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Killing someone is so much easier when you do it for love than for hate. They never say that. Maybe it’s because once the masses find out that killing someone for love is like ripping off a bandage, they’ll never stop. But you didn’t need to kill anyone more than once. You weren’t a murderer—just madly in love.

You believed that if the stars didn’t want you killing anyone, they wouldn’t have made it so easy.

Anakin was a light sleeper. Normally, you would’ve expected him to wake up when you entered his rooms in the dead of night, but he didn’t. You watched him sleep for a few minutes. Admiring him.

He was so gorgeous.

You didn’t think it was possible for anybody to be so pretty until you met Anakin Skywalker.

The lights from the city beyond the windows fell over his face—relaxed, for once. Peaceful, for once. Maybe even happy. You knew then, more strongly than you ever had before, that you would do whatever it took to ensure his happiness.

Even if that meant killing Padmé Amidala.

Taking his lightsaber was easy. You were a servant. Unseen, unheard, just a shadow in the corner of your eye, the one who makes everything easier without a single complain falling from your lips. This meant you could get in practically anywhere without needing a solid explanation—even the quarters of a young Jedi in the dead of night, if you were smart enough.

Wait for the change in guards, slip through the unwatched section in their rotation, and sneak in through his door—unlocked. He never locked it. Foolish, naïve, but not entirely as young as he should be. You saw the age in his eyes. He was older than you, but you knew his soul and yours matched. The result of too much responsibility at too young an age.

What responsibilities did Padmé have? She couldn’t even brush her hair by herself. That was the servant’s job.

Master Obi-Wan kept his lightsaber close by when he slept. That was smart. That came from years of paranoia and experience, the kind that Anakin did not yet have.

For a minute, when you first walked in, you almost thought you couldn’t do it. Despite her sneering, prideful, privileged act, she made him happy. Anyone could see that, though they tried to hide it. It killed you to take away his happiness, but you had to do it. You had never been more sure of anything.

Even though you knew it would hurt him, it would be better in the long run. Eventually, he would see that. And you would be waiting in the wings when he did. Just as you always were—waiting. Patiently. Unendingly.

That’s what love was about.

He slept without a shirt. On his belly, back exposed for the world to paint its canvas of scars and freckles on. The smooth, tan skin rippled when he moved, mumbling into his pillow. One of his legs dangled off the side of the bed, toes teasing the floor.

He was a sleep talker. Cute.

His lightsaber was discarded on the plush sofa that no one ever used. Picking it up for the first time felt like taking a breath after drowning for an entire lifetime. You tested the weight in your hand. Lighter than you expected. Light, cool, smooth against your palm.

This would be easy, you realized.

You waited at the door for the shift change again. They were in constant rotation in order to maximize alertness, and stave off the fatigue. When you heard the shuffle of the guards moving, you slipped through the door into the hallway and ran on the tips of your bare toes until you were far enough in the corridor that it wouldn’t be suspicious for you to be wandering. The weapon, you hid in your shirt. You smiled plainly at the guards you passed. Working for the Senator for so many years meant the guards knew you. Knew who you were, knew you were just an innocent, unassuming servant girl suffering from nightmares.

As you had so conveniently told them a few months ago.

Padmé’s rooms were a bit trickier, but they were no exception to the universe’s plan. It was a little-known passageway, kept secret even to the most important of the building’s occupants. Padmé knew it existed, the servants heard rumors—at best—and whoever originally built the royal occupancy knew it was there. That was as far as you could tell.

The hidden passageway was accessible through the laundry room in the basement. Those lucky servants who stumbled across it believed it to be an escape tunnel in case of an infiltration or attack. It didn’t matter to you—all you needed was to get in and out silently. Traveling over the damp, hard-packed dirt came as naturally as breathing. Your hands used the wall to guide you—it was so narrow you could reach both sides while standing in the middle. It was a long path, going all the way up through almost six floors, only hinting at a possible ending when the ground turned from dirt to stone. Your feet pitter-pattered on the ground, no doubt leaving shoeprints behind. No matter. No one would know to check the tunnel.

The entrance from Padmé’s rooms was hidden in her bathroom. Underneath a trick tile, one you carefully lifted and set to the side. You squeezed your way out, sides scraping against the edges, until you were perched on the floor, listening with bated breath to see if the Senator was woken up by your arrival.

She slept.

You kept low to the ground as you crept towards her bed.

She was nothing but a dignified lump under the covers. One pale, unmarked hand hung off the side of the bed. When You stood to your full height, you saw, maybe for the first time ever, how truly weak she was.

No muscle. No fight. Only a pampered, sheltered childhood, which caused her to latch onto the first male her age that paid her any attention. She didn’t love Anakin—not truly. Not the way you did. She only loved the attention he could give her. Attention she could get from anyone in the entire planet!

It was a shame, you decided. That it did not line up better. That her infatuation with attention and his eagerness to be loved and your soul-deep, more-than-love type love for him all collided at the same time.

But sometimes love was messy. You knew that. When it came down to it, love was all about who was willing to make the sacrifices, and that was you. Not Padmé. Never Padmé.

