Summary: Anakin Skywalker and Y/N share a long, complicated bond shaped by years of closeness, tension, and unspoken feelings. What begins as subtle teasing and quiet attachment gradually intensifies through shared experiences and a high-stakes mission that forces them into intimacy.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ only). This story contains detailed rough sex with dominant/submissive dynamics, perv Anakin, size kink, choking, fingering, teasing/grinding, deep penetration, heavy praise mixed with light degradation, possessive language, multiple positions, intense eye contact, hands in mouth, overstimulation, creampie. Includes elements of power imbalance, consensual non-verbal submission.
~3k words
Proceed with caution
Anakin Skywalker had known her for years, long enough that her presence had become as constant as the hum of his lightsaber or the pull of the Force itself. Y/N had been a fellow Padawan once, sharp-eyed and quicker with a witty deflection than most Masters. He didn’t need to announce that she was his to protect. The galaxy simply understood it through the way he positioned himself between her and any threat, the way his eyes tracked her across a room, the way his jaw tightened when another Jedi lingered too close during debriefs.
She never seemed to notice the depth of it, or if she did, she never called him on it directly. That was part of what drove him mad, her effortless teasing, her smart remarks that landed like sparks on dry tinder.
Anakin’s mind had a habit of twisting her words into something far less innocent. It was a private indulgence, one he kept locked behind the careful shields of a Jedi who knew better than to act on every impulse.
One evening in the Temple medbay, she sat on the edge of a cot, gently dabbing at a split on his lower lip from a sparring match that had gotten out of hand. Her fingers were cool against his heated skin, her touch precise and careful. The cut stung, but the proximity of her face to his made everything else irrelevant.
“You really need to stop letting Obi-Wan bait you into those ridiculous bets,” she murmured, her voice soft with that unintentional humor that always caught him off guard. “Next time he suggests ‘best three out of five with no Force,’ just walk away. Or at least don’t throw your whole body into the final swing like you’re trying to impress the archives.”
Anakin’s lips twitched despite the pain. “Impress the archives? I was trying to impress you.” She huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking up to meet his for a beat before dropping back to the wound. “My flattery won’t heal this faster, Skywalker.”
He watched the way her tongue darted out to wet her own lips in concentration. The image burned into his brain. Kiss it better then, his mind supplied instantly, dark and unbidden. He could already feel the ghost of her mouth on his, soft and hesitant at first, then—
Aloud, he said, voice low and rough around the edges, “You could always kiss it better.”
Her hand stilled. Color flooded her cheeks, that shy flush he loved pulling out of her. She pulled back slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ani.”
“What?” He offered a crooked grin, the one that usually disarmed her. “Too forward? Fine. Maybe just the cheek, then. For medicinal purposes.”
She shook her head, exhaling a laugh that sounded a little breathless. “You’re impossible.”
But she didn’t move away entirely, and for a moment the air between them thickened with everything unsaid. He yearned to close the distance, to taste the salt of her skin and the sweetness of her flustered denial. Instead, he let her finish cleaning the cut, committing every brush of her fingers to memory while his blood ran hotter than it had any right to.
Days later, she finally wore him down on the flying lessons. She had begged—politely, persistently—for months. “I’m a decent pilot, but you’re you, Anakin. The best. Just one session. I promise I won’t crash your favorite Delta-7 into a moon.”
He had refused at first. The thought of her in the cockpit with him, the two of them sealed in that tight, vibrating space, made his control feel paper-thin. But her eyes had that determined spark, and her teasing edge slipped in: “Scared I’ll show you up, Chosen One?”
So he agreed.
The day of the lesson arrived. They squeezed into a two-seater Jedi starfighter for a short atmospheric run—tight quarters designed for agility, not comfort. Anakin took the primary controls, but to demonstrate feedback, he had her settle in front of him, sharing the seat. Her back pressed flush against his chest, her thighs slotted between his. The harness pulled them together, leaving no room for distance.
"Alright,” he said, voice tighter than he wanted. “Hands on the controls like this.” He demonstrated, his larger hand covering hers briefly to guide her grip. Her fingers were slender under his calloused ones. Gods, the way they’d look wrapped around— He cut the thought off viciously, focusing on the readouts instead.
She nodded, shifting slightly to adjust. The movement ground her ass against his lap. Anakin bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, hands tightening on the controls. Kriff. The warmth of her, the subtle curve of her body molding to his, it was too much. His mind flooded with images: bending her over the console, hiking up her robes, claiming her right there amid the stars.
“Anakin? You’re quiet,” she said, glancing sideways with a small, teasing smile. “Worried I’m about to loop us into hyperspace by accident?” He forced a chuckle, the sound strained. “Just making sure you don’t.” And trying not to cum from the way your body feels this close.
Sweat beaded on his brow as she leaned forward to adjust a readout, pressing more firmly into him. He nearly came undone then, biting back a groan. The flight lasted barely twenty minutes, but by the time they landed, he was aching, possessive need coiling tight in his gut. He excused himself quickly, retreating to his quarters to stroke himself furiously to the memory of her body against his, imagining her moans as he filled her.
The mission that changed everything came weeks later. They were deep undercover on Coruscant’s lower levels, tracking a Separatist informant through a seedy club pulsing with bass-heavy music and neon lights that painted everything in sinful hues.
The air reeked of spice smoke and sweat. Their cover was simple: a couple looking for a private moment away from the crowd. But the informant had brought backup, suspicious eyes scanning the room.
Anakin felt the danger spike through the Force just as they slipped into the dimly lit refresher at the back. Two figures lingered near the entrance, murmuring into comms. If they were discovered now, the whole operation collapsed.
Without hesitation, he moved. His hands found her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of the sink. She gasped softly at the sudden motion, her legs parting instinctively to make room for him as he stepped between them.
The size difference hit him like a punch—how small she felt in his grip, how easily he could maneuver her. His body caged hers against the mirror. “You're going to have to pretend,” he whispered slowly against her ear, voice gravel-rough. “Make it sound real. They’re listening.”
Her eyes widened, shy uncertainty flickering before determination set in. She understood immediately. A soft, breathy moan left her lips, tentative at first, then building as she committed. The sound shot straight to his cock.
Anakin’s hand slid to the back of her neck, thumb pressing lightly against her pulse. He leaned in, lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear, then lower, kissing and nipping at her neck in a way that blurred the line between performance and raw need.
Her scent overwhelmed him. Her little sounds—half-real, half-forced—grew more convincing, a quiet whimper here, a gasped “yes” there. He was rock-hard in seconds, his erection straining against her inner thigh where their bodies pressed together.
She noticed. He felt the subtle shift in her breathing, the way her thighs tensed around him. But she said nothing, only continued the act, her hands clutching his shoulders for balance. He fought the urge to grind against her properly, to make the pretense reality.
The door hissed open. A gruff voice cut through the moans: “Kriff, sounds like someone’s getting properly fucked in here. Lucky bastard.” Laughter followed, then retreating footsteps. The danger receded. Their “performance” had sold the cover perfectly. Anakin didn’t pull away immediately. His forehead rested against hers, breath ragged. Her eyes met his—shy, flushed, but steady.
Later that night, back in the safehouse apartment they shared for the mission, Anakin couldn’t take it anymore. The memory of the bathroom stall was seared into his mind. Her hesitant breathy sounds against his ear. The perfect way her thighs had parted when he lifted her onto the sink. The flicker of awareness in her eyes the moment she felt how hard he had become pressed against her.
He had thought about it the entire time. Now he stood in the dimly lit main room wearing nothing but a low-slung towel knotted at his hips. He was already painfully hard, the thin fabric tented obviously, every small shift sending another insistent throb through him. Jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides, he simply breathed through the ache, years of want burning hotter than ever.
The door to the small bedroom area slid open. Y/N stepped into the shared space, wearing a simple loose tunic and shorts. Her eyes found him immediately — tall, tense, the blatant evidence beneath the towel impossible to miss. She paused, cheeks warming with heat.
“Anakin…” she whispered, voice soft and uncertain, twisting her fingers together. “I’m sorry about the sounds I made in the bathroom. I didn’t realize how much it would affect you. I was just trying to make it convincing, but… I think I made it worse for you.”
Anakin’s lips curved into a slow, teasing smirk as he stepped closer, towering over her. “How sorry are you, exactly?” he asked, voice low and rough with dark amusement. “Sorry enough that you walked in here knowing I’d be rock hard and leaking for you? Or just sorry you got my cock this swollen without even touching it?”
Y/N’s blush deepened, her eyes shy and downcast for a moment. “I… really am sorry,” she murmured softly. “I didn’t mean to leave you like this.” That quiet, vulnerable apology without any teasing bite sent a fresh surge of blood straight to his aching cock.
“Come here,” he ordered, backing up until he sat on the edge of the nearest bed. He reached out, large hands gripping her hips firmly, and pulled her toward him until she straddled his lap. Her knees sank into the mattress on either side of his thick thighs, her clothed core hovering right above the towel-covered bulge. The heat of her pussy radiated through the layers, making his cock twitch hard beneath her.
He didn’t rush. He leaned in and kissed her slowly at first, deep and possessive, tongue sliding against hers as he claimed her mouth. When he pulled back, his voice was low and teasing. “Feel that?” He gripped her hips tighter and slowly rocked her forward, grinding the thick, towel-covered length of his cock against her core in deliberate circles.
