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Queen Amidala sits, back stiff and straight, either of her hands relaxed on the armrests of her throne. She watches silently with narrow eyes behind her veil as the members of her Council bow their heads and take their leave. Four of her handmaidens sit in their own seats beside her, two on her left, two on her right. Queen Amidala does not move, she simply sits, her piercing gaze fixing on the backs of her Council members.
There is an ache in the Queen’s temple she dares not let reflect on her face, focusing on regulating her breathing, as Amidala should. The head of Naboo’s Royal Security Force, Captain Panaka, steps into her vision and she blinks up at him as he begins to speak.
She does not hear a word of it.
“You are dismissed, Captain,” Queen Amidala’s monotonous voice permeates the grand throne room and clearly takes the captain aback, for he blinks, dipping his brow. His mouth opens and closes, hesitating, as if it is taking everything within him not to protest against her word.
“Your highness, I insist that I at least escort you to your chambers,” Panaka settles, standing a little straighter, hands locked behind his back. “These are dangerous times, and it is not sa—“
“I am more than capable of walking to my own room,” Queen Amidala interrupts. “I do not think the Separatists would be so bold as to attack me in my own palace. Besides, I have private matters to discuss with my handmaidens so I am telling you again, Captain, that you may take your leave.”
Panaka presses his lips together but the narrowing of his eyes does not go unnoticed by Queen Amidala as his gaze grows suspicious, flicking between the Queen and her handmaidens. Queen Amidala does not say a word more. She merely stares back at the captain, waiting for her orders to be followed.
“Very well,” Captain Panaka says at last, bowing to his Queen. The Queen notes that he does not look entirely convinced— of what, she can only imagine— she does not question him of his doubt, for he would not be wrong, after all. Queen Amidala watches as he turns and marches towards the exit, and only when he turns the corner does she allow herself to breathe normally.
“You’ve done well,” a voice says from beside her and Queen Amidala— or rather, a fraction of Queen Amidala— turns her head to the source.
She narrows her eyes at her friend. “I do not see why you could not be Amidala today, Padmé,” she says, grumbling when she realizes she is still speaking in the Amidala voice. She huffs, tapping a finger against the armrest of the throne in vexation, rolling her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “You know how much I hate politics.”
Padmé breathes humorously as she rises from her seat, circling the throne until she stands before the Queen.
“You and I are more alike than you think,” Padmé says, the shadow cast by her hood not enough to hide her thin smile. “You’re almost more like Queen Amidala than I.”
“But I am not,” the current Amidala’s voice raises and permeates the throne room. She inhales sharply, nearly forgetting the breathing exercises Sabé taught her. She rises from the throne, gathering air back into her lungs, calming herself. “And frankly, I do not think it is wise to be playing games when it is your…” she trails off, pursing her lips. It is she who plays the role of Queen Amidala at the moment, after all. She decides to correct herself. “…our lives…” she gestures to herself, to Padmé, to the other handmaidens in the room. “…that are at stake. We may dress like you, speak like you, walk like you, breathe like you, but it is you who is the Queen elect. I will not be able to live with myself, should I make a mistake that costs us everything.”
Padmé steps forth, an air of confidence she envies about her, a small, reassuring grin splitting her lips.
“You worry far too much,” she says, placing a hand on Amidala’s shoulder. She looks up at Padmé through the dark veil over her face, narrowed gaze unrelenting still. “I wouldn’t allow you to sit on this throne if you did not have my trust,” she continues. “Besides, as Queen, it is also my duty to know my people. It is not enough to simply know Naboo from afar.”
She scowls at Padmé, “you make it sound as though you are leaving again.”
Padmé presses her lips together in a thin, sheepish smile and squeezes her shoulder. She deflates beneath the palm of her friend’s hand— she knows there is nothing she can say to convince Padmé to stay.
“If you are going to go, then go,” she relents, to which Padmé’s grin splits again and she dips her chin, bringing the back of her friend’s hand to her lips.