When you pressed the button on the side of the hilt and the blue energy—fire? Plasma? What was it?—shot out, you nearly dropped it. Your hands were shaking, but you didn’t know when that had started. The low buzzing noise filled your ears and bounced off the sides of your head.

This was the only part of your mission where you allowed yourself to be entirely selfish. Maybe even cruel. Even though killing her with a knife or choking her or even dripping some poison into her mouth while she slept would be easier, kinder, less painful, you wanted to kill her with Anakin’s lightsaber specifically. You just wanted her to think in her very last moments that her love was killing her. Break her heart, just like she did yours when she stole Anakin away from you.

You lowered the weapon until the blue light was hovering just over her neck, then kicked the side of her bed.

She woke up with a jolt, eyes flying open, hand already reaching for her bedside table. She stopped when she saw the glow. You saw the way her body relaxed imperceptibly before her mind caught up, saw what was going on. Her perfect eyebrows furrowed. Her lips parted, half of a sentence tumbling into the emptiness between you two.

“Ani? What are—”

You brought the blade down in one vicious fall.

She never even had the chance to scream.

Replacing the weapon went in a blur. You were dropping back into the tunnel, and then you were just in his rooms, staring at him. So badly, you wanted to sit on the edge of the bed, run your hands through his hair, wake him up by pressing a kiss to his back. So badly. This was, in truth, your final act of perseverance. The last time you would have to withhold yourself near him. You returned the light saber.

The hardest part about killing someone is having to pretend to be sad after they’re gone.

You in one of the many dining halls before dawn broke, wiping down the long tables made out of wood imported from other planets. You were content. Your heart was buzzing with happiness, knowing your future was closer than ever. The grand doors burst open suddenly, Shalia running in. She was disheveled, hair undone, uniform out of dress code. Looking up, you raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you trying to be dismissed?”

She bent over. Her dark skin stuck out against the pale blue uniform, wrinkling at the edges. “Senator… Amidala… has been killed.”

You made a show of dropping your rag onto the floor, gasping, letting your eyebrows draw together. “That’s impossible!”

She nodded frantically, curls bobbing about her heart shaped face. “In her sleep! They just discovered her body, she was—” Here, Shalia paused, seemingly gagging on her own words. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She was decapitated!

Slapping a hand over your mouth, you hurried over to her. You gripped her arm tightly. The perfect show of concerned servant. “Holy Maker, do they know who did it?”



“They’re taking the Jedi into custody—Anakin Skywalker.”

What? Your mind paused, scrambled. “What—Anakin? Are you certain? Why him? He didn’t kill her!”

She nodded again, nails digging into your wrists. “She was killed with his lightsaber, Obi-Wan himself identified the energy.”

“The energy?” What the kriff was that? No one said anything about any energy.

Shalia stepped even closer, looking over her shoulder like someone might come in and arrest her at any moment. “I heard from Ebe that Lucille—she was the one who found her—was in the room when they brought in Obi-Wan, and he said the killing weapon had to be a lightsaber. It was Anakin, without a doubt. He told me that she saw him start crying.”

“Crying over Padmé?’

“No, crying over Skywalker! I can’t even imagine training someone for so long just for them to be so evil.”

You reeled back, leaning heavily against the table. Your heart screamed at you to do something, go somewhere, at least try to stop this. This wasn’t the plan—nothing was going according to plan! Anakin wasn’t supposed to be convicted, not supposed to be hurt. How could you have been so stupid?

Your friend said your name, trying to draw you back into the conversation.

“And now?” You rasped through a mouthful of sand. “Where is Skywalker now?”

“Being interrogated in the dungeons, I assume.”

You were running before you could think about it, bouncing off the walls of the palace, sprinting faster than you ever had before. Your thin shoes slapped over the marble floors. People dodged out of your way, shouting after you. You couldn’t hear them. The ringing in your ears was too loud. Anakin, you thought, your heart a magnet to his innocence, pulling you towards the dark dungeons you had never been into before. Anakin, I’m sorry. Using the stone walls lining the stairs descending into the lower levels to balance yourself practically shredded your palms, the stinging nothing compared to the panic in your soul.

You could hear them. Further down, all in a cell at the very end of the long, cold hallway. You ran past the guards, too fast for them to register you may need to be stopped.

“Stop!” You yelled. “Stop!

A head poked into the hall—the head Guard, Guard Sheridan. He was as tall as he was wide, with a beard to the top of his chest. He ambled out, blocking the solid wood door from you.

Skidding to a stop in front of him, you gasped for breath. Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, cheeks burning.

“Can I help you, missy?”

“I…” You stared at the door behind him, wondering if Anakin would be able to hear you. Wondering if he would know what you were doing. Say this, and nothing would be the same. Say this, and throw away your future. Any future freedom. Any life you could’ve built for yourself. For Anakin, you would do it. You just hoped he would know you did it for him. “I killed her. I murdered Padmé Amidala.”