The heavy shaft rubbed right along her slit through the fabric, the swollen head nudging her clit with every roll.
He kept the slow grinding motion, pressing the thick ridge of his cock harder against her, letting her feel every inch of his throbbing length and the way it pulsed beneath the towel. One hand slid under her tunic, palm smoothing up her stomach, thumb brushing just below her breasts but never quite touching.
“You’re getting so wet already, aren’t you?” he teased, voice dark with amusement. “I can feel the heat through your pants. My pretty girl is soaking her panties just from rubbing against my cock. How sorry are you now?”
Y/N’s breathing grew shaky, her hands resting lightly on his bare chest, but she stayed quiet, cheeks burning, eyes meeting his with shy submission. Only when her hips started twitching involuntarily against him did he finally push the towel aside, freeing his heavy cock.
It sprang up thick and flushed, veins prominent, the fat head glistening with precum. He wrapped one hand around the base and lazily stroked himself once, twice, while still holding her hips with the other. “Watch,” he commanded softly, teasing. “Look how hard you got me. This is all because of you.”
He slid his free hand down, tugging her shorts aside just enough to expose her. The tip of his cock brushed teasingly against her slick folds — rubbing up and down her slit, circling her swollen clit, dipping just barely at her entrance before pulling back. He repeated the motion slowly, coating his cockhead in her wetness, pressing just the tip against her hole and holding it there without pushing in.
“So fucking wet for me,” he praised, voice rough. “Your tight little pussy is dripping all over my cock and I haven’t even put anything inside yet. Good girl… you’re doing so well, letting me tease you like this.”
He kept kissing her, slow, deep kisses mixed with filthy teasing, until she was trembling and whimpering softly into his mouth. Only then did he slide two thick fingers through her folds and push them deep inside her cunt in one smooth thrust.
The stretch made her gasp against his lips. He immediately started pumping them, curling hard against her g-spot, scissoring her open while his thumb rubbed firm circles on her clit.
“Fuck… feel how easily you take my fingers now?” he growled, eyes never leaving hers. “So sloppy and ready. Good girl… taking my fingers so well,”
He fingered her hard and deep, the wet squelching sounds filling the room, praising her relentlessly. “That’s it… clench around them. Such a good girl for me.”
When her walls started fluttering desperately, he pulled his fingers out, gripped her hips with both hands, lifted her slightly, and pulled her down onto his cock in one rough, deep thrust, burying every thick inch inside her dripping pussy.
“Fuuuck—” he groaned loudly, the sensation overwhelming. “So much better than my hand… your greedy cunt is swallowing my cock so perfectly. Good girl… take every fucking inch like the little slut you are.”
He kept her straddling him and immediately started thrusting up into her with brutal, powerful strokes, hips snapping hard enough to make her bounce on his lap. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed as he drove deep, the head of his cock kissing her cervix with every punishing plunge. He kissed her through it all, messy, hungry kisses, tongues tangling while he fucked her senseless.
“That’s my good girl,” he praised between rough thrusts, one hand gripping her ass, the other wrapping around her throat. “Riding my cock so well… taking me so deep. Look how well your tight pussy stretches around me.”
He fucked her relentlessly in that position for long minutes before flipping her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head, and pounding into her even harder, the bed creaking violently beneath them.
“Eyes on me,” he growled, slamming into her with raw force. “Fuck yes… just like that. You’re taking my cock so well, baby. Such a perfect, Angel for me. Been waiting years to ruin you like this… and you’re doing so fucking good.”
He kept praising her through every brutal thrust — “Good girl… so fucking wet… take it all” — occasionally shoving his fingers into her mouth to muffle her sounds while he destroyed her pussy.
The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his gut, his heavy balls drawing up as he felt his orgasm barreling toward him. His thrusts became erratic, harder, deeper, slamming into her with raw desperation.
“I’m gonna cum,” he growled against her mouth, voice strained. “Gonna fill this tight little pussy up. You’re going to take every drop like the good girl you are.”
With a few final, savage thrusts, he buried himself as deep as possible, the head of his cock pressed tight against her cervix. His cock pulsed violently inside her, thick ropes of hot, thick cum erupting straight into her womb.
He groaned loudly into her mouth, kissing her possessively as spurt after heavy spurt flooded her pussy, warm, sticky seed painting her inner walls white, filling her until it was too much and started leaking out around his thick shaft with every twitch of his cock.
“Kriff… take it all,” he panted against her lips, still grinding deep as the last powerful jets shot into her. “That’s it… milk my cock with that greedy pussy. Feel how full I’m making you?”
When the last intense pulse finally faded, he stayed buried deep inside her, still kissing her softly now, slow, tender kisses while his cock continued to twitch with aftershocks, cum slowly seeping out around where they were joined.
A/N: I’m dealing with pretty bad writer’s block right now, so this isn’t my best work. I’d really appreciate any suggestions ✨
Summary: Exhausted Anakin Skywalker returns to your quarters covered in Felucia mud, sparking a petty but heated argument with you over tracking dirt across the freshly cleaned floor. After hours of tension and separation, you shift tactics—slipping into a revealing black slip to seduce him.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (+18 only) rough sex featuring dominant/submissive dynamics, choking, face-fucking with gagging and tears, light degradation mixed with heavy praise, possessive language, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, dacryphilia, make-up sex after an argument
~2k words
Proceed with caution
The argument had started over something so small it was almost laughable.
Anakin had come back to your shared quarters on the Resolute after a thirty-six-hour patrol shift, eyes bloodshot, shoulders slumped, the kind of exhaustion that made even a Jedi Master look mortal.
You’d asked him—perfectly reasonably, in your opinion—to take off his boots before tracking half of Felucia’s mud across the floor you’d just scrubbed. He hadn’t even looked up from unlatching his vambrace. Just grunted something about “later” and kept walking.
You’d snapped.
He’d snapped back.
Twenty minutes later you were both shouting about boots, about consideration, about how he never listened anymore because he was “too kriffing important,” and you’d stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door so hard the overhead light flickered.
Now it was three hours later. He was sprawled on the couch in nothing but low-slung black sleep pants, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting on his bare stomach. The blue glow of the starfield beyond the viewport painted stripes across the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that crisscrossed his skin like a map of every war he’d survived.
You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, still angry—but mostly at yourself now. Because the longer you looked at him, the more you remembered how rarely he let anyone see him like this: unguarded, soft around the edges, beautiful in a way that made your throat ache.
You were wrong. You knew it. And you wanted him to forgive you.
So you changed tactics.
You let your hair down, shook it loose so it spilled over your shoulders the way he liked. You slipped out of the oversized shirt you’d stolen from his locker and into the thin black slip that barely reached mid-thigh, the one he’d once growled was “illegal in at least twelve systems.” Bare feet silent on the deck plating, you padded toward him.
Anakin didn’t move his head but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Thought you were done talking to me, princess.”
His voice was rough from fatigue and smoke, but still velvet. Still dangerous.
You stopped just out of reach. “I’m not talking.”
He looked up slowly. Blue eyes—still a little glassy from lack of sleep—dragged over you like a physical touch. From your bare legs, up the cling of silk to the dip of your waist, lingering on the way your nipples had already peaked against the fabric.
One dark brow arched.
“Changed your mind about the boots, then?”
You bit your lip, shifted your weight so the slip rode a little higher. “Maybe I just missed you.”
He snorted softly, sat up in one fluid motion that should have been impossible for someone so tired. Elbows on his knees, he looked up at you through his lashes—mocking, teasing, utterly in control even when he was half-dead on his feet.
“Missed me so much you screamed at me for ten minutes straight about footwear?”
Heat crawled up your neck. “It was… a valid point.”
“Uh-huh.” He leaned back, spread his thighs wider, the outline of him already thickening behind the thin fabric. “Come here.”
You hesitated, just long enough for him to notice.
His grin turned sharp. “Don’t make me ask twice, baby.”
You stepped between his knees. He caught your hips immediately, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your hip bones, holding you still while he looked his fill.
“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Trying so hard to be subtle. You’re about as subtle as a star destroyer in hyperspace.”
“I’m not—”
“Shhh. You’re gonna ruin it if you talk.”
He tugged you forward until your knees bumped the couch. Then, with infuriating ease, he pulled you down to straddle one thick thigh. The slip rode up completely; only your panties separated you from the hard muscle of his leg.
You whimpered before you could stop it.
Anakin’s hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate. “There she is. My good girl’s back.” His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts through silk. “Thought I’d lost her to the boot argument.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
He tilted his head, mock-sympathetic. “Are you?”
You nodded quickly.
“Say it properly.”
“I’m sorry, Anakin.”
He hummed, pleased. Then he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you? Walking around like this, trying to play me. Like I don’t already own every inch of you.”
Your breath hitched.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Cat got your tongue, huh?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
His grin was pure sin. “That’s what I thought.”
He kissed you then, slow at first, teasing, letting you chase his tongue until you were making soft, needy noises against his mouth. Then he deepened it, one hand sliding into your hair to hold you exactly where he wanted while the other slipped between your thighs, cupping you through soaked lace.
“So wet already,” he taunted against your lips. “All this just to say sorry? Pathetic.”
You moaned, hips rocking shamelessly against his palm.
He pulled his hand away. “Ah-ah. Not yet.”