“I knew you’d understand,” Padmé says, pulling away to make her way out of the room.
“I don’t,” she adds, just for clarification.
Amidala watches as Padmé nears the exit, eyes still narrowed warily.
“Take Sabé with you,” she orders, turning towards Sabé and nodding her head back towards Padmé. “It is not safe to travel around all by yourself. At least give me some peace of mind.”
Padmé groans and twists to peer over her shoulder at Amidala as Sabé dips her chin, stepping forward.
“Whatever you say, your highness,” Padmé teases, outstretching her arms and bending at the waist in a mocking bow, to which she earns yet another scowl. Sabé tries to stifle a laugh behind her hand as Padmé slides her arm around hers and tugs her away. Amidala watches the two girls as they hurry down the corridor until they disappear around a corner and she sighs, suddenly feeling the burden of Queen Amidala weighing down on her.
Her brain feels like mush, the hours of talk of Separatist attacks and countless attempts on Amidala’s life making her long for nothing more than her bed, for a slumber to coax her back into her dreams of a life far from war and politics. She wants nothing more than to strip herself of Amidala’s sweaty gown, of her suffocating corset, the large and quite heavy headpiece that locks her neck in place and to boil herself alive in the bathtub in her quarters, to feel the water seep into her pores, washing away the dramatic paint on her face.
She respects Padmé. She loves Padmé. She is grateful for the opportunities her friend has given her and she’d give her very life to keep her safe, to ensure nothing happens to her. There’s never been a ruler quite like Padmé in Naboo and the people absolutely adore her– they’d even bypassed a law just so they could keep Amidala as their queen. She simply wouldn’t be able to live with herself should something happen to her on her watch.
And she understands the weight of the responsibility that is being handmaiden to the Queen, she respects it, she is loyal to it. But sometimes, just sometimes, she longs to be herself.
She’s given so much to her kingdom, her planet. She’s never known a life outside of work, outside of war. Sometimes when she’s alone on a sleepless night, she’ll sit by the window in her quarters and stare into the stars and ponder how different her life would’ve been, should she have been born free.
If she had all the money in the world, all the freedom and carelessness in the galaxy, how would she be living her life now? Would she wear extravagant ball gowns, much like the ones Queen Amidala wears, and host the grandest of parties for only the grandest of people? Would she flaunt her money— would she be humble or proud? Would she build the biggest of palaces atop the highest of mountains and rule her own kingdom with an iron thumb?
Or would she be living a life in solidarity on some green remote planet somewhere, living a life off the grid, someplace in the Outer Rim? Would she instead use her wealth to somehow give back to the galaxy by growing crops or raising livestock on her own farm? Would she perhaps be a wife, even a mother? Or would she be alone, and if she was, would she be at peace with herself?
She ponders all the possibilities, the impossibility of it all, all the different outcomes and consequences. She builds new worlds in her mind only to dissect them, searching for the best possible one because as much as she loves serving Padmé and the Queen, she’s unsure if she believes that this is where she truly belongs.
She doesn’t know what it’s like to live a life on her own, to hold the reins to her own destiny. But perhaps it’s meant to be this way. And if it is, she can learn to be content with it— but there’s still some part of her that wants something different, to be a person outside of the Queen’s shadow. She knows it is wishful thinking. She knows it is foolish to dream of such things. She feels selfish for even having the mere thought. She knows where her duty lies and she knows her loyalty— for she reminds herself of the oath she gave Padmé everyday.
So she inhales, remembers the technique Sabé taught her to regulate her breathing, and squares her shoulders.
“Let us be off then,” she says to the other handmaidens and they dip their chins in response, falling into line behind her. She has to play the role of Amidala for only a little while longer, just until they arrive in their quarters.
She does not speak— Amidala always walks in silence, in power.
They turn a corner and she calculates how many more steps she’ll have to take as Amidala today, wishing she could quicken her pace but knows anyone could be lurking around these corridors. Just a little longer, she thinks. In mere moments from now, the world— your bed— is your oyster.