Obi-Wan’s eyes were hard, cruel spotlights on you. You were chained to an uncomfortable wooden chair, the screws digging into your skin. Eye contact was hard, so you stared at a point over his shoulder instead. You didn’t know why they were having the Jedi master interrogate you. Maybe because of his connection to the crime, maybe because of his Force abilities. Either way, cold sweat trickled down the back of your neck.

“How did you steal Anakin’s lightsaber?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Went into his rooms at night,” you croaked. “Took it while he was sleeping. Returned it before he woke up.”

“How did you access Senator Amidala’s quarters?” Obi-Wan paced in front of you, brown cloak swishing over the grimy floor.

The shackles were digging into your ankles. Shifting, you winced, and answered, “There’s a secret tunnel. Escape route, I think. Only accessible from the laundry rooms, and it led to her bathroom.”

He nodded. The lightsaber at his side bumped against his thigh with every step. He seemed to be chewing on his own tongue. Contemplating every word. You wondered what he was thinking. What you looked like to him.

You never got the chance to see Anakin. Between you being bustled into a cell and him being released from his, your paths never crossed. Maybe they did it on purpose, maybe not. It was probably easier that way, anyways. Easier for you, at least.

“And may I ask why you felt the need to assassinate Padmé?” His voice was growing louder, angrier. “Do you work for the Dark Side? The Separatists? Was this a plot to overthrow the Republic? You were a servant in this palace, but what other master do you serve?”

“I’m no servant of ill will or any malicious master. I only serve two things: the Republic, and myself.” This was as close as you would allow yourself to get to admitting the truth behind your crime.

“Why did you kill Padmé?”

“I’ve already told you; I’ve told you everything you need to know!” Tears pricked at your eyes. Your throat burned.

“You haven’t told me anything!”

“I’m loyal to the Republic, I always have been!”

“So, you say this murder wasn’t politically motivated?”

“No, sir, I say it was entirely personal.”

“I need more than that.”

Here, you choked. Shamefully, you looked away, allowing the tears to fall down your cheeks and land on the scratchy pants you wore. “I’m afraid I’ve given you all I can. Please, I’d like to be alone.”

Obi-Wan scoffed. Full of disdain for you—the murdering traitor they all now knew you as. “We’re nowhere close to being done.”

You made a dismissive noise. Finally lifted your head to look at him. “Look at me, sir. You’ve got the rest of my life to interrogate me. Will you not allow me this night?”

His eyes flashed with anger. The man strode forward until he was in your face, lips curling, more vicious than you had ever seen him. “Padmé had the rest of her life, too. Until you stole it from her. Why should I allow you anything? You deserve no mercy. You deserve death.”

“And I’m certain I’ll get it.” There was a strange sort of calmness in knowing your future. His emotions were his, and yours were yours, and for once, you felt no need to bridge the gap between you two to feel his. “But they won’t kill me until you’re done with me. Which means there’s no rush.”

Guards!” He bellowed, suddenly turning away from you. He went to the door, glancing through the small open window. His whole body was tense, shaking. You were sure he wanted to hurt you. Maybe you didn’t care anymore. Suddenly, he turned back. Cheeks splotched with red. “You’ll be moved to a cell. Your execution is already being scheduled. For your sake, I hope it’s quick. But I wouldn’t plan on it.”

You regarded him with wary eyes. Dipped your head in understanding, just once.

He left.

And you were alone.


As you lay on your little stone bed, carved from the stone walls itself, you decided that imprisonment wasn’t horrible.

Your room—cell—was bigger than anticipated. The bed wasn’t carved into the walls as you expected, but instead jutted out, filling a small corner of the room. There was a shallow dip in the stone, made from centuries of prisoners using it. There were blankets, though, and a pillow. It got so chilly down there the guards needed to provide some, or else the prisoners would freeze.

The guards didn’t linger in the bottom cells, though. Your area was completely deserted. There were three cells in the bottommost levels of the dungeons, but yours was the only one filled. You were the only one who had committed such a grievous act of humanity.

The solitary gave you time to cry without fear of being overheard. Sound didn’t escape the thick walls Even when you pounded on the confining rocks with your fists, scraping the skin off your hands, nobody came. You screamed once. Just to see if it would make anything happen.

But nothing happened.

They delivered you food on time. Three meals a day. Enough to keep you fed, healthy, alive.

It didn’t escape your knowledge that the very person who advocated for the fair and humane treatment of prisoners was the one you had murdered.


Things were becoming very clear, in the cells. Things were coming into focus. It was the cruelest irony. You had killed Padmé to be with Anakin, accidentally framing him in the process. Now she was dead, but you would soon be joining her. And you still didn’t have Anakin. He didn’t even know that you did it for him.

In some sense, you were content with it. You played hard and… you lost.

You lost Anakin.

There was another part of you that wanted to riot, rip the stone out from the walls, break the door down with your bare hands, make the galaxy tremble with its rage at such a loss. But you kept it hidden, deep down. You were going to die, and you didn’t want to spend your final few days in a tither.

A knock, on the door.

You sat up, knocking your single pillow to the floor, eye wide. No one knocked when they came in. No one came in, period. The only human contact you had with the outside world was when your food was dropped off, shoved through the small slot at the bottom of the door.