He stood suddenly, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. He carried you to the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind him, and dropped you onto the mattress with just enough force to make you bounce.
“On your knees,” he ordered, voice gone low and dark.
You scrambled to obey, kneeling at the edge of the bed while he shoved his sleep pants down. His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip. The size of him never failed to make your mouth water and your core clench at the same time.
He wrapped a hand around the base, gave himself one slow stroke. “Open.”
You did.
He fed himself into your mouth inch by inch, letting you adjust, letting you taste the salt and heat of him. When you hollowed your cheeks and swirled your tongue he groaned, long and rough.
“Good girl. Just like that.”
You took him deeper, eyes watering, until your nose brushed at his groin. He held you there for a heartbeat—two—then pulled back only to push forward again, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Look at me,” he growled.
Your eyes flicked up. His were blazing, pupils blown, staring down at you like you were the only thing in the galaxy.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at those pretty eyes. So innocent even when your mouth’s full of me.”
He slid deeper. You gagged softly; he didn’t stop. Instead he wrapped his hand in your hair, and pushed—slowly, inexorably—until your lips stretched wide around him and your throat fluttered.
“Breathe through your nose, baby,” he cooed, mocking and tender all at once. “You can take it."
Tears slipped down your cheeks. You moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk.
“That’s it. Cry for me. Let me see how sorry you really are.”
He fucked your mouth steadily after that, deep, controlled thrusts that had drool slipping down your chin and your thighs shaking. Every time you started to pull back for air he pushed you down again, holding you until your lungs burned and your head spun.
When he finally pulled out you gasped, coughing, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock.
He thumbed the tears from your cheeks almost gently. “So pretty when you’re dumb for me.”
Then he was hauling you up the bed, flipping you onto your back, ripping your panties off in one impatient yank. He settled between your thighs, notched himself at your entrance, and paused—just long enough to make you whine.
“Eyes on me,” he ordered.
You locked gazes with him.
He pushed in in one long, relentless stroke.
Your back arched off the mattress, mouth falling open on a silent scream. He was so big—always too big at first, stretching you open until it bordered on pain, until the pleasure crashed in behind it like a wave.
He bottomed out, hips flush to yours, and stayed there. Let you feel every thick inch splitting you apart.
“Look how well you take me,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Even when you’re being a brat, this little cunt still opens up for me like it’s begging.”
You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.
He started moving, slow at first, dragging out every thrust so you felt the drag of him against every sensitive spot inside you. Then faster. Harder. The bed creaked under the force of it.
One hand slid up to wrap around your throat—not tight, just enough to feel your pulse hammering against his palm. Enough to remind you who you belonged to.
He squeezed, just enough to make your vision sparkle at the edges. Your body clenched around him in response; he cursed under his breath.
“Fuck, you love that, don’t you? Love when I choke you while I ruin this pussy.”
You could only nod, tears slipping free again, eyes never leaving his.
He leaned down, lips brushing yours, voice a rough whisper. “You don’t know what you do to me. Driving me insane. Making me want to keep you spread out and stuffed full of me until you forget your own name.”
His thrusts turned brutal, deep, punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. The hand on your throat tightened again, thumb pressing just under your jaw, forcing your head back so you couldn’t look away even if you wanted to.
“Come for me,” he commanded. “Come on my cock like the good girl you’re pretending to be.”
You shattered.
The orgasm hit like a supernova, white-hot, consuming, your whole body locking up around him as you sobbed his name. He fucked you through it, relentless, drawing it out until you were shaking, oversensitive, pleading.
Only then did he let himself go.
He buried himself to the hilt, groaned your name like a prayer, and came hard—spilling deep inside you, hips jerking with every pulse. His hand stayed on your throat the whole time, grounding you, owning you, while his eyes never left yours.
When it was over he didn’t pull out right away. He stayed seated inside you, softening slowly, thumb stroking the column of your throat almost tenderly now.
You were both panting, sweat-slick, wrecked.
He leaned down, kissed you slow and filthy, tasting himself on your tongue.
“Still mad about the boots?” he murmured against your lips.
You laughed—breathless, dazed. “What boots?”
His grin was pure smug satisfaction.
“That’s my girl.”
He finally slipped out, rolled to the side, and pulled you against his chest—your back to his front, his arm banded around your waist, cybernetic hand splayed possessively over your stomach.
“Sleep,” he ordered softly, lips brushing your shoulder. “And next time you want my attention, just wear the slip. Saves us both a lot of yelling.”
Summary: Jedi General Anakin Skywalker grows obsessively fixated on a soft-spoken civilian seamstress who tailors the 501st’s uniforms, her pale lace dresses a stark contrast to the war’s brutality. Idle curiosity during fittings spirals into dark fantasies of pinning her wrists, stripping her fragile gowns, and claiming her innocence
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ only). Vaginal fingering, dirty talk, soft dom/sub dynamics, romantic / obsessive tension, strong language, dacryphilia, light choking, slight size kink, power imbalance, dark themes (obsession, corruption, war setting), implied future non-con/dub-con elements due to dark side influence. Anakin's POV.
~3k words
The first time I noticed her, she was barely more than background noise.
Coruscant’s lower military tailoring wing smelled of starch, heated synth-fabrics, and the faint metallic bite of ozone from overworked ventilation. I hated fittings. The war had turned every public appearance into performance art, and the Senate—those soft-handed vultures—decided the Jedi and clone officers needed to look heroic on the holos. So they hired civilians. Delicate little artists to stitch propaganda onto our skin.
She was twenty-one then, maybe twenty-two. Always in those pale, floating dresses, cream lace over blush silk, sleeves that ended in tiny ruffled cuffs, skirts that brushed mid-calf and whispered when she moved. Never practical. Never armored. Everything about her screamed untouched. Soft-spoken to the point of near-silence, eyes downcast while she measured shoulders and inseams like the numbers might bite her.
I told myself the first flicker of interest was only boredom. The war chewed men up faster than tailors could dress them. I was already sleeping four hours a night, already dreaming in red. A pretty distraction in white lace was harmless.
That first fitting room encounter was clinical. She knelt at my feet to pin the hem of the new dress pants—deep charcoal with silver threading meant to catch holocam light. Her fingers trembled slightly when they brushed my boot. I stared down at the crown of her head, at the way fine strands of hair slipped free from her low braid and curled against the nape of her neck. Fragile. Breakable.
I imagined—briefly, idly—what it would feel like to wrap that braid around my knuckles and tug until her chin lifted and those wide eyes met mine. The thought passed like smoke. I dismissed it.
Months passed in blinks.
She stayed. Most civilian contractors burned out or were quietly reassigned after seeing too many Jedi come back missing pieces. She remained, quietly promoted to lead designer for the 501st’s command staff. Her workspace moved closer to the barracks level. Her dresses stayed the same—always light, always detailed, always looking like they belonged in a garden on Naboo instead of a warship’s under-deck.
I began finding excuses to schedule private fittings.
“New scar tissue pulls at the shoulder seam,” I’d say, voice flat. “Fix it.” She never questioned. Never met my eyes for longer than necessary. She’d murmur apologies for the inconvenience, set me on the low platform in the small private booth, and work in silence while I watched her.
I learned her habits.
She bit the inside of her lower lip when a measurement didn’t match her mental map. Her breath hitched, barely audible, whenever my hand accidentally-on-purpose brushed the back of hers while reaching for the datapad. Once, when she leaned close to adjust the collar, I caught the scent of something floral and clean clinging to her throat. I wondered how it would taste if I pressed my tongue there, right over her fluttering pulse.
The fantasies stayed small at first. Controlled.
I pictured her wrists pinned above her head with one of my hands while the other traced the delicate embroidery along her bodice until the thread snapped. I pictured her gasping, confused, cheeks flushed with that innocent bewilderment she wore so well. I pictured telling her to stay still, to be good, while I peeled those ridiculous dresses off her like gift wrapping. I never touched her beyond what the fitting required. Not yet.
The war had teeth now.
I came back from Felucia with burns across my ribs and a new tremor in my left hand that no one but Obi-Wan had noticed. The medics cleared me for duty; the tailors wanted me camera-ready for the next propaganda circuit.
She waited in the usual booth. She’d lit a single low lamp this time, soft gold instead of the harsh overheads. Her dress was pale lavender that day, tiny pearl buttons running down the front like a ladder I suddenly wanted to climb with my teeth.
“Take off the tunic, General,” she said quietly. “I need to see how the new flex-weave sits against the scarring.”
I stripped without comment, letting the ruined shirt fall. She inhaled—sharp, involuntary—when she saw the fresh burns. Not horror. Something softer. Pity, maybe. Or worry.
Her fingers were cool when they ghosted over the edge of damaged skin, mapping where the fabric would need relief cuts. I didn’t flinch. I watched her face instead, how her brows drew together, how her lips parted on a soundless breath. “You should’ve come sooner,” she whispered. “This could’ve been prevented.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine for the first time in months. Wide. Uncertain. She swallowed. I stepped closer—just half a step—so her skirt brushed my thighs. She froze. “I like the way you worry about me,” I murmured.
Color flooded her cheeks. She dropped her gaze, fingers fumbling with the measuring tape. “I—I only want the uniform to fit properly, sir.”
Sir.