She can’t wait to take off this face covering and ridiculous headpiece first, to finally roll her neck around her exhausted shoulders, to work the kinks out of her weary muscles. She can’t wait to bathe, for her face to be bare, to feel fresh water on her scalp. She can’t wait to lounge in her freshly cleaned sheets, to close her eyes and to—
“Your highness.”
Queen Amidala stops. Regally of course, for even lost in her thoughts, she wouldn’t dare let her surprise slip through the cracks of the illusion of Amidala. She blinks at the man standing before her, careful to not let her annoyance reflect in her body language. She’s suddenly grateful for the veil over her face, because she’s certain her irritation could not be kept from her expression.
“General Skywalker,” she addresses him and he bows his head, dark blonde curls falling over his face and sliding back from his forehead when he straightens again. There’s a curve to his lips that seems innocent enough on a surface level, but laced with something else, an ulterior motive she knows all too well. “I was unaware of your arrival in Naboo.”
“Ah, yes,” Anakin Skywalker grins, locking his hands behind his back. “Obi-Wan and I landed half an hour ago. I hoped you wouldn’t mind my seeking you out.”
She’s exceptionally grateful for her veil now.
“Not at all,” Amidala replies, despite the narrowing of her eyes. “Although I must ask if you’ve sought me out for any urgent matters.”
General Skywalker’s chin dips and he steps closer, to which a dent forms between her brows as she eyes him skeptically. He must sense her annoyance, for the corners of his mouth twitch in such a way that only further vexes her.
“I was hoping, your highness…” his voice drops to just barely above a murmur, something that has more of an effect on her than she’s willing to admit. “…that I could have just a moment of your time…” he trails off again and she watches his eyes as they flick towards the handmaidens behind her. “…alone.”
She has to remind herself once again to breathe the way Sabé taught her. Of course he’d toy with her like this when she’s Amidala. When the other handmaidens are around.
“General Skywalker, I’m afraid I must decli—“
“I’d just like to walk with you, if for only a moment,” he interrupts, dipping his chin, staring into the space of her veil where her eyes are. Her jaw clenches and once again, she is thankful for the veil over her face. It is difficult, it seems, to act like Queen Amidala when Anakin Skywalker stares at her like that– as if she is a gem, the most delicate of jewels. She may very well be, considering her attire but it is more than that. Anakin sees her, like it is not the wealth and grandeur he sees but her, who she is. It’s off-kiltering, frightening even.
“A moment?” She asks for clarification.
Anakin’s eyes narrow when his smile widens. “A moment,” he repeats, a glint that suggests the opposite in his gaze.
She straightens, clearing her throat by swallowing the lump rolling at the base of her throat. She’s suddenly very aware of the throbbing muscle droning in her chest.
“Is the dismissal of my handmaidens necessary?” She asks.
Anakin Skywalker’s lips split into a grin. “It would certainly be ideal.”
She blinks to collect herself before turning to peer at her handmaidens over her shoulder, nodding. They each dip their chins in compliance before setting off past the Queen and General Skywalker down the hallway. Anakin turns to watch from over his shoulder as the handmaidens disappear around a corner, ensuring that there is no one else except for the two of them in the long corridor. She purses her lips beneath her veil, her vexation a fluttering pulse at her temple– she’s certain to hear an earful about this from the handmaidens later.
She feels him draw closer as soon as they’re gone and gasps when he dips his mouth to her ear, his breath like smoke from a fire warming her skin.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about a moment alone with you since Obi-Wan and I first departed Naboo,” Anakin says and she sharply inhales.. She pulls away enough to see his face, breath trembling when her eyes meet his. Her gaze traces the scar that splits through his right brow down to his cheekbone before her eyes drop to his lips, pink and full, sodden after his tongue swipes between them. A crease forms between her brows as she glances back up to his eyes that fix on her veil, an ocean so intense inside his irises she nearly can’t bring herself to tear her gaze away.