Were you supposed to call them in? It wasn’t like you could open the door yourself. You cleared your throat, nerves in your stomach. “Come in?” Was your execution moved up? Were they going to interrogate you again? Torture you, this time?

The door swung open.

Your lips parted.


He was standing at his full height, an imposing figure in the doorway, face entirely closed off. Was he truly there, or were you hallucinating?

You got off your bed, knees shaking. You pressed your back against the wall. Needed the stability. It was impossible to move, impossible to do anything but stare in awe. “What are you doing here?” You whispered.

Had he found out? Realized why you killed Senator Amidala?

He stepped inside, eyes darting around the meager interior. The door shut behind him. His lightsaber, the one you had used, was on his hip. “I was talking to Master Kenobi,” he said quietly.

His voice, low and soft and directed at you, made you shiver. Your nails, having grown out in your time in the cells, scraped against the wall. “About me?”

“Yes. You and… the Senator.”

You wondered if the pause was because he had to stop himself from calling her Pamde, as usual, or because it hurt just to bring up the former title of his former love. How long had it been? A week? What was the usual period of mourning? You stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

He moved in further, closer to the middle of the room. “He was under the impression that your motives for murdering her were fueled by—” He stopped, cutting himself off. Anakin looked away. You traced the sharp line of his jaw with your eyes.


Love,” he spat. Like it was a disgusting word. You cringed away from it, heart thumping unevenly in your chest. “He believes you killed Padmé because of love—or whatever pathetic excuse for it someone like you could feel.”

Closer, closer, ever closer to you.

You stared at his feet. “Is that so?”

“Is it true?” When you didn’t reply, he raised his voice. “Tell me! Why did you kill her?”

Your lips parted. Dust poured out of your mouth and landed on your feet, filled the room like a flood, until you were standing chest deep in it and tipping your head back to desperately gulp down the last few lungful’s of air available before it went up your nostrils and filled you, like a hay doll, turning you into a stiff carcass. You closed your mouth. Cleared your throat. Blinked a few times, and realized all the dust was gone. “I did it for you.”

Time itself paused, pressed itself against the cracks and corners of the cell to make way for the two of you. He didn’t move, didn’t change at all but for the slow spread of ice freezing his features into an unrecognizably cruel expression. “For me?”

“Because… she didn’t love you, Anakin, not the way I do!” Now that you were starting, it was impossible to stop. The words spilled out of your mouth while you stared at him, begging him with your eyes to understand. “She’s—was—a spoiled princess, you have to understand, I saw the way she treated you, I saw that she didn’t love you! Not the way she should’ve, not the way you deserved. I had to kill her—I had to kill her so you would see how better off you are without her, you never would’ve left her on your—”

It was like a wall slammed into you, your body hitting the floor, all the air knocked out of you in one loud scream of pain. You couldn’t get up—someone was standing on you, but you couldn’t see them, couldn’t draw in enough breath to clear the spots from your eyes. Wheezing, you tried to blink away the blurriness to find Anakin, make sure the wall hadn’t hit him too. You gasped out half of his name before the person standing on you increased their pressure, grinding your head into the floor.

When you managed to spot him, he was standing, to your surprise. Staring at you. One hand clenched in a ball at his side. You stared at that fist for a few moments before it clicked in your brain what he was doing.

“Ani—please!” You choked out. Every inch of your body felt like it was being pushed through the floor, like he was trying to send you back to hell. Tears broke free of your waterline and poured down your cheeks. Gritting your teeth, you tried not to sob. Didn’t want him seeing how much it hurt.

He was mad.

You deserved it.

He needed to let out his anger.

You were the only safe option.

He strode over, crouching next to your body. When you felt the cool leather of his glove stroking over your head, you thought he was soothing you. Then he grabbed a handful of hair and yanked your head off the ground, forcing you to look him in the eyes as your neck was borne to his mercy. “You’re kriffing insane,” he hissed before throwing you away from him.

The pressure let up slightly. Enough for you to push yourself up to your knees and watch him pace your cell, hands digging through his hair. Choking on your sobs, you said, “Please, Anakin, please…”

“Please what?”

“Please, forgive me.” It was a whisper, a shriveled, broken branch you threw onto the floor in the hopes of him picking it up.

He stilled once more, staring at you with the most horrified look yet. “Forgive you? Forgive you? You killed my wife!

It echoed off the walls, painting the stone with the cursed tragedy of it all. Blurred your eyes until you were digging the heels of your palm into your lids and trying to grind out the dust. “Your wife?” You croaked pathetically. Wife. Wife, wife as in married, as in holy matrimony, as in till death do you part, as in—

As in you were the death that made them part.


You felt sick.

Shivers racked your body, the guilt too intense to be held inwards, needing a physical way to come out. “I’m sorry,” you sobbed, turning your head away in shame. “I’m sorry, I love you, I’m so sorry…”

He moved in one fluid motion, his hand crossing his body to grab his lightsaber while his legs propelled him towards your body. You barely had time to lift your head and see his face contorted into a sneering glare before there was a flash of silver in your peripherals, the kiss of cold metal, and then your eyes popped with bright splotches of pain erupting from one aching pulse point on the side of your head. This aching pulse was soon echoed on your other temple when your head met the ground and bounced dully off the stone. You cried out, curling up and wrapping your arms around yourself to protect from any further attacks.