The word landed low in my gut. I caught her wrist—gently, but firm enough that she couldn’t pull away without my permission. Her pulse hammered against my thumb. “Look at me.” She did. Slowly. Like she was afraid of what she’d find. I leaned down until our mouths were a breath apart. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
“Don’t be.” My voice dropped lower. “I like it.” Her lips trembled. She didn’t speak. Didn’t pull away. I released her wrist. Stepped back. She exhaled like she’d been drowning.
I let her finish the fitting in silence, but the air between us had changed. Thicker. Hotter. After that day, I stopped pretending the thoughts were idle. The war raged. I was slipping and everyone knew it.
Obi-Wan watched me like I might detonate. The Council whispered. Palpatine smiled. I stopped sleeping almost entirely. She became the only thing that felt solid. I started requesting her presence outside the fitting rooms.
“Walk with me,” I’d say after a late briefing. “I need to clear my head.” She never refused.
We walked the upper observation decks, the ones rarely used after curfew. She stayed a half-step behind me, hands clasped in front of her, skirt swaying. I memorized the sound of her footsteps—soft, hesitant, always trying not to intrude. One night I stopped beneath the transparisteel dome and turned to her. “Stand here.”
She obeyed instantly.
I circled her slowly, studying the way starlight caught in the silver thread woven through her bodice. The dress hugged her waist, flared at the hips, left her collarbones bare. Vulnerable.
I reached out and traced one fingertip along the edge of her neckline—slow, deliberate. She shivered. “You wear these dresses like armor,” I said quietly. “Did you know that?”
“I—I like them,” she whispered. “I know.” My finger dipped lower, following the curve until it rested just above her heart. “They make you look like something I could ruin.” Her breath caught. I pressed my palm flat against her sternum, feeling the frantic beat beneath lace and silk.
“Do you ever think about what I could do to you?" She shook her head—small, frantic. “Liar,” I murmured, smiling without humor. “I see it in your eyes every time I touch you.” I slid my hand up to her throat—not squeezing, just holding. Possessive. Her head tipped back slightly, instinctively offering more skin.
“Good girl,” I breathed against her ear. She whimpered—soft, broken. I wanted to tear the dress off her right there against the viewport. Wanted to bend her over the railing and make her sob my name while Coruscant glittered beneath us like scattered jewels. Wanted to mark every inch of pale skin until no one could look at her without knowing she belonged to me.
Instead I kissed the shell of her ear—once, barely there. Then I stepped away. She swayed, eyes glassy.
“Go back to your quarters,” I ordered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She nodded mutely and fled. I stayed under the stars until my hands stopped shaking with restraint.
The end was close now. I could taste it. I no longer asked permission for anything. I summoned her to my private quarters on the Resolute after a holocall with the Chancellor left me raw-edged and furious.
She arrived in pale gold this time—almost translucent in the low light, every delicate stitch visible against her skin. “Lock the door,” I said. Her fingers trembled but she obeyed. I crossed the room in three strides, caught her face between my hands, and kissed her.
Not gentle.
Not tentative.
I kissed her like I was starving, like I’d been waiting years to devour her. She gasped into my mouth—sweet, startled—and I swallowed the sound. My hands roamed—down her sides, over the fragile waist of her dress, bunching fabric until I could feel the heat of her through silk. She didn’t push me away. She melted.
Soft little noises spilled from her throat as I backed her against the wall. I hooked one of her legs over my hip, grinding against her until she whimpered my name—my real name, not General, not Skywalker, just Anakin.
I broke the kiss long enough to rasp against her mouth, “Tell me to stop.” She shook her head, eyes shining with tears and something darker. “Say it,” I growled. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.
I groaned, low, feral, and kissed her again, harder. My hand slid beneath her skirt, found smooth thigh, higher, until I cupped her through damp lace. She jerked, crying out softly.
“So wet already,” I murmured, circling slowly. “You’ve been thinking about this.” She buried her face in my neck, mortified, nodding against my skin. I pushed the lace aside, slid one finger inside her, slow, careful, watching her face the entire time. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry. Tight. Perfect. Mine.
I worked her gently at first, then faster, curling until her hips bucked against my hand. She clung to me, nails digging into my shoulders, whispering please and Anakin and oh gods until the words blurred into sobs.
I wanted to take her right there, against the wall, on the floor, bent over my desk. Wanted to strip her bare and fuck her until she forgot her own name. Wanted to come inside her, mark her so deep no one else could ever touch what was mine.
I added a second finger, stretching her, thumb circling her clit. She shattered—back arching, thighs trembling, my name torn from her throat in a broken moan. I held her through it, kissing her temple, her cheek, tasting salt. When she finally sagged against me, boneless, I lifted her chin.
“Look at me.” Her eyes fluttered open—dazed, soft, utterly surrendered. I kissed her again—slow this time. Possessive. “I’m going to ruin you,” I promised against her lips. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”
She shivered.
I started to lower her to the bed—ready to strip her completely, ready to take everything—when the klaxon screamed.
Red alert.
I froze.
Reality crashed back—cold, sharp, inevitable. I stepped away, breathing hard.
“Go,” I said hoarsely. “Back to the civilian decks. Now.” She stared at me, swollen lips parted, dress askew, hair tumbling free.
“Anakin—”
“Go.”
She obeyed—stumbling slightly, clutching her skirt closed as she fled. I stood alone in the dark, still tasting her on my tongue, still feeling the ghost of her around my fingers.
And something inside me—something black and final—whispered that next time, I wouldn’t stop. Not for alarms. Not for anything.
"You guard doors," she continued, "and think yourself qualified to police minds."
Anakin Skywalker x Reader
Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Intense character conflict, psychological tension, and charged dialogue. Will contain smut later in the story.
The tension in the Theed Royal Palace throne room was not loud enough to announce itself. It sat beneath the hum of generators and the ceremonial hush, a pressure born of necessity rather than fear. Courtiers stood in practiced stillness, hands folded, eyes carefully unfocused, present but not listening. Everyone understood the stakes, even if few dared name them.
Anakin Skywalker stood at attention beside Obi-Wan Kenobi, spine straight, jaw locked. His robes felt heavier than usual, the fabric pulling at his shoulders like a reminder of restraint. He kept his gaze forward, anchored by his Master’s calm presence, an effort that required more discipline than he liked to admit.
He could feel the room through the Force: restraint layered over calculation, concern wrapped in decorum. Politics had a texture, he’d learned. It was dense. Suffocating.
Senator Padmé Amidala addressed the Jedi Council via hologram, her expression serene but unyielding. The blue light caught the angles of her face, rendering her almost statuesque.
“The threat is credible, Master Windu,” she said. “It is not directed at Naboo as a whole, but at my family. I will not dismiss it.”
There was a pause on the other end—brief, weighted.
Mace Windu inclined his head. “Your concern is noted, Senator. Knight Kenobi and his Padawan will oversee the security detail personally.”
Anakin felt the familiar drop in his stomach.
Security detail.
After Geonosis. After the battlefield, the loss, the pain. He was being stationed as a deterrent—visible, symbolic, contained.
He was meant for more than this.
Obi-Wan shifted subtly beside him, a grounding presence, as if sensing the spike in his frustration.
“The concern is specifically for my sister,” Padmé continued, gesturing to her left. “Princess Y/N.”
Anakin’s eyes followed the motion automatically.
She did not stand beside the throne but near one of the tall arched windows, where Naboo sunlight filtered through translucent stone. She seemed almost ethereal at first glance—pale gown, delicate ornamentation, posture exact to the point of austerity.
Then he noticed the stillness.
Not passive. Controlled.
Her gaze was lowered, fixed somewhere near the marble floor. When the light caught her eyes, they were not soft. They were clear. Sharp. Awake. She did not look like someone awaiting protection. She looked like someone measuring the room.
“She will remain at the Lake Country retreat,” Padmé said. “It is secure, secluded. Your presence will reassure both allies and critics.”
Obi-Wan bowed. “We will not fail you, Senator.”
Anakin followed suit, slower. His attention snagged again on the Princess, still unmoving, still silent. She hadn’t looked at him once.
The hologram faded. The air seemed to breathe again. Padmé descended the dais, the stiffness of state dissolving into something warmer, more familiar.
“Y/N,” she said gently, “these are Master Obi-Wan Kenobi and Padawan Anakin Skywalker.”
The Princess stepped forward, precise, economical. Her eyes lifted, bypassing Anakin entirely at first.
“Master Kenobi,” she said. Her voice was low, measured.
Obi-Wan inclined his head. “Princess.”
Only then did her gaze shift to Anakin.
It landed like a blade laid flat against his chest, not striking, simply assessing. He felt exposed in a way combat had never managed.
“Padawan,” she acknowledged.
“Princess,” he replied, his tone tighter than intended.
Padmé offered a faint, apologetic smile. “My sister is… selective with her words.”
“I see no offense,” Obi-Wan said smoothly, though his eyes lingered with interest.
The Princess said nothing more. She inclined her head once, already disengaging, as if the introductions had fulfilled their purpose.
⸻
The journey to the Lake Country retreat passed in near silence.
Anakin piloted the skiff, his senses stretched outward, alert to every fluctuation in the Force. Naboo’s landscape unfurled beneath them, water, green, architecture grown rather than built, but he couldn’t relax into it. Not with her presence behind him.
The Princess sat quietly , hands folded, posture unchanged despite the shifting terrain and wind. She did not comment on the scenery. Did not ask questions. Did not perform appreciation.