Something flutters deep in her belly, further fueling her aching vexation. A blazing trail of desire streams from her belly to her center the longer she stands there, caught in the trap of his gaze. She thinks he knows it because he can’t help the arrogant grin that tugs at her lips.
“Is that so?” She replies, voice wavering between her own and Amidala’s. She still tries to keep up the persona for the Queen’s sake, lest anyone happens to walk by. It’s difficult when he looks at her like all he wants to do is drag her into the nearest room and take her with not an ounce of control.
Anakin hums, tilting his head to better meet her gaze, fingers toying with the hem of her veil.
“I’ve been thinking about the night before I left,” he says. “How you looked, smelled, felt, tasted…”
Shame drowns her with a smoldering wave of crippling mortification and she inhales deeply, turning away to face the long corridor ahead. “I believe you wanted to walk with me, yes General?”
It’s a poor attempt at masking her discomfort but it’s better than having done nothing. She convinces herself of this anyways. He purses his lips and dips his chin.
“Yes,” he says, gesturing with his hand. “After you.”
She swipes her tongue over her teeth and begins to walk, painfully aware of Anakin's heavier steps beside her. She’s uncertain why she’s putting in so much effort to save her dignity around him when Maker knows the things they’ve done together. Perhaps it’s the weight of Amidala– mental and physical– that grounds her down in reality. Or perhaps she just hates giving in so easily.
That desire for freedom, to be herself apart from the politics of Amidala lingers in her mind. Perhaps it’s why she’s allowed herself to play this seemingly never-ending game of tug-of-war with Anakin for so long. He’s the one thing she has that’s hers– in a sense. He’s the one person apart than Padmé and the other handmaidens that knows her, that sees her. She doesn’t have to hide who she is around him. She can shed herself of Amidala’s skin around him, can be unapologetically herself around him– something she still struggles to do despite how many times he’s reminded her.
Perhaps she gives Anakin too much flack. Or maybe not enough. It’s hard to find reason when he looks at her as if all he wants do is unwrap her and toy around with her as if she is a gift.
Amidala’s clothes have never made her feel warmer.
A couple of courtiers walk past to which they bow in Queen Amidala’s presence, acknowledging the Jedi general beside her. She and Anakin both dip their chins in greeting and when they pass, Anakin peers over his shoulder, ensuring they are out of earshot before leaning in, his breath fanning her ear once again.
“What do you think they’d do if they walked in on you and I–”
“Anakin.” He blinks at her sudden clipped tone, pressing his lips together, perhaps to stifle his amused grin. It’s a feeble attempt– the creases by his eyes give him away.
“What?”
“Please.” Perhaps not the best thing she could say in this situation.
A snort. “I’ve never heard you say that so seriously before.”
She tries to force herself to regulate her breathing, exactly the way Sabé taught her, exactly the way Amidala should. Her attempt comes to no avail and everything suddenly feels so infuriating– the over-the-top headpiece sitting like a boulder on top of her head, the heavy robe practically burying her alive, the makeup, the pointed shoes, the veil. She snatches the veil and tears it away from her face, finally meeting his gaze without a pesky mesh wall between them.
“You are vexing, Anakin Skywalker,” she snaps, warmth snaking up the columns of her neck to her ears and cheeks. “Grueling. Arrogant. Infuriating.”
“That’s a lot of adjectives. And synonyms.”
“And I loathe you,” she snaps, stepping forth, rasing her chin in defiance.
Anakin’s brow furrows but his amusement still remains. “Is that so?”
“I loathe you more than I’ve loathed anything before.”
Another cocky grin. “Really?”
“Really.”
Her voice is grave. Serious. If he hadn’t known her any better, he might’ve actually believed her.
He steps forward, further closing the already narrow gap between them. He towers over her so he has to dip his chin to properly meet her gaze. He is a dark shadow eclipsing the light shining through the large windows behind him and it makes his face that much darker, the want in his gaze that much more intense.
