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There’s something wrong with him, he knows- the depression, the malaise, the obsession he has with Padme. Though he knows she likes him, he can’t help but feel guilty- he’s watched her Senate speeches on repeat whenever they were available throughout his childhood and teen years. He has most of them memorized at this point, and has combed through and zoomed in on the moments where she doesn’t speak and just grins at her companions in the background. Despite her (very normal) affections that she expresses toward him, he knows that this level of attachment is unbecoming for a Jedi- the pinnacle of restraint that he’s trying to desperately to become.
On the good days, he knows the urges he feels can’t be normal. He pushes the frightening thoughts to the back of his mind when he inevitably fails to release them into the Force. He makes poor attempts to distract himself with katas, or mechanical fiddling, or taking joyrides on a stolen speeder bike in the middle of the night- always returning them well before dawn, their owners (for the most part) blissfully unaware.
But on the bad days he lets himself indulge the intrusive thoughts- fantasizing about what it might be like to cut it off- and the peace and control he would have afterwards.
----
It’s not right that he’d gone looking. He knows this. But in indulging himself, he couldn’t help but do some morbid research, and his findings had been more than fruitful.
In the depths of the Archives are records of the deep deep past and among those records are stories about the way Jedi used to be thousands of years ago. And in these records Anakin had found concrete reasoning to back up the ravings of his mind.
Back then, the Jedi had been an entirely male, mostly human order. Their lives were certainly far more sparse and prayerful, before they’d become warriors or developed the lightsaber. They were devoted beings to the Force and only the Force, and as such they’d been castrated, a symbol of one’s commitment to purity and solemnity. Anakin had read these documents with a sort of starry-eyed horror at seeing the frightening depths of his mind laid bare on the page and discussed clinically, and almost reverently.
The practice had changed at some point in the following millennia, along with the Jedi’s expansion to include women and Force-sensitives of most species, and their transition toward the path of holy knighthood. Anakin hadn’t managed to pinpoint what specific reformation had rid the Jedi of such a barbaric tradition.
As he’d read, searching for more and more gruesome details- any diagrams or instructions, though he half-heartedly told himself it was out of a purely scientific curiosity- he couldn’t help but wonder why the Jedi hadn’t bothered to finish the job. If it was in pursuit of true enlightenment through the Force, then why should a partial removal of the genitalia be sufficient? Surely, if castration was sacred, then a full removal of the organ must be doubly so.
----
Anakin scowls at his nude reflection in the fresher he shares with Obi-Wan, though not for much longer, as the Council had informed him that soon he would be assigned a padawan of his own. His reflection glowers back at him- hair slowly growing out, hanging shaggy in his eyes but not quite long enough to cover his shoulders- too broad now after years of exercise. He shrinks in on himself. Today is evidently one of the bad days.
Anakin sullenly inspects the lump of flesh between his legs, wondering if maybe he wouldn’t have such distaste for the organ if it was bigger. Or, perhaps any larger and he’d have chopped it off by now. He flicks it idly, watching it jiggle with disgust. It’s so soft and vulnerable and it sticks out so much- it doesn’t help that he compulsively shaves his pubic hair in yet another attempt to be smooth and clean- and it makes an awful outline in his pants that thank Force his tunics obscure and he wishes that he could somehow just melt it off and be clean and pure.
Or, he thinks as he grasps his cock in his durasteel hand, he could simply squeeze, tighter and tighter, no sensors in his hand to instinctually react to the pain as his body screamed out in protest. And the joints in the hand have been acting up lately, sticking and moving in jolts and so it wouldn’t be completely far fetched that it would get completely stuck, caging in tighter and tighter until his flesh was compressed, crushed into a gruesome semblance of ground sausage he’d seen coming out of a meat shop machine somewhere among the streets of Coruscant. Would the same happen to his balls, he wonders, or would they simply burst under the pressure- a brief, violent explosion spattering the fresher sink with bits of blood and organ?
It could be construed as an accident, he muses, especially if other people noticed his hand acting up, but it would be both embarrassing and out of character- the fact that he hadn’t fixed the mechanisms in his hand would be implication enough and such a bloody injury would require immediate medical attention. His cheeks flame at the idea. No, there was no way that he could give in to that intrusive thought without being forcibly admitted to the Halls of Healing for Force knows how long- perhaps he’d never breathe free air again.
Was there any sort of “accident” that could get the job halfway done? Anakin shakes his head wryly at the idea of “falling” conveniently onto a knife’s edge. Maybe he could just go down into the lower levels with a vibroblade or saw, hack it off and find some shady back alley doctor to stitch him up. That would save him the humiliation of Obi-Wan knowing, at least.
After that he’d be safe. Free of this burden, of his longing for Padme, free to finally be able to leave behind lust and attachment completely and commit his whole body to the Force. His stomach roils. Anakin is desperately afraid that his love for Padme- his lust, to be exact- so unbecoming of a Jedi, will twist and transform itself into something more gruesome and turn into- Force forbid- lust for his still-yet-unassigned padawan. It horrifies him, yet the thought remains, and on these bad days he can’t help but feel that it is inevitable. He’s managed to avoid the crèche as much as possible, and ensured that he would never be alone with any of the younglings. But he knows it could only have been a matter of time before the Council would assign him someone- and he assumes that the system of one on one Master and Padawan relationships must nearly guarantee abuse to some extent.
Anakin’s cock twitches mutinously at this train of thought, which is really something he tries to shove deep down in his soul, not even wanting to entrust it to the Force. He squeezes harder, a sharp burst of pain raking through his groin as some of the soft skin catches in the joints of his mechno-fingers. Please. He doesn’t want this, he knows, but his body betrays him at every turn and he is so, so, sick of it.