Most people did, when they wanted favor. When they wanted reassurance.
She wanted neither.
The retreat itself was a modest, elegant stone structure nestled close to the water, designed for visibility rather than concealment. Open lines. Clear approaches. No excess.
A strategic choice, Anakin realized. Not a sanctuary.
The routine settled quickly.
Obi-Wan coordinated with Naboo security and maintained diplomatic appearances, slipping easily into the role of mediator and guest. Anakin was assigned close protection—within sight, within reach. Always present.
She read for hours: trade accords, agricultural yield projections, border arbitration.
She walked the same path at the same hour each day. She sat by the lake without moving, as though listening to something beneath the surface.
She did not fill silence.
And somehow, that silence pressed harder on Anakin than any argument.
He found himself listening for her presence through the Force more than he liked, noting the way it remained tightly coiled, disciplined to the point of rigidity.
⸻
A storm broke during the second week.
Lightning split the sky over the lake, thunder rolling low and deep, shaking the glass in its frame. Anakin sensed it before he heard it—raw energy, chaotic but powerful.
He found her standing before the atrium windows, the storm’s reflection sharpening her features. The light fractured across her face, illuminating planes he hadn’t noticed before.
“You’re not afraid,” he said, before he could stop himself.
She didn’t turn. “Is there reason to be?”
“Most people don’t enjoy being reminded how small they are.”
“A storm is energy,” she replied. “Disordered, but honest. I prefer that to manufactured calm.”
He stepped closer, boots quiet against the stone. “And you? Are you ever disordered?”
She turned then, lightning carving her expression into sharp relief.
“Control is not absence,” she said quietly. “It is selection.”
Her eyes flicked—briefly, precisely—to his prosthetic hand.
“You seem to struggle with that distinction, Padawan.”
The words struck deeper than he expected. He felt heat rise, instinctive and immediate.
“Passion isn’t a flaw,” he said. “It’s what drives change.”
“It drives mistakes,” she countered. “Often by those convinced of their own importance.”
The air tightened, the storm echoing the space between them.
“If you’re done evaluating the weather,” she added, turning away, “you may resume your post.”
Outside the door.
The dismissal was absolute.
⸻
Three days later, the line broke.
Anakin was meditating—failing—when he felt it: a shift in her presence. Alert. Focused. Purposeful. The kind of focus that preceded decisions.
Voices carried faintly through the closed library door, filtered by the Force.
“…your analysis was correct,” a man was saying. Cultured. Careful. “Your sister is idealistic. That leaves gaps.”
“My position is unchanged,” the Princess replied. “I advise. She decides.”
“From exile?”
“From discretion.”
Anakin’s jaw tightened. The door’s security field flickered, active, but not shielded against Force perception. An oversight. Or a calculated risk.
Anakin moved.
The door slid open.
She turned sharply. Shock flashed — then fury, cold and absolute.
“You are violating my privacy.”
“You were in contact with an unsecured political actor,” Anakin said. “That makes it my concern.”
The hologram’s subject smiled thinly. “Ah. The Jedi.”
The transmission cut, the air snapping back into silence.
The Princess stepped closer, her voice low. Dangerous.
“You do not outrank my judgment, Padawan.”
“I outrank threats,” he shot back. “And I don’t like secrets that get people killed.”
“You don’t like what you don’t understand,” she said. “And you mistake volume for authority.”
The words landed with surgical precision. He felt them more than heard them.
“You guard doors,” she continued, “and think yourself qualified to police minds.”
His anger surged—hot, immediate, the Force responding instinctively.
“My instincts have kept me alive.”
“And endangered others,” she replied. “Your passion is not strength. It is noise.”
They stood inches apart now, breath sharp, tension alive and unspoken, the storm outside echoing the collision within the room.
“Get out.”
It was not loud.
It did not need to be.
A/N: I’m honestly not sure if this still counts as an x Reader fic anymore—she’s starting to feel more like her own character. I might end up giving her a name and treating her as an OC instead. Either way, thank you so much for reading, and if you enjoyed it, reblogs and notes are always deeply appreciated 🤍
Summary: Sent to guard Princess (Y/N) in Aetheria’s Royal Archives as punishment, Anakin Skywalker finds a woman whose quiet strength challenges his fire. Their forbidden attraction, sparked by sharp words and stolen moments, threatens to break their oaths under the light of twin moons.
Aetheria was no mere assignment—it was exile, a sentence veiled in duty. The Jedi Council, in their austere wisdom, believed the serenity of ancient scrolls and the presence of a disciplined princess, would temper Anakin Skywalker’s untamed fire. Guarding the Royal Archives and its keeper was meant to chain his restless spirit, to force him to confront the chaos within.
He expected dust and silence, a crypt of books and a royal too arrogant to notice him.
Instead, he found you.
The Archives were a cathedral of light—marble pillars spiraling to a crystalline dome that caught the sun and scattered prisms across the stone floor. In that vast, hallowed stillness, you were a current of life, vital, focused, a flame cloaked in quiet grace. No crown adorned your brow, no jewels glittered. Just a gown of slate-blue silk that whispered with your steps, a soft echo in the sacred hush.
He first glimpsed you balanced on a creaking ladder, reaching for a tome nearly your size. When the Head Archivist introduced him, voice stiff with protocol, you spared him only a fleeting glance, murmuring, “Welcome, Master Skywalker,” before returning to your page. No awe, no fear, no deference.
Anakin, who could command battlefields with a glance, who drew eyes like a storm draws lightning, was met with nothing.
And that nothing became a splinter under his skin.
The early days were a slow, exquisite torment. He shadowed you through sunlit halls, his impatience coiling like smoke. Your days were a ritual: mornings cataloging star charts, your pen tracing constellations with care; afternoons buried in philosophy, ink smudging your fingers; evenings by the window, where Aetheria’s twin moons painted you in silver.
You were unfailingly courteous, never warm. A faint smile when he held a door. A soft, “Thank you, Master Skywalker,” when he retrieved a scroll, your voice cool as a distant star. Your gaze never lingered, your tone never wavered.
But your stillness taunted him, a locked door he burned to break open. It felt like a challenge, a silent dare to unravel you.
Desperate to pierce your calm, he left a book on your desk: Republic Starfighter Engineering: Early Prototypes. Rough schematics of ships he’d piloted, machines that thrummed with power.
The next morning, you returned it, sliding it across the wood with a quiet thud.
“This does not belong here,” you said, voice even.
“I thought it might interest you,” he replied, leaning against a shelf, arms crossed, his tone light but probing. “They’re rough, but they’ve got spirit.”
“My studies are of philosophy and verse,” you said, eyes meeting his briefly, “not instruments of war.”
He chuckled, low and edged. “Understood, Your Highness.”
Rejection wasn’t new—Padawans flinched from his intensity, senators sidestepped it. But yours carried no malice, only indifference. And that cut deeper than any blade.
Days later, he found you curled in a sunlit alcove, reading an old Alderaanian romance, its pages worn soft.
“That one ends in tragedy,” he said, leaning in the doorway. “The knight chooses duty over his heart.”
You didn’t look up. “He honored his oath. There’s strength in that.”
“Strength?” Anakin’s lip curled, a spark flaring in his chest. “He was weak. Duty’s a shield for those too afraid to chase what they love.”
Your eyes lifted, calm but piercing. “And chasing every desire binds you to it.”
He tilted his head, a thrill curling in his gut. “Some things are worth the chains.”
“Perhaps,” you said, “but discipline keeps you free.”
His grin was sharp, relishing the crack in your armor. “Sounds like you’ve felt those chains yourself.”
Your jaw tightened, a fleeting shadow. He savored it, a victory too sweet to ignore.
The air thickened, heavy with unspoken sparks. He’d brush too close when you reached for a high shelf, his sleeve grazing your arm, deliberate yet deniable. He’d linger in doorways, holding your gaze a heartbeat too long. And you—you began to falter. A pause before your words, a catch in your breath when his voice dropped low. When he noted how deep indigo flattered you, you wore it again days later, not as surrender, but defiance, a quiet challenge of your own.
He saw it all: the pulse at your throat when he leaned near, the way your fingers stilled when his stare lingered. The Archives became a battlefield of glances and silences, each moment a spark threatening to ignite.
The Grand Conclave was a glittering masquerade—diplomacy draped in silk and crystal, alliances woven in whispers. You moved through it like a specter, smiling for senators, speaking of peace, your grace a shield against the vipers circling.
Anakin watched from the shadows, seeing what others missed: the tremor in your hand as you raised a goblet, the exhaustion bruising your eyes beneath the facade.
Later, in the dim corridor to your chambers, your mask slipped.
“The agreements are in place,” you said, voice frayed. “Goodnight, Master Skywalker.”
He should’ve stepped aside. But the pearl clasps down your gown’s back glinted in the lamplight, and something in him refused to yield.
“Your gown,” he said, voice low, steady. “Those clasps—you can’t manage them alone.”
“I’ve managed my entire life,” you replied, sharper than usual, fatigue thinning your patience.
“Have you?” He stepped closer, the hallway shrinking. “Or have you just learned to bear it?”
You turned, your eyes raw with weariness. “This is duty. A concept you seem to struggle with.”
“I know chains,” he murmured, voice soft as velvet, sharp as a saber. “Even ones that shine. Let me help. Just this once.”
