AN:

Cheire – Yeah he was almost 17 in that flashback. He tried to do the right thing :( And gosh thank you so much for that compliment! I'm so glad the characters feel fleshed out XOXO

Ivy – He would never want to. He's very attached to her. He said in the last chapter he'd never attach himself profoundly to another woman after he left his mother on bad terms, and then he met Padme, and told Obi-Wan that he'd never let go this time.

Skyberrie – Thank you! I agree. In every universe they would fall in love!

Guest – Ahh thank you!

Sunmoonwindandstars – Thank you for being so passionate about my story! It is really humbling to know people are ruminating over the characters and storylines! Yes Miraj is a slaver to the core you're so right. And Anakin would never want to cheat on Padme, he's besotted with her. I loooove your Ahsoka theory but Ahoska and Anakin met as kids, her parents and his mom were friends and they were in the car accident together. And honestly, the whole "going upstairs" thing makes me feel sick too – but as a writer, where that feeling is, is where I have to go :D

Angie – Thank you! Yeah the worst part is that Miraj has stolen a huge part of his life. I like Miraj's line too. A reflection of the movies – Anakin doesn't realize that the way you react to the bad things that happen to you is what shapes the person you become.

Choices, Consequences & Crucifixion (Part II)

Miraj was sitting on her bed, resting back on the headboard. A crude red hue shined over her face from the lamp beside her.

Anakin stood in the doorway, blotting out the light from the hall. One hand in his pocket, a forearm leaning against the door frame. His words were sharp, fiendish, loathing. "You want the park, you get another lawyer. You don't step foot in Padme's office again. You leave her alone."

Her lips curled, looking at him like he was ripe fruit. "Deal."

He headed over to the bed, revulsion in each step as he bowed under pressure. He couldn't quite look at her but her presence was loud. As he stood before her, she sat up straight and untied her robe, revealing nothing underneath. He glanced down and back up to her eyes with apathy, detachment. She was attractive; he just wasn't attracted to her.

His jaw flexed, chagrined, piqued. He felt his stomach flip. He didn't think he could go through with it. He felt the same ignominy he felt when he lived here. It made him feel sick. Working all day, doing whatever she asked. And then accompanying her in her bed – the only time she would relinquish control, and let him take charge. It was cathartic at times. He liked being in control; it gave him a sense of autonomy.

He used her too, as an outlet for all his frustrations, ramming into her, through all the hate and bodily reactions, all that whipped him with fear and agony. An adroitness of suspended disgrace. A small triumph by fingers, muscles, flesh with the hardness of metal, the focus of a machine.

She took his arms in her hands, pulling him down to her. His body hovered a couple of inches above hers, not wanting to fit his skin to hers. It would make it too real. Her mouth was on his neck, her blonde hair under his chin while his jaw clenched. She brushed her lips against his but there was no response. It took him a while to give in. And when he did, it felt like his mouth was in the wrong place. It made him pine for Padme's kisses. Kisses that were appetizing, enhancing, surpassing.

Miraj reached for the back of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Her hands explored his back, down all that lean, sinewy muscle. It felt like ice cold water being poured down his back in the dead of winter. Her long nails were about to scratch lines down his shoulder blades but she felt him shift under her touch.

"Don't." He warned gruffly, making sure she didn't leave a mark.

She lowered her hands down to his jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding them down to his thighs – only to find he wasn't quite ready for her. Miraj's head fell back onto the pillow, disappointed. "You need to get out of your head."

Anakin's voice was heavy, earthy, his hair long, falling over his forehead, and his features brooding, deep-set with discomfort and hesitance. "Just give me a minute." He fidgeted, tense, as he reached down to stroke himself, trying to cleanse his frenetic mind of the abhorrence he saw in himself.

"I don't have all night." Miraj was irked.

He struggled with it all. Shame, guilt.. All he could think about was what he was doing to Padme. What would she think of him?

He reminded himself. I'm doing this for Padme. And he rewired his brain. If you can't stop thinking of Padme, think of Padme.

He closed his eyes, fixating on the vision of Padme writhing under him. The succulent lips, the hypnotic eyes that weakened him. He pictured sliding his hand along the back of her neck – his favorite part of a woman, a kryptonite. He felt powerful with something so delicate, vulnerable in his hands. Yet she felt safe in his hold. She'd let him cradle it, squeeze it, possess it, a sign of trust.

Trust. There his mind went again, running wild, unforgiving, a torture. But he forced himself to focus. He brought back the image. Padme's lush skin under his. Devoting his time to Padme's breasts. Imagining her pert nipple in his mouth. His tongue wetting the path to her hips, wanting to touch her velvety flesh that clamoured for his mouth. Her soft thighs wrapped around his neck, as he was about to taste her sweetness–

–but the fantasy vanished from under his eyelids when Miraj placed her hand over his on his penis that was now hard. The intrusion felt vulgar, almost sore. His mouth that was opened by the intense breathing and daydreaming had now snapped shut as he swallowed a gulp of dry air. He opened his eyes to Miraj underneath him, guiding him to her entrance, pushing him inside her.

Her fingers clutched onto his hips, making sure he filled her up. Their naked bodies were like steel on steel. That's how it felt with the absence of emotion. Hard and cold as metal. His body was rigid. His thrusts were a bore. He had turned cold inside her. Emotionless. Robotic. Detached. Mechanical. And she hated it. This wasn't him. Where was his fire?

She didn't want this. She didn't want just a quick release. She wanted an experience. Alive, soul-yanking. She wanted to feel what it was like to be the object of someone's desire. A woman someone hungered for. Anakin may not have hungered for her, but he did have a hunger in him. A burning lust, a fire, explosive. An indulgent desire to make things the way he wanted them to be. Always did. And it was attractive.