“It’s adorable how hard you’re trying to convince yourself,” his voice drops to just barely above a murmur. It’s soft but effective— it drips like a fat drop of rain in the pit of her belly. His eyes seem to grow a shade darker and she struggles to find where his irises end and his pupils begin. It makes her mouth dry, her face incredibly hot. “I love you.”
A devastating blow. It feels as though all the air has been knocked from her lungs and before she can gasp, Anakin’s lips are on hers, breathing life back into her. Her fingers instinctively reach for his elbows, nails biting into the black fabric of his sleeves. His palms cup either of her cheeks, keeping her steady as his tongue swirls inside her mouth, overpowering hers with ease.
“Anakin,” she pants against his lips. When she pulls away, a string of saliva tethers them together. “Not here.”
“Yes, here,” he whispers, drawing her in, enveloping her mouth again.
It takes everything within her to push him back. “No,” she says, breathless. “Not where everyone can see.”
“Let them see,” Anakin murmurs, gaze fixed on her mouth, pink lips glistening with spit. She stops him with a hand on his chest before he can render her immobile with kisses again.
“Anakin.” Her voice is as serious as she can manage when she’s still breathless in the wake of his kiss.
He purses his lips, finally able to clear the murk in his mind enough to realize there’s some sense in her hesitation. His hand drops down to her elbow and he hurriedly leads her down the corridor in search of the nearest empty room.
She hopes and she prays for her sake, Padmé’s sake, Amidala’s sake, that no one is watching.
She hadn’t even enough time to process when Anakin finds a room because his lips are immediately on hers, shrugging off his robe, his hands in her delicately plaited hair, drawing her in. She can hardly hear the door slide closed behind them when Anakin is invading every one of her senses. Right now, Anakin is the nexus of her universe and she is merely lucky to be within his orbit.
He starts with her headpiece. How he manages to carefully unpin it from her hair without so much as hurting her is beyond her, but she’s far too lost in his kiss to even begin to care. He fumbles with her robe as she works at his belt, swirling her tongue inside his mouth, dancing with his.
“Ani,” she mewls against his lips, her skin erupting in gooseflesh when he’s finally managed to wrestle her out of her ridiculously large robes. He hums and it vibrates low against her chin when his kisses trail down to her jaw. Her tongue is heavy in her mouth, droning in the wake of his control. Her mind is a hot pool of magma she’s unable to sift through, to even make a coherent thought out of. All she can do is cry, “Anakin!”
His teeth are on her neck and she can feel the curve of his lips against her skin. She shivers when his warm breath fans the cooling saliva he’s left on her flesh.
“Too much already?” He asks, his voice low and husky, laced with arrogance. If his hands weren’t pawing at her hips right now, perhaps she’d have a witty rebuttal at the ready.
Unfortunately, with the skin of Amidala shed from her body, she no longer has the capacity for dignity. All she wants in this moment is all of him.
“Not enough,” she whimpers, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks up at him. “I just want all of you already.”
She watches the shift in his demeanor, sees the change within him through his eyes. She shudders beneath his darkening gaze but finds it within to draw herself closer, successfully undoing his belt, letting the dark piece of fabric fall to the floor. His tunic hangs open and panting, Anakin pounces again, cupping the back of her skull as their lips crash together.
Two waves in the midst of a raging sea, drawing away and pulling each other back in, a reckless battle for dominance over the other. They crash into each other again and again and again. She wishes to consume him, Anakin, the one person who knows her, who sees her worth outside of Amidala. He’s the one thing she has all to herself, even if they have to hide their affairs. He’s the one thing that is hers– he’s not Padmé’s, or Amidala’s, or Sabé’s, Rabé’s, Eirtaé’s, anyone else’s.
She’s as reckless as she’s ever been. Perhaps its the full day of political meetings or simply just how bad she wants him in this moment, but she’s a rabid animal, an unchained beast in the way she kisses him, touches him, grinds her hips into him. Anakin’s teeth sink into her bottom lip and she moans, throwing her head back, allowing him to tug it. When he lets go, her lip snaps back into place with a wet smack.