His honesty pierced you. After a long, trembling pause, you turned, offering your back.
In the moonlit quiet, his gloved fingers worked the clasps with reverent care, leather whispering over skin. You shivered, betraying yourself.
“You’re trembling,” he said, voice a low caress.
“From cold,” you lied, the words brittle. “From exhaustion. Not from this.”
“Liar,” he breathed, his bare thumb grazing your spine, igniting fire in your veins. “I sense the conflict in you.”
“Then you know why this cannot be,” you whispered, desperate, clinging to duty’s fraying edge. “Our paths, our vows—”
“Because of the Council? Your title?” His breath warmed your neck, anger a quiet storm. “They don’t see us. Not what we are.”
“They uphold balance,” you said, voice shaking.
“Balance?” His voice was a low growl, raw and close. “This silence between us—it’s louder than any battle I’ve fought.”
You turned to face him, and for the first time, he was no Jedi—just a man, scarred by loss, yearning for the forbidden. His eyes burned into yours, a plea and a challenge.
He leaned in, slow as a tide, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His lips met yours with reverence, not conquest—a quiet yielding, his hand cradling your jaw like you were a fragile star. For one stolen breath, there were no oaths, no titles, only the truth of his touch and the ache blooming in your chest.
A sharp knock shattered it. “Highness? The Consul awaits.”
You broke apart, breathless, hearts pounding like war drums. His mask snapped back—cool, unreadable.
“Of course,” you managed, your gaze clinging to his — a wordless farewell.
He bowed, too stiff, too final. “Princess.”
And he was gone, leaving only the ghost of his warmth.
Days bled into a taut, unbearable silence. Glances sparked like flint, words died in throats. The Archives were a crucible, your nearness a torment, your distance a wound.
One twilight, he found you in your window alcove, Aetheria’s moons casting you in silver. No book lay open, just you, staring into the void, as if seeking escape beyond the stars.
He lingered in the archway, the air thick with unspoken weight.
“Do you ever feel,” you murmured, not turning, “like your fate was set before you could choose it?”
“Always,” he answered, voice rough with truth.
You turned slightly, moonlight gilding your profile. “Then perhaps we’re not so different.”
His lips twitched, a flicker of recognition. “You hide it well.”
“And yet,” you whispered, “it binds me.”
He crossed the space, drawn like a moth to flame. “You live among stories, but keep your own locked away.”
“Speaking it risks everything,” you said, eyes meeting his, raw and unguarded.
“So does silence,” he countered, voice low, cutting.
Your gaze held, a storm trembling at the edges. He should’ve left. Instead, he reached for the book beside you—the same Alderaanian romance—and opened it to a worn page.
“‘In her silence, he found a language more eloquent than any he’d known,’” he read, voice soft as a vow. The book closed with a quiet snap.
“Anakin,” you said, his name a fracture in the stillness. It undid him.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, a touch too tender, too dangerous. “You shouldn’t,” you whispered, voice trembling.
“I know,” he said, thumb grazing your jaw, eyes burning with need. “But I’ve never been good at doing what I should.”
The air crackled, heavy with the forbidden. You tilted your head, a bare fraction, but enough.
It was all he needed.
His kiss was slow fire, reverent yet consuming, his lips mapping yours with aching care. Your hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer. “We can’t,” you breathed, the plea a spark in the dark.
“I don’t care,” he murmured, voice raw with want. He guided you to the reading table, his touch steady but searing, as if you were sacred glass he feared to shatter. His lips trailed down your neck, soft bites sparking shivers. “You’re everything to me,” he whispered, voice thick with devotion.
You nodded, surrender in your eyes, hands threading through his hair. He unlaced your gown with trembling fingers, peeling it away to kiss the skin beneath—collarbone, shoulder, the curve of your breast. The air was cool, his mouth a warm vow against your flesh.
“Anakin,” you gasped, need threading your voice.
“I’m here,” he said, lifting you onto the table, settling between your thighs. His fingers explored, gentle but sure, finding every place that made you tremble. “Tell me you want this,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.
“I do,” you breathed, hips seeking him. “I want you.”
His smile was soft, dangerous. “Then let me have you. Every part of you.”.
He hooked his fingers onto the edge of your dress and slid it down your thighs letting it pool on the floor. You shivered, but he was there immediately, his palm cupping you warmly. “So ready for me already,” he murmured, approval lacing his tone.
His fingers parted your folds gently, exploring with feather-light touches that made you squirm. He circled your clit once, twice, watching your face for every reaction, adjusting his pressure to what drew the softest moans from your lips.
“Tell me what feels good,” he said, his free hand stroking your thigh in soothing circles.
“Everything,” you managed, hips lifting toward him. “Please…”
He smiled against your skin, pressing a kiss to your neck. “I will. Slowly. I want to feel every part of you.”
One finger eased inside you, then a second, stretching you with careful deliberation, curling to graze that inner spot that drew a whimper from your throat. He moved them in a languid rhythm, in and out, his thumb maintaining that steady pressure on your clit, building the tension like a gathering storm.
Your head tipped back, but he caught your chin with his free hand, turning your face to his.
"Keep your eyes on mine, Angel," he coaxed, his blue gaze holding yours with unwavering intensity. "I want to see you. Let me see you unravel, piece by piece."
The pleasure mounted at a deliberate pace, coiling tighter with each measured thrust of his fingers, until tears blurred your vision, the emotional dam cracking under the weight of it all, the confinement of your life, the forbidden pull toward him.
"Anakin," you breathed, voice fracturing, and he surged up to capture your mouth.The coil tightened, and with a few more deep strokes, you shattered.
Your heat clenched around his fingers, waves of pleasure crashing through you. He held you through it, murmuring endearments. “That’s it, so beautiful when you come.”
But he wasn’t done. “Now,” he said, voice husky, “I need to feel you around me.”
He shed his tunic and pants quickly, his cock springing free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip. You reached for him, but he caught your hand, kissing your palm. “Let me,” he insisted softly, positioning himself at your entrance.
He settled between your thighs again, dragging the tip through your wetness in slow, deliberate strokes, coating himself thoroughly. "Tell me you need this," he urged, his hand caressing your hip, voice velvet-soft but insistent. "Tell me, Angel."
"Yes," you sighed, your legs hooking around his waist, pulling him nearer. "Please, I need you, so much."
With these words he pushed in inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, giving you time to adjust. “Breathe,” he instructed, his hand on your hip grounding you.
You did, inhaling as he filled you, the stretch exquisite and overwhelming. When he was fully seated, buried deep inside your pussy, he stilled, forehead against yours again.
“You feel incredible,” he breathed. “So warm, so tight around me.” He began to move then, slow thrusts that dragged his cock along your walls, hitting deep with every one. His hands roamed your body, stroking your sides, cupping your breasts, always gentle, always attentive.
“Anakin,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around him to pull him closer.
“I know, Princess,” he replied, sweet words spilling from him like honey. “I’ve got you. Just feel me.”
He kissed you through each roll of his hips, his pace unyielding in its slowness, building you up again. Tears welled once more as the pleasure bordered on too much, and he kissed them away without pause, his lips tender on your cheeks.
“Fuck... I love seeing you like this.” His thrusts deepened, cock burying to the hilt each time, grinding against that spot inside you. The rhythm was hypnotic, drawing you under, your body responding to his every command.
"Eyes on me," he reminded, his palm framing your face as fresh tears gathered from the exquisite overload, pleasure edging into overwhelm. "Show me your tears. Do I make you ache like this?"
"Y-Yes," you choked out, sobs mingling with moans as he drove deeper, the angle brushing your core with precision. He leaned in, lips brushing them away one by one.
"You're doing so good Angel," he cooed, his thrusts maintaining that unyielding slowness, the wet sounds of connection echoing softly. "Letting me in so deep."
His words flowed like a constant lullaby amid the building ecstasy, one hand slipping down to circle your clit with languid flicks, heightening the slow burn.
"I want to hold you closer," he murmured, pulling out with a reluctant groan before gathering you in his arms, his strength effortless as he lifted your smaller frame. He turned, setting you on your bed, positioning you to straddle him, his member standing proud and slick.
"Come here," he guided, hands on your hips lowering you onto him anew, the descent even slower this time, gravity aiding the deep impalement. You sank down fully, his size splitting you wide, a fresh wave of fullness making your eyes water anew.
He reached up, fingers threading into your hair, tugging lightly, just enough to arch your neck, exposing your throat for his kisses.
"That's it, take it, take it all," he encouraged, the gentle pull on your strands adding a spark of possession without pain. "Feel how I fill you up, every inch."
You moved together in a deliberate cadence, your hips rolling as he thrust up lazily, balls-deep each time, his free hand supporting your back.
Tears flowed freely now, pleasure cresting in endless swells, and he kissed them relentlessly, murmuring, "So perfect... Let go, come apart on my cock, Pretty." The command tipped you over, your heat clamping down in rhythmic pulses, crying out as bliss ripped through you.
He held you through it, his hand finding your neck. "So pretty like that" he praised, his pace increasing . "Fuck... Im going to cum."
His eyes found yours once again and with a few final thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt, throbbing as he unleashed, hot spurts painting your walls, his form trembling beneath your smaller one.
He didn't withdraw immediately, keeping you joined, arms wrapping around to cradle you close.
His lips sought yours in soft, lingering presses. "You did so good," he whispered, voice raw with adoration.