But he was unstoppable, rolling you over and pulling your hands away, peering down at your face, crumbled and botchy and discolored. He shook his head at you, just once, before his jaw twitched and he was spitting on your face.

You cringed away from him, not daring to move enough to wipe it away. You figured if you just kept your head down and didn’t try to fight back, eventually he would get tired. You felt his spit sliding down your cheek, mixing with your tears and the blood that came from your skin breaking when he struck you.

“You’re pathetic,” he snarled. “You’re just a serving girl—you think I would ever choose you? You think you even hold a light to Padmé?”

You closed your eyes, unable to look him in the eyes. He was so close, his breath brushed your face. “I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry.” Your voice repeated itself, the influx of emotions forcing you to repeat the only two basic truths you were sure off, the only constant in your cell.

“You don’t know what love is!” His voice cracked your head open, spread your blood and brains all over the floor. “You’re so pathetic for scraps you would take whatever I gave you, wouldn’t you?”

Your tears pooled on the floor beneath you. Pressing your forehead to the stone, you relished the coolness on your burning skin. His hands flipped you onto your back, held you down by your shoulders. “Tell me to stop,” he ordered. His hands went down your sides, squeezed your tits through your shirt. Anakin didn’t take his eyes off you. Looking at him for too long hurt, so you stared at the ceiling and let the blood blur your vision.

You didn’t want to make him stop. This was your apology, the only apology you could offer him. Your submission. You, as a punching bag. You, as the receptacle of his pain. You could handle this. You would handle this. For him.

When his fingers dug into your ribs, pulled the skin taunt, you gritted your teeth and groaned, but said nothing. And when he shoved his hands down your pants and yanked your underwear half off, you stayed silent.

For him. Always for him. He could take whatever he wanted, every inch of you was already his.

“Oh, you really are desperate, aren’t you?” He breathed. He stood up, curling his fingers into your armpits and forcing you to your feet. He shoved you against the wall.

Weakly, you raised an arm to wipe at your face. Your jaw trembled.


You raised your head sharply, forehead crinkling with confusion. “I’m sorry?”

He sneered. “Take off your clothes.” Every word dripped with hatred.

Unsure, tentatively, you started to shrug off your shirt. The cold air bit at your skin, forced your nipples into peaks under your coverings. When you paused, holding the shirt to your chest, he ripped it out of your hands and threw it across the room.

“All of it.”

All of it.

This is for him, you thought while undressing, kicking your pants away from your ankles. For Anakin. For the man I love. This is to help him. He needs this. With that in mind, it was much easier to slowly bare yourself for him.

Briefly, you wondered what the guards would do if they came in right then. Would they even bother stopping him? Or would they just take a long lunch, assured that the murderer was getting what she deserved? You weren’t certain it was the former. You couldn’t imagine anyone who knew what you did feeling much sympathy for you. By the time you were done, fully naked, you were shivering and scared, curling into yourself without completely hiding.

Anakin crossed his arms, staring at you until you were covered in goosebumps. “I bet you’re enjoying this,” he said quietly. “I bet you love the attention. In fact, you’re probably turned on right now, aren’t you, servant trash?”

You jutted out your jaw and shook your head. There was truth to his statement, but not in the way he presumed. You loved—being touched by him, even if it was painful. You loved him hating you so much he couldn’t walk away. You loved… knowing that you took up so much of his mind.

The cruelest irony. You had what you wanted, in the only way you never dreamed of. Your hard work paid off, but it might cost you your body and soul.

Looking at the way his honey hair brushed the top of his shoulders, the way his chest strained against his shirt with every heaving breath, you decided it was worth it.

“Touch yourself,” he snapped.

The word didn’t register right away. You blinked at him before clenching your stomach and holding your breath. He gave you no time to question it before he continued—

“Prove it, trash. Touch yourself and prove that you don’t like this.” His eyes bored into yours, pinning you like a butterfly against the wall.

Peeling your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you managed to croak, “Please, Ani—”

Don’t make me force you!

He was loud enough that it startled you into action, one hand falling near the inside of your thigh. Part of you wanted to crumble to the floor and weep for mercy. The other part knew that there was a fraction of him that might listen, and knew that if he pitied you enough to walk out right then, he would never come back. And you would rather the pain—endless pain, searing pain, emotionless and heart-breaking pain—than the loss of Anakin forever.

So, you closed your eyes and brushed your fingers against the outside of your core, dragged them through the damming evidence.

“Admit it,” he whispered. “Tell me what you are.”

You choked, almost gagged on your words. “I’m wet.” The words fell to the floor between you like a gauntlet from the ancient times, a challenge to his dedication to his revenge.

Footsteps. When you opened your eyes, he was closer, barely a hand’s width away. If you wanted to touch him—and you did so badly—all you would have to do was fall forward, let him catch you in his arms, breathe in the smell of him and forget about all the problems and tribulations that led you there.

