You woke up to a body shifting behind you. It seemed to freeze a moment later.
"Welcome back, little whore," a low voice murmured into your ear. Something in it made you, too, freeze; whatever gentleness he had held for you before was gone. There would be no more caresses or hushed pillow talk. You shivered as he pressed into your back; the sweat on your skin made the sweater stick to you. With a grimace, you scooted your head away from the cold, damp spot on the pillow; you had drooled in your sleep.
"I wish you wouldn't call me that," you choked out, strangling the words a little, not daring to sound too assertive.
You closed your eyes and tried to ignore his presence. This was all just a bad dream; you were really lying in a comfy bed with someone you liked, somewhere far away from here. A low growl left the lips behind you.
"Is that it? You want to pretend I'm your fucking boyfriend?" The cruel edge in his voice was streaked with something else—it almost sounded like he was mocking you.
You blinked back some small tears, pulling a fistful of covers close to your chest defensively. You didn't move away from him; it was sick, but somehow his touch still felt protective if you pretended hard enough. You could almost want it.
Large fingers reached up and brushed your hair aside with mock tenderness, tucking the strands behind your ear. He leaned down and kissed the lobe lightly, then the skin of your neck beneath. You shivered again, turning your head away from him; you breathed into your pillow, the heat of your breath warming the fabric for an instant before fading away.
"Is that it," he whispered to you, fingertips brushing your arm. He ignored your disobedience, kissing the back of your neck instead. His touch was gentle—but if anything, it was too gentle. You knew this was a sick kind of roleplay, insincere and dangerous. "Do you want me to be tender? Tell you I love you?" He said the words with thinly veiled disgust.
A small sob wracked your body; you squeezed your eyes shut to dam your tears. He made a soft clicking noise with his tongue, planting soft kisses down your neck. "Poor girl," he breathed, sucking on a patch of skin there, "you do."
The contact made you shudder; his stubble rubbed against you, soft lips pressed against your neck. It was too much. He broke the seal of his mouth on you with a light pop, saliva quickly growing cold on your skin. There would be a mark in the morning.
"That's ok," he murmured with false reassurance, placing one hand on your hip. He placed the other on your shoulder, rolling you gently onto your back. "We can make believe."
The sweater rode up to your waist; your lower back settled onto the warm swath of bed where he had been lying. You blinked up at him a few times, hot tears sliding down the side of your face.
"Is that what you want?" he asked, a threatening softness in his voice.
Something constricted in your chest. You nodded. He seemed to set his jaw, looking away for a second. He exhaled hotly through his noise, making a small noise of frustration. You gulped and looked away, too, staring into the mirror on the closet doors. Your reflection stared back at you, broken and desperate—begging your captor to treat you with kindness, if not only as roleplay.
You watched as his own reflection bent down, soft lips pressing against your neck a moment later. He planted a simple kiss; you closed your eyes again. It was easier to pretend that way.
"I missed you," he moaned, planting chaste little kisses up to your cheek. It sounded almost convincing; if you closed your eyes tighter, you were sure you could believe it. He brushed over your lips, hands wrapping lightly around your waist. "It was such a long day. I worked so hard." He brought one hand up to your face, stroking a cheek with his thumb. His mouth dipped to your neck, sucking the skin there into his mouth. You squirmed a little under him—your neck had always been sensitive, and his touch was shooting directly to your clit. He moaned in time with you. "I ate the lunch you packed for me; it only made me miss you more."
You get out a groan as he bit you lightly. You almost wanted him to shut up, but he had committed to his role now. It was too late. One hand raised itself to rub his back—he paused when you touched him, but didn't pull away. Instead, he pressed your lips to yours. You willed yourself to buy into his story, pretended that this man loved and cared for you. You kissed him back.
He pulled away after a few moments—you felt him shift above you, thighs straddling yours. You kept your eyes shut, only feeling him as he seemed to spread out above you, leather pants sheathing the growing erection that pressed into your belly.