When he finally leaned back enough to look at you, the moonlight caught the traces of tears still glimmering on your skin. For a long moment, he only watched . There was no command in his eyes now, only a quiet, aching tenderness.
He lifted a hand, the movement unhurried, and brushed his thumb along your cheek. The touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he feared you might fade if he pressed too hard. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of your jaw, committing every detail to memory.
Your lashes fluttered, but you didn’t pull away. The silence between you was deep, filled with all the words neither dared to speak.
He adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, then rested his palm lightly against your face again, thumb stroking once more, slower this time.
He stayed like that — still, watchful, his hand resting against your cheek — until your breathing evened into sleep. Only then did he allow himself to close his eyes, the quiet hum of the night and your warmth against him anchoring him to a peace he had never known.
Summary: A solitary medic’s quiet life is disrupted when a wounded Mandalorian appears on her outpost. Over months of silent visits, cryptic gifts, and quiet trust, they form a bond that transcends armor and distance. When he offers a dagger forged from his own armor, she must choose whether to follow him into a dangerous, uncertain life — and into his heart.
Warnings: Contains mild violence, blood and medical treatment, and romantic/sexual tension, fluff.
The air in the med-bay was a symphony of suffering you conducted daily.
The sharp bite of antiseptic, the faint sweetness of bacta, the metallic tang of blood — it was the perfume of endurance. You were the only medic for fifty klicks in any direction, and you’d seen it all: burns, fractures, the desperate and the dying.
Until the Mandalorian walked in.
Two dockworkers half-carried him through your door, dumped him on the chair, and bolted like they’d delivered a live bomb. He was a storm of battered beskar and silence, a man built for war. A deep wound below his ribs wept dark blood down his side, but he made no sound.
You didn’t flinch.
“On the table,” you ordered, already reaching for gloves.
The black T-visor turned to you, a cold, unblinking assessment. You weren’t a person to him yet — just another variable in a dangerous equation.
“I can fix this,” you said quietly. “But you’ll have to let me work.”
He hesitated for the length of one slow heartbeat, then gave a single, sharp nod.
He was motionless as stone while you cleaned and sealed the gash, every movement efficient and controlled. When you finished, he stood, checked his armor, and pressed a pouch of credits into your palm.
His gloved hand lingered for a fraction of a second longer than it should have — deliberate, grounding. Then he turned and left, a whisper of cape and metal.
You told yourself it was nothing.
He came back weeks later.
You nearly dropped a crate of supplies when you saw him in the doorway.
“You’re healed,” you said.
“Raiders,” came the filtered reply. “West ridge.”
You’d heard the distant blaster fire the night before.
“It’s handled.”
He didn’t elaborate. He simply stood watch until you’d stepped inside and locked the door. Then he turned and vanished into the dark.
It happened again. And again.
He would appear, sometimes with new wounds, sometimes unmarked. You’d patch him up at your kitchen table, hands steady even when your pulse wasn’t. He said little. You learned to read him, the tilt of his helmet, the precise stillness that meant he was listening, the way he’d linger by the door a moment too long before leaving.
It was a strange rhythm, but it became yours.
Then the gifts began.
The first came wrapped in simple cloth, a book, bound in the dark leather of some unknown beast. Inside, the pages were filled with handwritten verses in an elegant, extinct script. You traced a line with your fingers, realizing what it was.
“Alderaanian,” you whispered. “These were destroyed.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Not all.”
You stared at him, wondering how a bounty hunter had come across something so rare. “This must be worth—”
“It’s yours.”
He said it like it meant nothing, like it hadn’t taken him months or blood to find.
The second gift appeared weeks later: a small, clear stasis case. Inside bloomed a flower unlike any you’d ever seen, its petals glowed with faint, bioluminescent veins, colors shifting with every second.
“Where did you find this?” you asked.
“Outer Rim,” he said simply. “A moon untouched by war.”
You pressed a palm against the glass. “It’s beautiful.”
He didn’t respond. But you saw the way his helmet tilted, almost imperceptibly, watching your face, gauging something he couldn’t ask aloud.
The third time, you didn’t find him.
You found the gift instead.
A pendant rested on your windowsill, a teardrop of crystal cut so precisely that it caught the morning light and shimmered the exact color of your eyes. No note. No explanation.
You shouldn’t have kept it. But when you slipped it around your neck, it felt right, not ostentatious, just… right.
When he noticed it a week later, you were treating a burn along his vambrace. The pendant slipped free of your collar, catching the lamplight. His helmet turned instantly, sharply.
He went utterly still.
You tucked it away quickly, pretending not to notice the way his breathing changed, the faintest hitch through the modulator. He said nothing, but his silence that night was heavier. Denser.
You didn’t understand that each gift had been a confession — the only kind he could give.
To him, they weren’t trinkets.
They were declarations.
And you were already wearing his heart around your throat.
Something came undone the night he arrived wounded again, a deep slash across his abdomen, blood dark against beskar.
You ordered him to sit, stripped the armor free, and cleaned the wound. Your hand slipped, brushing warm skin. You flinched, but his hand caught your wrist, steady, not rough.
The air seemed to thicken.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just held your wrist in silence, his grip saying what words never would: don’t run from this.
Your pulse thrummed against his fingers. He released you slowly, like a man letting go of something fragile.
You never spoke of it again. But the current between you had changed.
When he came next he wasn't wounded, but exhausted.
You opened the door before he could knock.
He stepped forward and rested his helmet against your forehead.
The Keldabe kiss.
The gesture was small, but it hollowed the air from your lungs. The beskar was cool, the weight of it grounding. You felt his breath through the modulator — slow, deliberate, as though he was memorizing you.
Then he stepped back. The moment ended.
You told yourself distance was safer.
But safety had begun to feel like a cage.
He returned when the twin moons of Tralus rose pale above the valley. Their light spilled silver across the ground as he stood outside the med-bay, a motionless silhouette against the dusk.
“Come with me,” he said.
His tone left no room for refusal, but there was no command in it, only gravity. You followed him without question.
The climb was steep, the path narrow and edged by wind. Below you, the outpost lights flickered like a constellation half-buried in the dark. Above, the galactic core stretched wide and luminous, smearing the sky with violet fire.
At the ridge’s crest, he stopped. The silence there was vast, just the wind, and the faint hum of the world far below.
“I have one last thing for you,” he said.
From a satchel on his belt, he withdrew a long, narrow box of carved grey wood. The symbols etched into its surface caught the starlight, lines like ancient script. You took it carefully; it was heavier than it looked.
Inside, on a bed of deep-blue silk, lay a dagger. The blade shimmered — silver-black, veins of beskar running through it like lightning frozen in metal. The hilt was bound in dark leather, and set into the pommel was a single gemstone that glowed with a light uncannily like your own eyes.
You stared. “Mando… what is this?”
His voice was low, quiet in the wind. “It’s part of my armor.”
You looked up sharply. “You melted down your armor for this?”
He gave a small nod. “I took it to the Armorer. Told her of the one who saved me—who saw me as more than the steel.” His voice faltered for a fraction of a second, almost imperceptibly. “She forged it herself.”
“In my creed,” he said, voice low and even, “the Armorer’s craft is sacred. A weapon carries memory. To forge one from your own beskar, and gift it... Is a vow.”
Your fingers tightened around the hilt. “A vow of what?”
He took a step closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. “Of belonging. Of standing beside one another. Of trust, the kind that lives and dies as one.”
You could feel your pulse in your throat. “And if I take it?”
“Then you walk my path,” he said simply. “And by our law, by our word… you have the right to see the man who offers it.”
The realization sank into you. The dagger in your hand suddenly felt heavier, radiant with implication.
He gestured to the blade. “Your choice is in whether you take it.”
You met his visor. “You don’t ask for easy things.”
“No,” he said softly. “The Creed never taught me how.”
The night pressed close around you. You looked down at the dagger, its veins of beskar shimmering faintly in the light of the twin moons. Then you wrapped your fingers around the hilt. The metal was warm, as if it had waited for your touch.
“Yes,” you said.
He went utterly still. Not the kind of stillness you’d seen in battle, but something deeper, like a man hearing the impossible. The wind sighed between you, and for the first time since you’d met him, he seemed unarmored even with the beskar still on.
“You’re certain?” His voice was quiet, almost reverent. “The life I lead… it is not an easy path.”
“I know,” you said. “But it’s yours...”
For a moment, you thought he might move, might speak, but instead, he stepped closer until his shadow touched yours. He reached out, his gloved hand turning the dagger so the blade caught the starlight.
Then he spoke words you didn’t understand — low, ancient, rhythmic. Mando’a, you realized. The language carried a strange beauty, the syllables thick with weight and history.
When he finished, he looked at you. “It is the vow,” he said quietly. “The words of the old ways. You must answer.”
Your throat felt dry. “What does it mean?”
He hesitated, then translated in pieces, each phrase deliberate:
"We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors."
The last line lingered in the air, ancient and binding.
He held the dagger out, hilt first, both hands steady. “Speak the words,” he said, voice low, the modulator trembling with something dangerously close to emotion.
You met his gaze through the black visor. Your pulse thundered. Then, slowly, you repeated the vow. "Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dhar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde." The words were strange on your tongue but somehow right, as if they had waited lifetimes to be spoken here.