But first, you had to let him release his anger. For his own health, he needed this.

“You’re pathetic.”

“I’m pathetic.”

His eyes flashed—he looked almost mad that you were so compliant. In a flash, his hands covered your shoulders, blunt nails digging into your skin through the thin fabric. Even when you flinched, he moved closer, trapping you between his chest and the wall. His breathing, hot and heavy, was enough to push your hair out of your face slightly. “Taste it,” he snarled. “Taste how filthy you are for me.”

Shaking, you lifted your fingers, eyes focusing on the slight smear of your own wetness. In some settings, you figured, this was foreplay. The thought was enough to solidify you. Sucking in a sharp breath, you ran your tongue over your fingers, cleaning them of the tangy sweetness. You tried your best not to react to it at all, but couldn’t stop from wrinkling your nose a bit. You were a romantic—tasting your own wet wasn’t exactly the most heart-stopping thing you had imagined.

Anakin opened his mouth, full lips parting and rising over his teeth to curl in some snarl pulled from the primal, animalistic part of his brain that knew this submission was only to placate him, not out of any real intimidation on his half. How could you be afraid of him? You loved him. And maybe you didn’t entirely know what love was, but what other word could there be for the pure, shining link forged between you two?

His face was completely closed off. You rolled your tongue against the roof of your mouth, hoping to scrape off the excess taste.

His honey eyes fell on your hand—the one that had been in your mouth.

He picked it up.

Hands—warm, soft, calloused, big, sturdy, perfect. Perfect. He slowly raised it, eyes tracing the crack of every knuckle and curve of every finger, and he—

Used the Force to crush your bones like an annoying beetle.

You screamed. Louder, higher than you ever had before. The kind of scream that bounced off the walls just to backhand you with its volume. Reeling away, you ripped your hand out of his grip, which only made it hurt worse. Blinding pain ripped through your skull, your hand seizing before you could stop it.

You kept screaming. Mostly because of the pain, but also because there was satisfaction in screaming. Satisfaction in knowing no one would hear you.

You screamed and screamed, finally letting out all of the anger and sadness and pain that had been stewing in your gut, feeling as though you were going to explode lava from your mouth if you kept going. You screamed even when Anakin touched you, shoving his fingers inside of you and scraping them against your inner walls as though you were a fruit he was carving out. Screamed when he smeared yourself on your face—eyebrow to jawline. Mixing it with the blood and tears already drying. Screamed less in pain and more as a statement—Look at me. Look at what you’ve done. Look at who you’ve hurt. Am I nothing to you? Am I nothing?

Anakin kept touching you. His fingers skillfully caressed your pussy until you were whimpering, broken fingers shoved in your mouth—the old, childish force that made you think that was any safer than out in the open—eyes fluttering open and shut.

His own pair was like a set of lasers on your skin, burning you open. “Stars,” he murmured. “You really are a whore, aren’t you? A desperate, filthy whore that nobody wanted to touch. That’s why you killed her. Because no one else would come near you—not anything as used and broken as you, not when Padmé was alive. Even dead, she still outshines you.”

You gritted your teeth and whipped your head from side to side. “No!” You shouted. “I did it for you!”

His eyes had taken on a peculiar yellow shade. “Oh, just admit it,” he said mockingly. “No one in the galaxy would come near you. You’re just—you’re just a parasite, trying to suck the life out of everyone around you. You take and you take and you take, like a greedy fucking hole. Do you know what we do to parasites?”

For once, the feeling of his breath across your face was terrifying.

“We get rid of them.”

The stone bed was barely a foot’s width away, so it was easy for him to shove you face down onto it. He held onto your hips to keep your legs straight, feet planted securely on the floor.

“Touch yourself—your chest,” he ordered.

You defied him for the first time all evening, shaking your head. The broken hand was pinned between you and the stone. In a way, the pressure helped.

Behind you, he growled, then it felt like two invisible, weightless, texture-less gloves were slipped over your hands. These gloves moved your hands of their own accord to follow his directions.

The Force. Of course, you should have considered that your refusal would mean nothing to a man with powers people dreamed about having.

Your fingers curled against your breasts, squeezing them. On your broken hand, it felt like burning hot sand was poured into every drop of blood you had, grating and blazing its way through your bones.

“You like it,” he snapped. “You like this.”

It was the most curious thing. Like he had cast a spell on you, your mind, which was previously rioting against your positions, quieted, and began humming contentedly. The pain didn’t stop. But with every twisted, fractured, sickeningly wrong twist of your fingers, your core throbbed more and more.

The skin moved loosely over the splintered bones. It was all red and purple and green and blue and utterly, utterly destroyed. At times, a certain piece would push against the thin barrier like a bug waiting to crawl out. It was a nauseating sight. Yet nothing stopped you from openly moaning against the bed, feeling your wet drip down your thighs, more desperate to be filled by him than ever. You’d let him break your hand—let him break every bone in your body until you were just a bag of shards and blood—anything he wanted, so long as he just gave you his cock already.