“So beautiful,” Anakin pants, sifting his fingers through the hair on the back of her skull, curling his fingers around the ringlets and tugging. Her mouth falls agape and her eyes flutter up at him just as he gathers saliva on the tip of his tongue. A breathy laugh drones in her chest as he spits into her mouth, coating her tongue, mixing with hers.
He mumbles a curse beneath his breath, wiping excess saliva from below her lip with the pad of his thumb. “Thought you loathed me,” he chuckles breathily. Though his arrogance vexes her, she can’t help her grin, unable to break away from his cobalt gaze.
“I loathe your arrogance,” she replies, whimpering when his other hand slides between her thighs, thumbing at her aching clit.
“Yeah?” Anakin says, a smirk turning his lips.
Her brows draw together as he rubs firm, tight circles at the apex of her thighs. “Mhm,” she hums, already feeling her mind begin to go numb. “Always troubling me when others are around.”
“Is that right?”
“Mhm.”
She gasps when she feels his fingers circle her entrance, still thumbing down on her clit. Her back arches and with his palm against the small of her back, he draws her closer, resting his chin atop of hers.
“So I should see you less, your royal highness?” He says, sliding his forefinger inside of her. One of her hands finds purchase on his bicep, nails biting in his skin while the other slams against the wall behind her, trying to keep herself up.
“N–no,” she mewls, squeezing her eyelids shut. His nose brushes below her ear, his breathy laugh rolling against her flesh.
“Are you sure?” He asks, sliding his finger nearly all the way out before slowly sliding back in. “Because you know how hard it is for me to control myself when I’m around you.”
Her toes curl in her shoes and his finger feels like so much but not nearly enough all the same.
“Anakin,” she moans, circling her hips into his hand. “Please. I just want–”
“If it was up to me,” he interrupts, his nose brushing against hers, middle finger joining his pointer inside her cunt. She tosses her head back again but his other hand is there to set it right, fingers tight when they tug at her hair. She manages to heave her heavy eyelids open, meeting his gaze. “I’d just take you right there in the throne room in front of everyone. Doesn’t matter whether you’re the Queen or not. I’d let everyone know who you belong to, who I belong to.”
Her eye soften at this and she leans in as close as she can, lips brushing against his.
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, allowing her to enjoy his fingers for a few more seconds before pulling away. She watches hungrily as he brings his fingers to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the glistening sheen of her arousal. He hums, leaning in for another kiss. She laps at his tongue greedily, biting her lip as he pulls away. “I’d do anything for you.”
Her heart drums against her chest. It’s an aching feeling, what she feels for Anakin. She aches as she feels herself drawing into him as if he were the core of a planet and she a victim of gravity. She aches as she leans in for another kiss, aches when her lips buzz with want for another. She aches when he holds her gaze as he sheds himself of the rest of his clothes, creating a dark pool of fabric at their feet. She aches as he pulls her in for another kiss, hooking his hands around either of her thighs, hoisting her up, pushing her against the wall. She aches as his kisses trail down her chin to her jaw to the delicate spot of skin below it, pinching it between his teeth to leave his mark there. She aches when his cock lines itself up with her entrance and finally works its way in. She aches when he moans her name– her real name– and rests his forehead against hers.
“I love you,” Anakin murmurs and she aches because she loves him too and she can’t believe it.
She can’t believe anything that’s happening right now. She can’t believe that she is here and Anakin Skywalker is here and he loves her just as much as she loves him. She can’t believe that he sees her as more than a decoy for Amidala, as more than a handmaiden. She can’t believe that she can even see a very real and very possible future where she is free– free from politics, Separatist attacks, heavy costumery and dramatic face paint that form small, angry marks on her face.
Love was something she’d never thought she’d have and now that she has it, she feels limitless. She feels utterly unlimited with Anakin, like she can do anything as long as he keeps touching her, keeps kissing her, keeps fucking her. Her fingers card through his hair as he thrusts up into her, groaning her name and sweet, dirty little nothings into her collar. She tugs at the hair on the back of his skull, prompting him to look up, finding her gaze through the haze of lust.