Her eyes shrunk into darkness and determination, her fingers either side of his head like inflexible, cramped muscles, forcing him to face her. "You do this right, and I promise your secret's safe with me. I'll take it to the grave." Those same veiny fingers now moved to his lower back, pressing his hips to hers, holding him deep inside her. She tipped her chin up, looking at him while she dug her nails into his lower back with a compulsive streak, deliberate, sardonic, severe. "Now fuck me like I'm your wife."

The words cut through him, acidic, making his throat burn, parched. Anakin grabbed her face, his breath quick, his palm hard against her chin, his calloused fingertips digging into her cheeks. He was venomous as he growled. "Don't mention her."

But she didn't seem to mind, especially since it led to him giving her what she wanted. Emotion. The anger alone had his eyes dilated, contorted with anguish, and him pumping into her with more oomph now, channelling all his hostility, resentment, hatred into each violent thrust.

His ferocity had her in thrall. The bed shifted out of place, its wooden legs scraping the floor. She held onto the headboard for dear life, feeling like her soul would fly away, she'd be ripped apart if she let go. But that's what she wanted. She goaded him to get rougher. She wanted to him to act like he felt something. Anything. Even if it was just rage. It was still real, primal, and most importantly it proved her right.

He was finally alive inside her, reactive. And for her, it was glorious. To win. She met his thrusts with the same velocity. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, her mouth dropped open. The bludgeoning orgasm steamrolled out of her.

And he linked it all together. The blindness, errors of his broken philosophy pitted against her plan. Betrayal wearing and withering him like a wound left to scar, like an illness unrecoverable. That was what she wanted. For him to get angry. To bring out the side of him he was trying to suppress. To prove he was like her. A slave to his emotions — and would abandon all he worked for, his discipline, his ethics, for instant gratification.

He looked down at her and the smug satisfaction on her face. He realized he'll never get out. He'll be forced into an affair whenever she wanted. She would keep their secret over his head like a dark cloud, threatening him. It'll never go away. She'll never go away. He'd be enslaved to her forever.

He was stuck on the hamster wheel, wanting to jump off. Everything had faded into a hum in the background in his mind, even the cry of her orgasm. His head was spinning, out of control. And his gaze flicked quickly from the pillow beside her head and back to her. He remembered what Obi-Wan said: people do stupid things in the heat of the moment.

There was only one way to be free. One way out. She had said it. Her words simmered in his head. I'll take it to the grave.

And before he knew it. He was in that place. Where one went before committing crimes of passion. Where bells clang so loud, it's deafening. The pains, agony, death of sanity, a circus with thunderous yelling in his head. It all passed through him with the flicker effect of an old film camera, rolling images – one minute the pillow was beside them, the next it was in his hands, and then... over her head.

Her cries of pleasure were quickly replaced by screams of terror.

He felt Miraj's body fighting under him. His forearms holding the pillow down, smothering her. Her screams muffled, her hands slapping his face, his neck, desperately, despairingly. But nothing could break his focus, his vengeance. His dark side took over. This unblinking, unwavering power.

She finally stopped moving. The tempo of their battle faltered, leaving him with laboured breath and tense muscles. And everything was suffocating – the air, his thoughts, and now Miraj under that pillow. Everything went quiet, still... All he could hear was the sound of his own breath, puffing out into a long exhalation, irregular, haunting, wheezing, creeping, stalking him.

He could barely hold his head up, resting on his forearms. He slowly removed the pillow, exposing Miraj's lifeless face. And it was like he had finally stopped running to keep warm. The cold had caught up with him. He's still in the woods, the nightmare... It's still winter, and the sun wasn't coming. No pink-gold sunlight to melt the ice.

Anakin hurried off of her, almost tripping as he slid off the bed. His hands tugged at his hair, not knowing where to go from here. His long-term companion – fear – ever-present. He paced the room like a caged animal, a string of curses flung off his lips.

What have I done? He thought. What the fuck have I done?!

He scrubbed a hand over his face. And that one move wiped away the anguish and replaced it with a soulless glare, forcing himself to get it together.

Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down 'til the dark

Yes, and they will run you down, down 'til you fall

And they will run you down, down 'til you go

Yeah, 'til you can't crawl no more

Anakin tapped down the final layer of sand on the grave.

"There." He grabbed the edge of his t-shirt and wiped the sweat off his face, taking in a moment of purgatory. "Back with your husband."

He then leaned against the shovel, exhausted, extinguished by a victory. A victory that didn't feel victorious. There was a little relief, a little fear, but most of all, all he felt was... done. A concrete deadness in his critical faculties. He was eaten away by his own enactments – the thought of his own mortality ravaging him.

He threw the shovel into the backseat of his truck, and opened the door to the driver's seat. Grunting out with exasperation, "Fucking bitch."

And way down we go

Way down we go

Anakin slid in between the sheets beside Padme, hoping not to wake her. Lying on his back, he was about to shut his eyes until he felt Padme's dainty hand glide across his shirtless stomach.

"You showered?" Her voice sleepy as she nuzzled into his chest.

"I was uh covered in mud. . .from the shed." He prayed she didn't take note of his words stained with deceit, the rust in his voice, the glass-like fragility of his mood, and the heave which strangled him, a lifting and lowering of his chest with breathlessness.

She moaned softly, a delicious sound that alerted his heart, as her hand traveled down further, her fingers slipping under his boxers. "Well, now that you're home..." Her voice was so soothing, so voluptuous, so inviting, it made him ache in sorrow.

His long-fingered hand grabbed her wrist as gently as he could. "Not tonight. I'm tired." He lifted her hand up to his lips, giving her a small peck below her knuckles. He then rolled onto his side, away from her. He still couldn't shut his eyes though, for fear of what images would torture him in his sleep.