You didn’t care. The pain was nothing—was more than nothing, was actually a thrilling edge to the way he moved his hands up and down your sides. His hands were warm against your cold skin. When they reached your thighs, he pried them apart easily, baring yourself for his viewing pleasure.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Stars, Anakin, I need you in me so bad—

A sharp pain rang through your head. He had backhanded you from behind, reopening the barely clotted blood wound on the top of your head. Instead of the yelp of pain you would have normally let out, you moaned. “Parasites don’t get to beg,” he scorned. “Parasites take what they’re given, don’t you? Don’t you?

“Yes! Yes, we do, please, give me something—anything!—I’ll take anything, please, please,” you wailed. Your fingers, still moving of their own accord, rolled your nipples into tight pebbles against your chest. Every surge of pain from every bruise, cut, scrape, or aching spot on you just made you more desperate, more hot, more weak for him. The blood from your head dripped into your mouth and you gasped, rubbing your ass against him as much as you could.

He mumbled nonsense while removing himself from his pants, breathing heavily. Blood pooled with your saliva on the bed beneath you. Your hips pressed into the stone, grating enough to peel off some of the fragile skin there. You tried to decipher what he was saying, turning your head to the side to hear better.

“Pathetic, fucked-up servant I’ve ever… desperate, unstable, fucking trash…” His hands pulled your hips into position, and you felt the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

Your breath caught in your throat. Eagerness, devotion, anticipation, and adoration disturbed your stomach, bubbling so hard it felt like you might float away from the elation of it all. Just before he pushed enough to breach you, he paused, and all of time seemed to stand still while Anakin thought.

One beat, two. “You don’t deserve this,” he breathed. “Don’t fool yourself. Did you really think I was going to give you anything after what you did to me?”

You throat seized.

“You killed my wife. And you’re still stupid enough to think it might’ve worked, huh?” A dark, rumbling chuckle moved through his chest, the vibrations sending chills down your spine.

When you spoke, it was a breathy rasp. “Anakin…”

“Shh, shh. Don’t speak. It’ll only make it worse.” He bent closer, lips brushing your ear. From the corner of your eye, you could barely see the dangerously calm look he had. “I’ll fuck you, parasite. But you won’t like it.  In fact, you’re going to hate it. You’re going to wish you never learned what love is.” His voice—a slippery, traveling snake sort of thing—caressed your skin.

Once again, there was the feeling of a physical change, a blanket cast over your body. For a moment, you couldn’t tell what he had done.

Then he pushed his cock inside you.

And you couldn’t stop screaming.

It was—

Everything you ever wanted, in the worst way possible. He moved through you slowly, filling you full—too full—splitting you in half—burning your insides—no doubt forcing your very bones out of the way to make room for him. It wasn’t the normal burn or stretch one felt during sex. This was—too much, too big, too intentionally violent for it to be anything but the willpower of one such individual gifted with the Force.

Your throat ripped itself apart from the stress you put on it. “No—NONONONO—”

An invisible hand on your jaw, slamming it shut so fast you didn’t have time to pull your tongue back, and your teeth sheared off the tip. Blood filled your mouth, spewing out the sides where your lips were still pulled back. The struggle to scream battled the undefeatable force holding your mouth shut, gluing your teeth together. You tried to kick your legs out, push him away, but he was too strong, too big, too overwhelming, pinning you down and inflicting your punishment in the same manner an executioner would kill a prisoner. Emotionless.

Maybe not entirely so.

While you choked and sputtered on your blood, Anakin’s blunt nails dug into your back, leaving lines of fire down your spine. The other had a steady grip on your hip, holding you in place for him to plow into. The warm liquid dripped down the back of your throat, disgustingly slow. The way he was moving, the way every pinpoint of contact between you two pulsed in agony, it was all on purpose, all done to maximize your pain.

Your teeth gritted against each other. Hands curled into your own waist, the ache from your crooked, shattered fingers practically a relief compared to the white-hot flare in your core. It felt like he was shoving a burning poker into you, fucking you with a branding iron.

“Pathetic, worthless, stupid piece of filth,” he snarled.

Legs burning, they collapsed under you, leaving only your upper body and his hands to keep you in place. Tears and snot dripped down your face. You sobbed harder, chest heaving for air. You could only manage miniscule breaths. Lungs screamed for air while you writhed on his cock like an impaled animal.

He was pulsing. Inside you, you could feel the way he moved, splitting your walls apart, bumping into every wall in place to stop him. Forcing his way through. Leaving no inch untouched.

The pain drove you out of your mind. Enough, at least, to make you deranged enough to lift your head up with all the intents of slamming it into the stone hard enough to knock you out.

He must have heard it, sensed it, predicted it, whatever, because the hand clawing at your back left to clutch the back of your neck, forcing your head to remain on the bed. Fortunately for you, his strong grip—long, lean fingers wrapping halfway around your throat—paired with your already limited supply of oxygen had you quickly stumbling into sweet, blissful, numbing unconsciousness. Black spots formed in your eyes while all noise faded out.

Darkness overcame you.

The last thing you felt was him pausing in his motions, watching you drift.

