Chapter Text
“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, you know,” Anakin told Padmé as he leaned in closely, and ran an intricately-designed set of durasteel fingers through her hair.
“How are you even more blinded by your love now than you were before?” She laughed, but she relished having him back.
“Because it’s only grown— that’s how.” Then, Anakin kissed her; kissed her as though he hadn’t in a long time, even though he now got to do this nearly every day.
They were sitting up in bed together; free of clothes, with their legs tucked under the sheets. It was nighttime, but neither of them was ready to sleep. They had talked a while, because they liked to do that... and now they were beginning to explore one another, because they liked to do that, too. Their twins were asleep, and for now, their family was safe.
Anakin had followed Obi-Wan off Mustafar after realizing what he had done to Padmé in his rage, and it was nearly a year later now. Their lives were still far from easy, but they were together. They even managed to steal for themselves many moments such as this one, where they were allowed to enjoy one another’s company without fear or hesitation. It should have been difficult for them to learn to trust each other again, after what transpired on that searing planet— however, they had found that the faith and love which had always flowed freely between them came just as easily now as it did before.
They were grateful for this.
And their escape was what they both called it.
“I love you, too— I’ll always be grateful you did the right thing for us,” as she leaned in closely, slipped her arms around his waist, and rested her head on the broad, warm expanse of his chest.
“I almost didn’t,” he answered as he embraced her protectively in return.
“I know— but you did.” Then, she kissed gently and reassuringly at his breastbone, while he simply squeezed her— because he never knew quite what to say to that.
Padmé was correct: He had, indeed, done what was right, even if he had done it nearly too late. That lateness was part of the reason he was still holding onto some of the guilt he felt over what he had done: He should have stopped so much sooner. This tendency to ruminate was part of Anakin’s nature, however much he tried to fight it.
“You know I’m still sorry, don’t you?” He asked her this often. Less often now that so many months had passed— but still often enough.
“I do, Ani... and you don’t have to be.”
“I feel like I have to be.” He raised his hand— his own hand; the one not nestled in her hair— and let the warmth of his fingers trail softly across the flesh at the front of her neck. Even if she could forgive him, he thought he could not afford to forget.
Padmé was quiet, now, as she enjoyed his touch— enjoyed it very much. She thought for a moment; said, “I’m not holding you responsible for Darth Vader’s actions, Anakin.” This was true. She did not see the man who had hurt her, then, as the same man who was sitting next to her now. Padmé had married Anakin, not Vader— and as far as she was concerned, her husband had never harmed her.
This belief; this knowledge, had settled with her over the months... it had, in fact, even inspired a certain, strange desire within her: One which had now begun to swell at the soft glance of her husband’s hand. It was not a desire of which she was proud; in fact, it would typically have been very unlike her to want something such as this. She had also felt, before, that not enough time had passed to address it.
Maybe, though...
Maybe now could be the right time.
She retrieved one of her own arms from around Anakin, and touched the fingers he’d left resting so gently on her throat. She asked, “...Can I tell you something?”
“Anything at all,” Anakin whispered. He loved being this close to his wife; it made him feel that she was truly his.
“It has to stay with us,” she started cautiously. She had wanted to tell him this, but was deeply uncomfortable with the idea of anyone else finding out.
“I won’t tell a soul,” and he meant it. There was not a secret he wouldn’t keep for Padmé, and nearly nothing he would not do.
She knew he wouldn’t ever lie to her, so with a deep breath she continued, “What Darth Vader did to me on Mustafar...”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted, before she could continue. He even withdrew his hand from her neck, slipping it out from beneath her fingers and resting it on her leg instead. He would never stop being sorry.
“No, no— what I mean...” She sighed, because this was difficult, and she hadn’t intended to make him feel as though he needed to apologize again. She replaced her hand on his; tightened her grip on him further with her other arm. “...What I mean is that I’ve been thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” He felt frightened at this, but again, he would do anything for her. What did she need him to know? What did she need from him?
Very quietly— Padmé was rarely embarrassed, but this did make her feel ashamed— she asked, “....Well... what if... Anakin did that to me?”
“I would never—”
“—Not out of anger, Ani... or fear. What if you did it because...”
“Because what?” He was confused, too, now. What was she asking?
“...What if you did it because I wanted you to?”
Anakin seemed to freeze. What was this? After hesitating for a very long time, “Why... would you want me to?”
Her shame nearly overtook her, now, but Padmé had always been courageous: “I think that if you did it...” One more deep breath to steel herself before finishing in a whisper, “...I think it might feel good.”
He tensed; she felt it in both the mechanical fingers in her hair, and in the much warmer hand on her leg. She felt it in his torso, as she clutched him. She worried, now, that she had made a mistake. She was about to say his name; then finally, he spoke again:
“Are you... being serious...?” Was this a test of his control; his resolve? Was she checking him for remaining traces of the darkness he was supposed to have abandoned? Surely, he was supposed to refuse to do this...? “I don’t think I could—”
“It’s okay, Ani. I’m sorry. I should never have—”
He cupped the back of her head as gently as he could with his right hand; interrupted, “—No, don’t be sorry. I just... I thought—”
“—It’s alright, Ani. Let’s forget it.” She had been wrong, she thought, to even consider asking him to do something like that intentionally.
But Anakin, despite himself, found he did not want to simply forget it. He also wanted to please her— always. “Would it... make you happy...? For me to...?”
Padmé nearly blushed, which it was very difficult to make her do. Into her husband’s chest, she answered, “...I’d like to find out if it would.”
