Please have mercy

Purify

He reads books to her in bed, cuddled up with his arms around her frame, adding details of places he has been and anecdotes that contradict the lies told through the stories. She knows he isn't bragging about all the experiences he has lived through, he's just trying to make her see them through his eyes. And she has.

Her view of the world had been tainted by his words and his perceptions. Not having been to the planets in the stories, she has nothing to base her opinions on except for her past knowledge that comes from hologramed displayed classes from the temple or his intricately far more interesting tales.

He goes against what the temple preaches, he tells her all about the worst side of things, the gore, the battles, the sordid affairs that go on beneath the surface, and the absolute horrible nature of the kinds that have remained. He hates everything, except, for some obscure reason, Naboo, the Clone War era, and the Death Star. Which doesn't surprise her anymore.

But then he leaves and she's all alone, with little to do and no one to speak to. So, of course, when he comes back, she's excited to get his attention. She waits cautiously to see if he's in a foul mood, and if he isn't she runs up to him like a dog at the return of its master. An owner, that's what the contract said, husband is the embellishment of the term.

Still, he seems happy to see her wait for his return, taking her into an embrace as she fills him in on what he has missed during the day, inquisitions and inquiries, all of the stuff he decides to skip she now takes care of. She has no life other than the one he gives her, no option but to hope that she's doing enough to attract a fraction of his love. And to hope that it's enough.

She does her duty, she does what she's here to do without complaining or arguing, ending up against the bedroom window, bent over the back of the couch, or simply in bed. She prefers it in bed, even if there is no novelty to it, it's a great deal more intimate and a lot less shameful.

Her mind switches off, it's easier to be distant, and her body takes over with its predetermined ways and reflexes he has ingrained into her over their relationship.

She never gets used to the size of him, although she had thought that she would after all this time. Every time he fucks her, she gets exhausted, her body feels heavy and sensitive. Plus, she never gets a break. If he isn't having sex with her every day, he doubles up the next time, going and going and going until her legs are quivering and her mind can't focus on anything else than her tender flesh he leaves reddened and sore.

She doesn't think he's doing it for the sake of pregnancy. At first, she thought it was simply his part of the deal he was accomplishing to the fullest of his capacities, giving more than the needed one hundred percent. But then, she catches him pulling out suddenly, and if she's not dripping cum from between her legs, she's covered in it.

It's on her face, on her chest, on her stomach, and she forgets the idea of pregnancy altogether. At least he's doing it because he finds pleasure in her body whether he's doing it to conceive or not, she tells herself, it's a lot better than nothing. It could be a lot worse.

Since her body gets pleased, her mind should be as well, this is how it's supposed to work, isn't it? But she's unhappy most of the time, her thoughts are fogged and she dozes away staring at nothing just reliving the best moments trying to grasp onto something comforting and kind.

Her burn is not mentioned again but she sees the way he looks at it, how his eyes glint with satisfaction at seeing his trace left forever on her skin. He's never asked her to train again and she has never touched his lightsaber after it either. Somehow, she gets the idea that his desire to see her train backfired when she got at ease being around his weapon.