You came to in what could have been seconds, minutes, or years. An unfamiliar sensation tickled your back, something cold and ridged and—

His lightsaber.

Was this it, then? Would he kill you like this, injured and bleeding and still stuffed full of his dick? Did you have minutes or seconds left? Was the last thing you would see the brown, cracked wall of your cell?

Your jaw wasn’t held shut, you noticed. Carefully, you opened it, and a flood of blood oozed out of the side. Your tongue ached, your hand ached, your head ached, your legs ached, your guts ached. It felt like you had been trampled by a tauntaun.

When you attempted to speak, he quickly shushed you again. “Don’t tell me you were dumb enough to think you could away that easy. Oh, parasite. I envy your naivetés.” The tell-tale crackling sound of his lightsaber being activated came, inches from your back.

You held your breath.

It was so close that you could feel the heat, see the light dance off the walls.  

“Just hold still, and this won’t be too bad,” he said softly.

You felt the saber go lower, lower, lower. Until it was singeing the fuzz on your back.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please… make it fast.”

Inside, he throbbed. It made you shake, made your eyes shut.

The lightsaber finally touched your back. 

You blacked out again.

Woke up to the smell of burning flesh.

Blacked out.

Opened your eyes when he traced the injury with a finger.

Started screaming again when he dug his finger in to make it bleed more.

You fought to crawl away from him, digging your nails into the unbreakable bed beneath you. He tugged you back, sheathing himself entirely inside you again as easily as pulling a blanket over himself. Despite his strength, you continued fighting, nails cracking and ripping, tiny droplets of blood oozing out of your nailbeds. It was obvious you weren’t going to win this fight. But the sheer, mind blowing agony coming from your back was enough to make you panic, think you have a shot.

He didn’t even bother holding onto you with both hands, you were so weak.

You gasped for air, straining to look over your own shoulder. You saw him—smug, content in his decision.

“What… did you… do?” Every word was a struggle.

He met your eyes. Again, you noticed how yellow his were. Was it the light of the cells, or had you just never been close enough to truly see?

“I branded you,” he said plainly. Like he was announcing the weather. “With my mark. It’ll be there forever.”

Your lips trembled. “Anakin… I’m sorry.”

Stop saying that!” He shouted. “Stop apologizing! I don’t want your pathetic whining, I don’t want to hear you speak, it means nothing to me. Nothing!”

He was, you realized, still inside you. The pain had dissipated, however. Maybe he had dropped the Force trick. All of your pain was just pain. You never thought you’d be so happy for it.

Turning away, you pressed your forehead to the rock, breathing deeply. When you spoke, your lips brushed it. “Kill me.”

“What was that, parasite?”

“Kill me already. Just… end it.”

You were beyond caring. Beyond fighting. Beyond begging for anything but blissful release.

He paused, hand still on your back. “Ask again,” he requested.

Your brows furrowed. What did he want from you? “…Kill me.”

A sharp inhale. His hips twitched. “Again. Beg for it.”

“I—” You snapped your jaw shut, tongue sore and leaking blood. “Kill me, Anakin. Please. Please, just end me already, just—ah!

Your torturer cut you off with a rough thrust and a loud groan. “More.”

“Please, Anakin! Kill me!” You got louder, voice cracking. “Fucking kill me already—just let me go!”

Anakin panted heavily behind you, moving in and out, moving your body with every thrust. He kept going. Splitting you in half. Making you beg for the mercy of death. Soon enough, he was slowing down, groaning behind you, hands digging into your hips in bruises already long formed.

You thought he would finish inside you. He didn’t, though. Instead, he pulled out and began pumping himself over your back, bracing himself on the stone until—

Hot, thick ropes of semen hit your back, stinging when they met the still sizzling brand. After a moment, he ran his fingers through the release and began rubbing it into the wound, making you groan in pain. Your voice was almost entirely gone, body completely depleted of energy. All you wanted was peace.

All you wanted was quiet.

He stepped away, allowing your body to slide off of the bed and curl up on the floor. Blood stained your face, your chest, your hands, your thighs. You were shaking, sweaty, exhausted. Peering up at him, you couldn’t even make yourself hate him.

Tucking his cock away, Anakin took a knee next to you, watching your face carefully. His lightsaber was in his hand, activated, you didn’t even know when he had grabbed it.

He leaned closer.

“I’ll give you what you want, since you’re so desperate for it.”

Thank the stars, you thought. Thank the galaxy. You closed your eyes, waiting.

Seconds before the piercing light ripped through your chest, puncturing your heart and allowing your lungs, throat, and mouth to fill with blood, you decided that this was a fitting end. It was an ironic end. Maybe your true love was irony all along. Maybe you just had too much blood loss to really focus on the dramatics of the end of your life.

Anakin didn’t kill you, though. Not before he left you with his parting words.

“Don’t think death is a mercy here. When you arrive in hell, they’ll all know you belong to me, now. And I’ll show up for you sooner or later.”

The lightsaber crackled.

Goodbye, Ani, you thought.

He must have heard you.

“Goodbye, parasite.”