He pulled back to look at her face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I trust you not to,” she said. She truly did— or else the idea of him taking her breath away in a more literal sense than usual would not have excited her like this.
Anakin thought. She trusted him enough to let him choke her? It almost didn’t make sense to him, but in a way... “....You think I have enough control to keep you safe...?”
She knew he did. “Yes,” as she looked up into his eyes. “I do.”
He shifted uncomfortably; glanced away from her. “I don’t know if I—”
“—You’re a Jedi, Ani. You don’t have to do it, but... I know you could.” She took her arm back from around him, now, and brushed his hair away to touch the side of his face gently. It made him look at her again.
He studied her expression, and then let his eyes scan the lovely pallor of her neck and chest. After untangling her hair from his shiny, steel fingers, he ran them down her cheek and along her jaw until they rested where his other hand had— just at the base of her throat. He did enjoy the way it looked there.
“What would I use...?” He asked her tentatively. “The Force...? One of my hands...?”
“Whatever you like,” she said. She could feel warmth rising within her; took her hand from his face and placed it on his chest.
He took a deep breath. Carefully; slowly, he began to apply the slightest bit of pressure to Padmé’s trachea with a cold, hard metal thumb. Her breath began to catch; he stopped— and she smiled.
A bit more breathlessly, “Just like that, Anakin.” She squeezed the hand he’d left resting on her leg, lifted it up so that it cupped her face, and nuzzled it gently.
There was no hand on his throat, but he felt short of breath himself— his heart beat quickly, and he could feel a very distinct arousal beginning to stir inside him. It was frightening and unfamiliar, but also exciting. Was this really something he could do...? When he thought about it— and he did, now— the idea of choking his wife out of a primal, sexual desire as opposed to fright or rage made him curious. If there was ever a thing to test his command of himself, then this was certainly it.
The challenge appealed to him, along with the exquisite appearance of Padmé’s lips as they had just begun to struggle to draw air. He was still scared; still hesitant— still unsure as to why she would truly want this. However, she did: He couldn’t feel any dishonesty from within her; couldn’t see a trace of it on her face, either.
She wanted to be grasped by the neck, and squeezed.
He was hard beneath the sheets, by now, and was certain she had noticed. He would have trouble, by this point, if he tried to convince her he didn’t want to participate in this... and that was because he did. His body betrayed him.
After giving him time to think— and herself time to look down and notice the physical manifestation of her idea’s allure— she asked with a smile, “Again?”
With his left hand on her face and the other on her throat, still, he pressed with his thumb once more— a little harder this time. The skin covering the soft hollow at the base of her neck yielded easily to it; more easily than even Anakin would have expected.
A strangled gasp, this time, before he let go entirely, and took his hands off of her.
“What’s wrong, Ani?”
“I’m scared,” he said, because he was always honest with her.
She slid her hand down his chest; let it rest on the large, prominent protrusion poking up from between his legs. “You’re not only scared, are you?”
“N-no.” He breathed deeply. “There are... other feelings, too.”
“What kinds of feelings?”
“Feelings I’m not sure I can control.”
“I know you can do it.” She always had believed in him. She gave him a coy look. “You could even consider it a type of training, couldn’t you?”
Anakin chuckled, somewhat bewildered. “Training?”
“Training,” she confirmed. “I’ve always wanted to help you become stronger.”
“You make me stronger every day, Padmé.” He had always felt this way.
“Then trust me— and trust in yourself, too.” She reached up with her hands and ran them both through his hair; one on either side of his head. She loved his hair— she loved him. She wanted Anakin to show her what he could do; what he could keep himself from doing. She wanted to feel her throat begin to close; yearned to see black smudges begin to invade her field of vision... then, she wanted her Ani to bring her back from it, like the hero she knew he was.
This would be good for him, she thought— and perhaps enjoyable for her, too, if her suspicions in that regard were correct.
She would never have admitted it; not to a soul, but Padmé liked— sometimes— to feel as though she belonged to her husband, in a way which would have been frowned upon by those closest to her. Anakin, too, would never have confessed his primitive attraction to the idea of having dominion over the woman he loved: He was supposed to have given up those sorts of urges.
This one compulsion, however, persisted.
Something passed between them; passed through their eyes, and through their skin as they touched one another: An acknowledgement that this strange thirst was mutual, and that they both wanted to test the act of satisfying it.
“...More, then, my love?” He leaned back in; replaced his hands on her. This time, he stroked her face with his steel thumb and used the warm one; the one made of him, to push on her throat. She made a sound that was both sensual and frightening— a garbled moan— and her hand shot down to squeeze his hardness through the sheet.
It scared him, but he trusted her... so, he decided to trust himself, too.
He hadn’t let go yet, this time, so through a drastically narrowed airway, she wheezed, “More.”
Without moving his hand, he leaned in to kiss her. Her lips felt so warm. He unclenched his fingers, and she gasped gratefully into his mouth.
“More, Ani,” she repeated. “Please give me more.”
He pushed her down gently; she laid back. He climbed atop her and straddled her, one knee on either side of her waist.
“I would do anything for you, Padmé. Anything.”
He meant that with all his heart; every tiny, cobbled-together piece of it. So, he pointed his right hand toward her— it shone in the dull light of the room— and twisted it in the air. Her head went back, and an invisible energy flowed from out her husband to lock the atmosphere right out of her... for as long as he saw fit.
It was alright, because she trusted him.