“You’re mine,” she whispers, still breathless. His face splits into a wide grin and his breath rolls over her cheeks when he chuckles, brushing his nose against hers affectionately.
“Yeah?”
She nods, unable to contain her own smile, so she wraps either of her arms around his neck and buries her face into his neck. “Mhm,” she hums.
“I’m yours,” Anakin murmurs close to her ear as he pistons his hips up into her harder, his fervor feral, unable to be contained. “All yours. Everything I am: mind, body, soul. It’s yours.”
His words trail straight down to the apex of her thighs and he growls when she tightens around him, a sharp curse escaping past his lips. Her mouth drops open and she digs her nails in between his shoulder blades, etching new marks into the scarred canvas of his skin.
“Please Ani,” she pants as he snaps his hips harder, clearly so close to his high, he can practically taste it. “I’m so close, I’m so close, I’m so close.”
“Yeah?” He rasps, using the grip he has on her hair as reins to center her face to his. Their eyes hardly have time to lock before his mouth is on hers in a wet, sloppy kiss. She mewls into his mouth, feeling the bitter sting of tears bite her eyes as she’s pushed closer and closer to the edge with each rough, pronounced thrust of his cock. “You’re gonna make me come too.”
It’s the way he says it– his voice low and rasp against her lips– mixed with everything else– his thrusts, his cock, his hand in her hair and holding her upright, his warm breath– that tips her over the edge. She tosses her head back into his palm and cries out his name, her orgasm rolling like a tsunami through her body, quaking her bones.
“I love you!” She cries, tightening her arms around his neck, drawing him in. “I love you– fuck, Anakin!”
His lips are on her jaw as he spills himself inside her, his hips stuttering as he bottoms out, either of his hands smoothing up the expanse of her back, simultaneously keeping her upright. She feels like she is burning everywhere. Her cunt, her skin, her chest, her lips– everything is on fire. She feels weightless in his arms and heavy all the same as she tries to catch her breath, allowing Anakin to guide her through the aftershocks of her orgasm.
When they’ve both come to, all she can do is lean back against the wall, wiping wet locks of hair away from his face, twirling strands of his brown curls around her finger. They simply stare at one another, unmoving, comfortable in the silence that ensues. His cock remains sheathed inside her but neither dare to move, unwilling to let the moment end even a second too soon.
In truth, she’s missed him while he’s been gone. She always misses him when he’s gone. And she’s realized she’s missed him while he was gone long before he was hers. She is neither a Jedi nor Force-sensitive. She is not blessed in the ways of the Force as he is. She is nothing more than a handmaiden– a body to stand in for Padmé as Queen Amidala when she needs her. Her life is not her own– her life is Padmé’s, Amidala’s.
With Anakin though, she finally feels like this life she’s living is her own to live. Things that seem so impossible feel possible with him. With him, she doesn’t feel like she’s living in the Queen’s shadow, nor even his– General Skywalker, Jedi Knight. Loving him– the ability to love him– feels like she’s finally holding the reins to her own destiny.
Anakin tucks a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
She laughs at the word pretty– its not unbeknownst to her that she must look like a wrecked clown right now with smudged Amidala makeup on. Still, her heart flutters in her chest when he says it. She can’t help but lean in, pressing a small kiss to the center of his lips.
“I’m just trying to think of how I can tell you I love you,” she replies, shaking her head. “And it’s funny because I was just thinking about how things seem so possible when I’m with you, but trying to tell that to you properly feels so impossible.”
Anakin laughs too, leaning in but not kissing her, his mouth hanging a whisper away from hers. “I think you put it to me perfectly just before you came.”
He steals a swift kiss before she shoves him away, brows drawn in vexation. Still, humor bubbles in her throat and this time, she allows herself to laugh as he catches her hand, pulling her back into his chest where she belongs.