Characters: Padmé, Anakin
Summary: Well, maybe not.
Pairings: sort of Anakin x Padmé
Author's Note: Rated T for mentioned sexual situations; viewer discretion advised. As usual a more cynical take on their marriage ensues. Oh and, since FFN won't let me add anything to Star Wars (Movie section) right now, I'll be posting this to Star Wars: The Clone Wars instead.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars.
Sometimes, she gives him her skin to play with.
Padmé grimaces as she lowers herself into the bath—alone today; she's managed to get Sabé and Dormé to leave her alone for once, though she knows they're both just outside the door, waiting for any possible sign of trouble—and watches little water beads gather on her smooth, unmarked skin even beneath the water. There's still a dull ache between her legs, the inability to walk without some pain afterwards; Anakin is inexperienced and rough, and ardent to the point that he doesn't notice when she's in pain.
He just follows the pattern of one who takes and takes but never gives, even in this area. He takes his pleasure off of my body, and doesn't give a second thought to my own pleasure. He doesn't even give a second thought to my pain.
But when has he ever given a second thought to anyone's pain? Padmé asks herself bitterly. I don't think it's ever mattered to him.
She can only ask herself these sort of questions after Anakin's come and gone. As long as his presence still lingers within the confines of her opulent apartment, darkening the air, Padmé can not even think on these things at all, convinced that he might be listening.
Anakin is gone. Padmé can think.
The last nine inches or so of her hair unfurl and fan out in the water like the petals of a dark flower.
She always needs a bath after sex. She always feels so dirty after she's let her husband drag his hands over her.
Dark eyes open wearily and stare at the opposite wall, and then down at herself. Her breasts still ache.
Padmé's thoughts return to her bedchamber. There are probably a dozen pieces of jewelry hidden in the sheets as of right now—maybe they're catching the light of the late afternoon sun. Maybe half a dozen hairpins, a necklace, heavy rings, a jeweled hairpiece and a brooch. They'll have to be removed from the bed before she goes to sleep, lest they scratch her skin.
The water's nearly scalding.
She could ask Dormé and Sabé to look for them, but Padmé knows when enough is enough and they, Sabé in particular would only find that degrading. It's her jewelry; she'll find them and put them back in the appropriate jewelry box.
Padmé arcs one leg out in the water and stretches her toes. After walking in high heels with such narrow points, that truly feels good.
He broke a button off of the back of her gown in the haste to strip her bare and get her skin closer to his—and he didn't even give her time to close the blinds in her bedroom before pinning her down on the bed (The strength of those arms; I couldn't even move); anyone who chose could have seen them then and Padmé felt so, so exposed, so naked beyond the lack of clothes on her skin and more vulnerable than she had ever felt before. She'd never felt that vulnerable, not even with a blaster trained on her heart.
Ah, well. That's easily repaired. Dormé's a good hand with a needle, and even if Dormé can't fix it Padmé can always have the gown taken to a tailor. Buttons come off of gowns all the time; no one will think anything of it.
Padmé frowns a little bit. She'll have to wash the gown beforehand, though. Otherwise, the tailor might be able to smell—
Well, no use with that.
Sinking up to the crest of her collarbone in the water, eyes staring moodily across the expanse of water—it's a sunken tub with a lipless brim, round, maybe fifteen feet in diameter and nine feet at the deepest—the Senator hears nothing but silence and finds solace in that. At least here, she can be alone.
Here, there's no panting, no gasps, no half-forced, half-false moans of ecstasy convincing enough not to raise her husband's suspicion. No viciously heavy weight over her. No hands pinning her down and roving over her flesh with the enthusiasm of a man overly eager to stake out his domain, stroking her breasts and buttocks and thighs. No rough kisses on her mouth and eyes, on her neck and her breasts and her stomach, demanding her attention. No forcing herself to respond, to touch, to feel.
There are so many who would die to be in my place. There are so many who would give their souls to be under him, to feel his hands on her hips and his lips on her throat and to hear her name whispered into her ear by him.
Padmé doesn't like the way her name sounds when Anakin says it.
At first, it was a distraction, even a welcome one. She would come home from the Senate, weary and tense and frustrated, and Anakin might be there. Even in the early days she had noticed how rough he was with her body, never treating it like a breakable object but a creature he had full control over, not to worship but to spend, not leaving nor letting go until she was completely spent, lying back down on the bed, gasping, and his thirst was sated. Then he would leave, pulling his clothes on in silence, and not looking at her, as though she was a common whore. Anakin, who had known little love in the healthiest sense of the word, could not fathom how this could possibly insult her, so Padmé did not ask and merely gritted her teeth when he noticed her listlessness afterwards and grew sullen. Padmé noticed all this, but she hadn't cared.
The glamour was lost quickly.
Anakin isn't the first man Padmé's ever been with, though she takes care to make sure he never learns this (Anakin's jealousy and envy are terrible things and Padmé fears them the way she has feared little else in her life). With other men, she was the Goddess, a perfect form, something to be worshipped and cherished with slow, aching sweetness. With Anakin, she's a slave, someone to be dominated and used as he sees fit—And the irony of that never escapes her. Anakin, once a slave, needs desperately control in ever aspect of his life; Padmé begins to wonder just how far his control over her will extend.
As Senator Amidala, the whole Galaxy hears her, whether they want to or not. As Padmé, beneath Anakin, she has no voice. None at all. She is soundless, mute, and the words that escape her lips fall on deaf ears, are heard by no one.
The glamour is gone, and Padmé sees the rot beneath.
She sinks deeper into the bath, submerging her head now and swimming out to the center, wanting so desperately for the water's absolution to wash everything away. It won't, of course, because Anakin still shadows her flesh even now and there's an invisible brand on her thigh, binding her to him.
This isn't a distraction anymore. This is too much, even for her.
Padmé squeezes her eyes shut. She hopes Anakin will be called back to the Outer Rim before too long.
The phantom flesh-memory of hands on her throat, even there too rough for comfort, keep Padmé up at night like nothing else can.