’m going to fix it, and you’re helping me. She deserves so much better than these...” He narrowed his eyes and dug into the flesh of your leg sharply, “...indignities.”
“I know she does, Ani,” you replied softly. “You’re a good man to do this for her.”
Another snarl, then he moved his head to meet his hand and sank his bite into your leg, just as hard as he had into your neck. The flesh there, being softer, allowed his teeth to sink into it deeply until you swore you could feel the skin begin to break. He climbed deftly between your legs, only to do this again, and again, biting and tearing at the inside of your thigh until his mouth was inches away from your core.
The wounds throbbed with pain, but you merely whimpered. He grasped your legs and began to flick his tongue at your soaked folds. Another gush as he pushed it into you; he made an approving noise in spite of himself, then he began to lick your clit rhythmically; slow, then fast, then faster still, until you were clenching your fingers and throwing your hips wildly up into his face, letting hoarse, primal groans fill your room. He slipped a single finger into you, and curled it into the perfect spot.
The tiny, greedy hardness of your starving nub began to drive you mad and your breathing became erratic. More of you dripped out around his finger— your pussy was engorged around it— and you squeezed your eyes shut, waiting...
Then, he removed his digit and lifted his head, ceasing his contact with you. It was cruelly sudden, and you knew why he had done it— but it didn’t stop you from screaming out of a frustration you couldn’t control.
He climbed away and stood beside the bed again. Your noise, of course, drew from him another harsh backhanded blow. “Stop screaming. God, you’re stupid.”
You snivelled and coughed. You knew that already; you’d have laughed about it, but you knew better. Still leering at you, he unfastened the front of his pants and heaved them clear off, wrenching them over his boots and kicking them away.
He was naked now, except for those dark leather boots, and gloves. A throbbing erection, as hard and massive as you remembered it, dripped eagerly as you bit your sore lip in anticipation.
The same slight, almost malevolent smirk returned for a minute to his face; he asked, “Do you want it?” You nodded, and he shot his hand out to grasp your chin. “Tell me, then.”
You moved your face away from his grip; he allowed this. “I want it.”
“You want what?”
“Your cock.”
“Altogether, now.”
“I want your cock.”
“Good girl.”
He climbed back onto the bed; this time straddled your chest. The sight of a shiny boot passing over you made your breath hitch; as he positioned himself over you, you savoured the sight of his taut stomach and unyielding legs. When his length was positioned just outside of your mouth, he wiped the tip of it off on your lips; traced them with the head, and groaned as you flitted an impatient tongue out to greet his sex.
Finally, he thrust it fully and deeply inside; he didn’t stop until your body stopped him. You tried hard not to gag in your prone position, but it was very difficult as he started to slam his engorged length repeatedly past your teeth and tongue. You willed your throat to open and let the tears gathered at the corners of your eyes start to stream down your face; they mixed with your blood and stained your sheets with morbid swirls.
He pushed hard; very hard, you could smell his sweat and feel soft, dark-blonde hairs brush against your nose. Your senses were consumed by him entirely; when he withdrew to sit up high above you, one knee on either side of your chest, you coughed and watched bloody spit trail from the head of his cock down onto your breasts.
He stared at you; you met eyes with him— his seemed, for a brief moment, like glimmering crystal— and he trembled. “Ani?” You could feel blood, both wet and dry, coating the entire lower half of your face; taste it along with with salty hints of his essence. You knew you looked pathetic, and he knew too.
He breathed in deeply, as though he needed to steady himself. “Quiet.” He got off of you and the bed; turned his back to you and clenched his fists. It occurred to you that he was, perhaps, crumbling now as he had when you’d left him— both times— before. You didn’t know what to do about it; from your position, bound and injured, you could only watch his personal tragedy unfold; privy only to tiny pieces of its meaning, and the things it made him do to you.
Would he stop, now? If he did, you knew, he would simply hurt. God knows what would happen to his wife, although you knew to see him now that their love was doomed.
“Ani...” You looked over at his shaking back. He produced a noise; almost a retch. You made a decision, one borne of compassion. Anger, for him, was better than pain— and you didn’t mind to be hurt, yourself... especially not by the manifestation of physical perfection that was Anakin Skywalker. So, you repeated, “Ani?”
Quietly, “What?”
“Hurt me.”
Silence; stillness, except for his trembling.
“Did you forget why you came?”
Nothing.
“Still too much sand, hmm?”
“Stop.”
“You know I’m trying to help.”