A knock at the door startles him and he jumps, clenching his hand further around his cock without meaning to and hissing at the pain.
“One second!” He calls, trying to sound as normal as possible while vigorously extricating his cock from the metal of his hand and trying to scramble for his clothes. He dresses hurriedly, flushing the toilet and running the sink purely for show, washing his hands and splashing his face for good measure.
He opens the door eventually to see Obi Wan puttering around the kitchen without a care in the world.
“All yours,” he announces and retreats to his room, cock twitching and sensitive from his grasp and the sudden return of his rough trousers.
----
Without the grasp of his metal hand, his cock is hard, suddenly and painfully so, swelling with blood as if it knows it has a limited time left to live and must savor the experience. Anakin rushes to his bed, diving in face first. He squeezes his eyes shut and reaches out for his lightsaber, left on the nightstand.
Anakin fingers the handle of his saber. He feels the rough edges of the grip, the opening through which the light erupted, the slim button that turned the blade on. It would be instant. It would be easy. There has been a point almost every day that the impulse comes to him to stab or slice somewhere, anywhere on his body- to press the hilt up to his chest, gut, or throat and turn on the beam- and he marvels at the Jedi Order for entrusting such dangerous pieces of weaponry to the majority of their ranks. Of course, he never voices this, or they’ll take it away. And his weapon is his life after all. At least to these modern Jedi who seemed to have forgotten everything to be known about the ancient ways of life.
Anakin holds the saber tightly, fingers splaying around the rough and smooth features. He rolls onto his back, releasing his traitorous cock from his pants and watching as it springs to attention. His thumb circles the button of the saber. He would have to be very precise, to avoid taking any of the rest of his pelvis off as well, though his cock standing at attention made an all too easy target for where to sever. And the wound would cauterize immediately, but then what? He’d still have to figure out how to urinate while it healed. And what was he going to do with a severed penis? Simply throw it in the garbage?
As his hand moves away from the trigger button, he laughs to himself. Reason has somehow prevailed yet again. He’s always been amused that somehow he’s made it through another day without giving in to his compulsions.
Having decided against drastic measures for now, Anakin can now feel his cock throbbing, begging for attention. He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. Obi-Wan was in the fresher now, so there was no use in trying to get it down with a cold sonic shower.
After failing to ignore it for a while, he gets up and grabs a towel, throwing it over his lap. He tells himself the towel is there for the mess, something he genuinely dislikes. But it also feels safer. He doesn’t like to see himself jerk off. If he could get off by touching himself through his underwear, he would.
Anakin grasps himself in long, rough strokes, his mechno arm thrown up over his already tightly shut eyes. The air is silent save for quiet, gasping breaths. He refuses to moan. Anakin wishes he didn’t enjoy this, but his body betrays him as per usual- he’s been pent up too long, so of course every fiber of his being is craving release. He tries not to think of anything at all, focusing solely on the feelings his body is communicating to him, but he can’t shake flashes of Padme- of Obi-Wan- of the younglings in their classes going through basic saber forms-
He takes a fist of hair in his metal hand and pulls sharply, as punishment for his awful mind, and when that doesn’t hurt enough, he swings back and lands a hard slap on his cheek. The metal hurts more than flesh, unsurprisingly. He imagines he’ll have a bruise tomorrow.
Realizing that trying to keep a blank mind is the opposite of helpful right now, Anakin caves in to one of his fantasies to help hurry this along.
He’s out in Coruscant, in a bar or an alley, it doesn’t matter. Or, wait- the back of a speeder bus. It’s late and crowded, and people press up against him from every side. It’s the last bus of the night, and everyone is desperate to make it home. A large man pushes him up against the wall. It’s dim, he can’t make out any facial features but he’s rough and tall, so large that Anakin feels tiny despite his six plus feet of height. The man’s hand pulls apart the fastenings on his trousers, the other one gripping Anakin’s throat, holding him in place. Anakin struggles, but there’s nowhere to move to on the bus, and his airway is too closed off to scream.
Anakin’s mechno hand mirrors the motion, clasping around his neck, pinching at the sides so as to not crush the windpipe.
Anakin is shaking against the wall of the bus, tears in his eyes as the stranger’s hand reaches into his underwear and grabs his cock, dry and rough and painful. He reaches for the Force but can’t find it in this moment. The other patrons of the transport take little to no notice. They press in closer as another crowd of people force their way on. The man flicks the tip of Anakin’s cock and the dry stroking is replaced with wet friction as his precome is spread across his length.
“So polite for me, baby,” The man whispers and Anakin feels hot breath at his ear. “You’re so smooth and small, you were practically begging for me.” Anakin shakes his head but his body is pinned in place, forced to accept the pleasure as the man strokes him. His hand is big enough to engulf Anakin’s length completely.
“So sweet,” the man whispers, and increases the speed. Anakin does his best not to whimper, not wanting the humiliation of the rest of the transport catching on to what was happening in the back. He bites down on his lip as he comes, hard enough to draw blood.
Anakin orgasms in silence, eyes still shut but watery now, a small tear escaping from beneath his lashes. He groans in frustration and glares up at the ceiling. Why that scenario has been his go-to for getting off lately, he has no clue. But he doesn’t like it. He gives his body a perfunctory swipe with the towel and curls in on himself, compulsively wiping his hand off. He hopes with equal fervor that there will or won’t be bruises. Is it a cry for help? He doesn’t know. Maybe some signs of poor mental health will be enough to dissuade the Council from saddling him with a padawan- or rather, saddling a padawan with him. It's too early to sleep, he knows, but he can't bear to face Obi-Wan right now, so he lies in sullen silence, staring ahead towards nothing.