"God, you're beautiful," he whispered to you, urgency coloring his voice. It was low and deep and suggested honey; his hands caressed up your sides, taking hold of the sweater. He pulled it up your body and over your head; you heard the fabric crumple somewhere nearby a moment later. "So beautiful," he murmured, mouth sealing around a breast.
A moan escaped your lips and you pressed up against his hips; it wasn't so wrong to want someone if you could imagine they loved you. He responded too, pressing his pelvis into yours. Shifting, he looped a forearm under one knee, repeating the process with the other. He moved to kneel between your legs, spreading you open, drawing your calves up to wrap around his waist.
You felt open and vulnerable—and safe, you convinced yourself. He put gentle thrusts to you as he kissed your chest.
"You missed me too," he moaned, desire clear in his voice now. He cupped your breasts, placing a kiss on your lips. "I'm glad I'm home with you."
You knew it was a lie; it was all a lie. There was no home or partnership or love here. But you drowned every little voice of dissent that dared raise its voice in your mind.
Your hands rubbed up his back and fisted in his hair; he grunted, pressing against you a little harder. His breathing had picked up, harder and ragged against your neck. "I love you," he whispered.
Your heart stopped; when it beat again, it felt like it belonged to someone else's body. You felt a small trickle between your legs and clenched around his waist.
He exhaled in the crook of your neck. He lifted his hips; you could feel his hands fumbling with the zipper of his pants. You heard him unzip a moment later, then the sound of leather getting pushed down. Skin replaced it, pressed flush up against you. Something wet trailed up and along your belly—the tip of his cock.
A hungry groan escaped his lips as he rubbed up against you.
"We don't use condoms because we're trying for a baby," he said suddenly, feeding you more backstory as he stimulated himself. You found yourself nodding stupidly; you would believe anything he said in this moment, too desperate to feel warm and safe. "You'll be such a great mother," he moaned absurdly, nuzzling against your ear. A hand looped under your shoulder, the other moving to grasp his cock.
You kept your legs spread willingly, pressing up into the man's body.
He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.
"I love you," he murmured, pressing into your heat. You let out strangled noises in time with each other, his hips keeping yours pinned down. He worked his length into you slowly—gently, like a loving boyfriend would.
"Grnmm," he fought to repress what you suspected as a curse word. "You're perfect." He snapped his hips once, thrusting up into you. "Fuck, you're perfect."
He chased his breath, seated inside you. Your hands gripped his shoulders; his did the same, pulling you down in time with his thrusts so you met his cock. You lost track of the kisses and the grunts escaping his lips, too lost in your own pleasure. Your eyes swam under their lids, no longer squeezed shut; you were happy to believe in fantasy now.
"Fuck," he groaned, a few harder thrusts following. "I love you."
And then he said your name.
It was like cold water on your face; your eyes flew open. You flinched—noticeably. He slowed to a stop.
"Shit," he growled. Tears were already forming; your reflection stared back at you, sad and pathetic, splayed underneath your captor. "Don't cry," he growled. It was a command, an order; there was no reassurance or comfort in his voice now.
Rough thrusting followed; he was staring ahead, refusing to look at you. You sniffled loudly, trying to catch your breath between tears. A large hand covered your face, covering most of your features.
"Fucking stop it," he hissed, anger clear in his voice. You choked back a sob—then you felt it: he was losing his erection.
"Stop. Crying." The words were unmistakable in their harshness. You tried to repress the tears, but you couldn't; even harder sobs took hold of your body then. He slapped your face; the other hand had flown to squeeze the base of his cock. He thrust deftly into you a few more times before collapsing, panting loudly over your shoulder. His cock slipped out of you, soft.
"Fuck," he growled.
This was bad. Very bad. You could feel the rage and frustration radiating off him, dark and deep and saturated. It clouded the air around you and made you choke, suffocating under its weight. You squeezed your eyes shut again, directing all your willpower to stop crying. The tears slowed, empty sobs shaking your frame underneath him.
He rose to his feet, lightsaber flying into an outstretched hand. You curled up into a ball, one arm reaching up to defend yourself, though you knew it would be in vain. He stayed deathly still for a moment before a red glow lit up the room.
Violent, guttural screams followed as he began destroying one of the panels of the wall.