He turned his head to peer back at you over his shoulder; large, nude, slick. He looked, at this moment, so unlike the version of him you’d first encountered that— for a split second— you nearly didn’t believe it was him.
But, it was. Those beautiful eyes, now somehow deeply corrupted, couldn’t have belonged to anyone else.
He rose, marched back over to where he’d tied you so tightly. You could see that he’d shed tears, but his face had hardened once again, and you realized that what you’d just seen was, indeed, a glimmer of the light he so desperately needed to repress. Whatever he needed to do this for, the act of doing it was against his nature— but his need to possess and dominate had long since begun to mingle with, and overtake, that loving instinct. It was crushing him, and he couldn’t stop it; couldn’t seem to afford to.
He kneeled by your head again; you could feel his breath. He didn’t speak; instead, he removed his gloves and dropped them to the floor with his other clothes.
With his own index finger; the one he’d been born with, he traced a line along your jaw; all the way down to your chin, then he drew it up to the corner of your mouth. He slipped it inside and probed at your tongue, your teeth, and the wounds on the inside of your swollen, bloodied lips. You remained still for him, only blinking when he removed his finger.
“I’m sorry,” he said, flatly.
“Don’t be.”
He glared, but his voice softened. “The first time you came, you were sent. Then, you chose to come back.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
You hesitated, because you could no longer read him. What was this, now? Finally, you managed, “I wanted you.”
“You should have been terrified.”
If you could have shrugged, you would have. You didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t especially bothered by physical pain; even enjoyed it, and anyway, even if you hadn’t— he had to know how beautiful he was, yes? You realized he likely didn’t, and that it was a shame. You didn’t let your mind linger, however. Instead, you simply reiterated, “I just wanted you.”
His eyes stopped glaring; turned simply to looking, but he did not say anything. Still knelt by your head, he placed his hand on the side of your face; stroked it with his thumb. Then he ran it down to your breast; squeezed more softly than you thought he could. He stroked and pinched at a stiff nipple, producing a gasp from you. Then, his hand continued its journey down your body, much more gingerly this time. It stopped to feel at your ribs; toy briefly with your bellybutton, trace a line down your hip.
He stood, leaned over, and let his steel appendage take the same languid trip down the other side of you. It felt unfamiliar; you shuddered, and goosebumps covered your skin. You still couldn’t read him; his face looked unaffected, but the sickness shot through his eyes had wavered again.
He took his hands away and walked down the length of the bed, to where he’d tied your feet. He scaled the edge, crawling up between your legs. He ran his fingers up them; you could feel the contrast between steel and skin very sharply as they moved in tandem, and the uniqueness of that sensation made you wiggle and whine.
He took hold of your hips, gently this time, and began to once again slip his tongue around your centre. He moved very slowly now; licking every fold, and warmly sucking on your still-stiff little nub. He pushed his tongue inside of you several times, drawing out more wetness. He moaned into your core, and this made you try to buck, but he kept you pressed to the bed as he began the same expert, rhythmic licking with which he’d tortured you earlier.
Presently, however, he did not stop as you began to cry out more loudly; resist his grip more strongly, and squeeze your eyes shut with anticipation. He continued his work; slowing, speeding, increasing the pressure behind his tongue. Soon he slipped a finger inside of you; the same one as before, and curled it, also in just the same, perfect way. Your body writhed and you broke out in a sweat as finally; graciously, a violently shuddering climax wracked you from the tips of the fingers on your bound hands, to the toes on the feet you also could still not move.
Breathing very heavily, you felt his finger slide out, and his body slipped aptly over yours as he crawled further up the bed, and you. Your faces met, and without taking a minute to look or speak, he pressed his mouth onto yours. He ignored the blood crusting around your lips, and closed his eyes as he ran his tongue around your teeth. You could taste your own contentment on him as he licked at the wounds on the inside of your mouth and explored the damage he had done to your teeth and tongue.
He was propped up on his elbows, but his torso was pushed into you, and you could feel a still-wanting hardness pushing into your leg. You threw your hips up and in return, he pressed his own down into you. This made you cry into his mouth and clench the fingers of your hands— you had, indeed, yearned to touch him in this way for so long, but had known that you could and should not, lest you toy with his destiny.
It was why you’d left him in pain before... but now you couldn’t— he wasn’t letting you— so you gratefully gave in to his aching thirst as much as your position would allow.
Out the corner of your eye, you glimpsed his hand rise; his real one, and his fingers moved intricately in the air. Suddenly, your shoulders felt as though they could relax; your arms as though they could move. Restricted circulation returned, and so did your capacity. Wrists unbound from Anakin’s roughly-hewn rope, your hands shot straight to his back; you wrapped him in as strong an embrace as you could muster as he leaned into you— nearly too hard, but with no malice.
You let your hands explore the flawless body laying on top of you; every ideal ridge and hard, jolting muscle. You felt your feet come untied as well; as the rope slid from your ankles, you wrapped them around his powerful calves. Nothing you could reach went untouched, and you could feel the head of his cock begin to leak again. You made a desperate noise and he broke your kiss; kept his nose nuzzled closely next to yours. He opened his eyes.
In a very low, husky whisper, “Tell me what you want.”
You slid one hand up his back and into his hair. It was just as you’d imagined; languidly silky as you untangled it with your fingertips, and damp with sweat and pain. You murmured back the same thing you had said to him before, because you didn’t know what he was willing to give you— although you really didn’t care, because as always, you’d have taken anything; anything he offered.
“I just want you.”
A sad smile from Ani; then a noise between a laugh and a sob. He lifted his torso; reached down with one hand to guide himself into you. It felt nothing like the first time, or the second— the stretch did not burn; was slow and steady and you welcomed him hungrily as he eased himself deep inside you.
Buried to the hilt, he let out a shuddering breath, then brought his arm back up. He touched your face, this time tenderly, and kissed you again as he began to thrust. He began sedately; almost haltingly, until he soon progressed into a rhythm reminiscent of the once he’d used to lick you to orgasm.
You raked the nails of one hand along his skin; scratched gently at his scalp with those of the other as you clenched his hair possessively in your fingers. As his speed and force increased, you wrapped your own legs more firmly around his, and squeezed tightly. He broke your kiss; threw back his head to let out a moan, and you gazed from beneath his captivating face as the dam holding back the peak of his pleasure formed deep cracks.
His moan became a yell; familiar to your ears, and you felt the weight of him crash into you as he lost command of his body. His muscles tensed all at once, and he shot a hot, drawn-out blast of his own essence deep inside of you. He bucked and rutted until he couldn’t anymore; then he collapsed face-down atop you, head nestled in the space between your own shoulder and jaw.
Both breathing heavily, you squeezed him in your arms; one hand still tangled in his hair, the other resting on his back atop fresh, pink scratches. You were both silent, then he pressed his hands into your mattress and slipped his own arms around your back. Still, neither of you spoke, and as the minutes ticked by, you noticed his breathing become very even; his muscles loosen. He slid part of the way off of you, but you continued to hold him and he you; eventually, you knew for certain that he had fallen asleep.
Unbound now, you did not try to wriggle out from underneath him. Your face hurt; your mouth, your eyes, the bones in your nose and cheeks. It was a feeling nearly comforting in its familiarity by this point, but experiencing Anakin’s resting heartbeat through your fingers and the heat of his body through your skin made it very, very different.
You closed your eyes and savoured his breath on your neck as you held him. You’d fantasized about this, but had not thought it possible. Now, though, he had been the one to force it, and you were grateful for the responsibility having been taken out of your hands. You willed yourself to relax, slowly, as you ran through your mind all of the different outcomes that this situation could possibly have.
None, in that moment, seemed more likely than any other; however, they all appeared to be equally horrifying. You wondered what would happen to you; to Ani. You wondered what morning would be like, when it arrived— what Anakin would do; who he would be. He might very well hate you more than ever, by then.
This entire travesty had started as an assignment, morphed into a physical compulsion on your part, and had now become something wild and illogical for which you had no name, and no frame of reference. You did not know what was happening any better than you knew Ani himself; which was to say, not very well at all. You didn’t know, truly, why he was like this, or why you were supposed to push him toward the Dark Side; all you knew was that it was inevitable.
You did also know what he did to you, and the way he made you feel. These were the thoughts you chose to pause and take in as you drifted to sleep curled around him: The man who seemed both to relish and loathe beating you, biting you, and— somehow— making utterly passionate love to you. The man who confused you and enraptured you in equal turns; who you did not know had been rejected or manipulated by everyone he’d ever trusted, and whose identity on waking you could only begin to guess.
Finally tired enough for your mind to rest, you slept as soundly as your fresh head injuries would allow. Tied to your vexing and ruthless lover as tightly as you had been to your bed, you dreamed optimistically— and dementedly— about more of both his abuses and affections.
- 3
- 4
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Hurt Me