When the last syllable left your lips, he released a breath that shook. He looked down, shoulders bowed, one hand coming up to his helmet as though the air had suddenly become too heavy.
“It’s done,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “By creed, by blood… by heart. You are bound to me. You’ve earned the right to see the man beneath the armour.”
He lifted his gaze. His movements were deliberate, reverent. When his hand reached for the latch, it wasn’t hesitation this time, it was ceremony.
The hiss of the seal releasing cut through the quiet like the sound of a star being born.
He lifted the helmet away.
He was not the myth that the armor had promised. He was raw and real, his hair curled at his forehead, his jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes, deep brown and unguarded, searched yours as if you were something he had dreamed into being.
He swallowed hard, and you realized his hands were trembling. “This… this is me,” he said. “You’re the only one who will ever see me like this.”
You stepped closer, the dagger still in your hand. “Then I’ll remember every detail,” you whispered.
He drew a shuddering breath, eyes flicking between yours, unsure what to do with the weight of being known. His voice broke the silence, roughened by nerves.
“I thought I’d forgotten what this felt like,” he said. “To be seen. To be… chosen.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers along his cheekbone. He leaned into the touch as if starved for it, eyes closing for a heartbeat, his breath trembling against your wrist.
Then you kissed him.
It was not hurried. It was quiet, certain, a slow collapse of the distance that had haunted you both. His hands came up, one cupping your face, the other splaying against the small of your back, the leather warm against your tunic.
When you pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together. You felt him smile, small, disbelieving.
“What happens now?” you murmured.
He opened his eyes, the faintest spark of light in them. “Now,” he said, “we walk the same road. Wherever it leads.”
Author’s Note:
______________
Hi! I’m trying my hand at writing for The Mandalorian. I’m not sure yet if I’ll continue this story, but I might explore it further if there’s interest. This story originally started with the goal of it ending in smut, but I found it challenging to write that for a character who never removes his helmet — staying true to Din’s character felt more important. I envision this as possibly a three-part story: the second part could include smut maybe angst, and the third would be their happy ending.
If you enjoyed this story, I’d really appreciate it if you interacted with this post so I can gauge whether it’s worth continuing. Thanks so much!
Summary: A senior editor’s professional relationship with a seemingly timid reporter unravels after she discovers his secret obsession with her. What begins as concern for a fragile protégé turns into a confrontation that exposes manipulation, obsession, and control.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ only), vaginal and oral sex, manipulative Stephen, dominant reader, tension, strong language, unprotected sex/creampie, dirty talk, power imbalance, perv Stephen.
~3k words
Please proceed with caution
Your introduction to Stephen Glass was always auditory: the soft, penitent cough at the door, the percussive rustle of a dossier coming undone at the seams. He was a virtuoso of vulnerability, a reporter whose seemingly accidental genius was perpetually swaddled in an almost debilitating lack of confidence.
“Y/N, I am so, so sorry to bother you,” he’d begin, his voice a low, earnest thrum that seemed to vibrate with genuine distress. He’d hover in the doorway, posture slightly curved as if trying to make himself smaller. “It’s the Hack Heaven piece again. The source verification… I’m terrified I’ve missed something. I couldn’t live with myself if I embarrassed you, of all people. Would you—could you possibly…?”
You were his senior editor, and you never could refuse. He was the department’s fragile prodigy, a bewildered fawn in a pen of wolves, and his unwavering, almost worshipful deference to your judgment was profoundly flattering. During your sessions at your desk, his entire being would be fixed on you, gaze wide and unblinking. The occasional, seemingly accidental brush of his knee against yours beneath the desk was always followed by a sharp intake of breath and a frantic withdrawal.
“God, I’m so sorry,” he’d murmur, eyes fixed somewhere behind you, refusing to meet your gaze. “I’m just… all elbows and knees. My mother always said I had the grace of a newborn giraffe.”
He was a virtuoso of the artful, self-deprecating retreat. His eyes, those large, seemingly guileless pools, would sometimes, just for a fleeting second, dip from your face to the curve of your neck, or the line of your collarbone where your blouse opened. But the glance was always, always followed by a cascade of frantic, flustered speech.
“I… I just zoned out for a second. I was thinking about the lede, and my brain just… short-circuited. You must think I’m the most unprofessional, the most pathetic—”
He built the persona brick by meticulous brick: the brilliant, trembling wreck who needed your calm authority to survive. The other editors found him odd, his intensity a little off-putting, but you saw the raw talent.
“It’s a good angle, Michael,” you’d tell the editor-in-chief, voice leaving no room for argument. “Stephen has an incredible instinct for the human heart of these tech stories. Trust him.”
Stephen would look at you then with an expression of such heartfelt, desperate gratitude it felt like a physical weight.
The office was your domain, a landscape of humming computers and low, thoughtful voices. You often worked late, savoring the deep silence that fell over the floor after everyone else had left.
It was during one of those late nights, well past ten, that the first fissure appeared in his carefully constructed facade.
You had forgotten your favorite pen, a heavy silver fountain pen, a gift from your mentor, on your desk. Annoyed, you drove back to the office. The building was a dark, silent giant. Riding the elevator up, the silence felt different—thicker, more expectant.
Pushing through the heavy door to the editorial floor, you expected darkness. Instead, the soft, greenish glow of a single computer monitor painted Stephen’s corner in an eerie, intimate light.
A small smile touched your lips. Of course. He was probably agonizing over a turn of phrase. You decided to sneak up, to give him a playful scare.
You moved on silent feet. As you drew closer, the scene resolved, and your smile died.
Stephen wasn’t working. He was perfectly still, his chair tilted back. His right hand was below the desk, out of sight. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted slightly. On his monitor was a photograph.
Of you.
It was a candid shot from the company picnic, zoomed and cropped with invasive, intimate precision. The frame fixed on the line of your throat, the swell of your breast beneath your sundress. It was a photograph of worship.
A knot tightened in your stomach. This wasn’t the nervous Stephen. His posture was languid, indulgent. There was no tension in him, only a deep, focused concentration.
You must have made a sound. His eyes snapped open.
For one breathtaking, horrifying second, the mask was utterly gone. The eyes that met yours were dark, dilated, blazing with an unnerving, predatory sharpness. There was no surprise, only a swift, chilling assessment.
Then the familiar Stephen slammed back into place. He gasped, a choked, pathetic sound, and fumbled frantically with the mouse, movements jerky and uncoordinated. The window vanished.
“Y/N! Oh god. Oh my god. I… I can explain,” he stammered, voice cracking. He stood up so quickly his chair shot back and crashed into the partition.
That was when you saw it, the undeniable, physical evidence of his arousal straining against the fabric of his trousers. His eyes followed yours downward, and crimson flooded his face. He made a frantic, aborted move to cover himself with his hands, then seemed to think better of it, leaving the truth horrifically, shamelessly on display.
“It’s not… it’s not what you think!” he pleaded, voice a desperate whimper. “I was just… I was thinking of you, of how you looked that day, and I… I got carried away. I’m sick. I know I’m sick. You’re my editor, you’re… you’re everything, and I’m just… this.” He gestured weakly at himself, at his exposed state, his eyes brimming with genuine tears. “This is what you do to me. You have no idea. Your mind, your voice, the way you hold your pen… it’s all I think about. It’s a sickness.”
He was reframing his perversion as a tragic symptom of his overwhelming, uncontrollable adoration. He was making his violation about your power. And a deeply unsettled, dangerously flattered part of you was listening, pulse hammering in your ears.
“Stephen, this is… this is completely unacceptable,” you managed, your voice trembling. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of his cologne and something else, something musky and primal.
“I know!” he cried out, taking a stumbling step toward you. “I know it is! It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.” He was close now, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. The evidence of his desire was a blatant, shocking fact between you. “But you… you make me feel so alive. Even when you’re reprimanding me, it’s like… it’s like a sacrament. I live for your attention. Any of it. Even your disgust is better than your indifference.”
His gaze was locked on your mouth. His breath came in short, sharp pants. The “pathetic” act was still there—the trembling lip, the watery eyes, but now layered over a foundation of raw, unashamed hunger.
The initial shock began to recede, replaced by a cold, clarifying anger. This wasn't just a violation; it was a performance. And he was waiting for you to follow his script—to either recoil in horror or, as he clearly hoped, to succumb to the twisted narrative of his obsession. A new, dangerous impulse took hold of you.
"Stop talking," you said, your voice low and steady, all trace of a tremor gone.
He blinked, the rehearsed plea dying on his lips. "I—"
"I said, be quiet." You took a step forward, forcing him to take a half-step back. The power dynamic, so carefully manipulated by him, was abruptly, violently shifting. Your eyes didn't shy away from the blatant proof of his arousal; you looked at it with a flicker of amusement that seemed to both thrill and unnerve him. A fresh, deeper flush spreading across his neck.
"You're right," you continued, your tone steady. "This is disgusting. And you are pathetic." You circled him slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. "All this... this pantomime. The stuttering, the clumsy act. Was it all just to get to this? To get caught in your little... ritual?"
He was frozen, his breath hitching. This wasn't part of his plan. He had prepared for outrage or pity, not this chilling dominance.
"Answer me."
"Yes," he whispered, his voice ragged.
"Louder."
"Yes," he repeated, a shudder running through him. The look in his eyes was no longer one of calculation, but of dazed, terrified submission.
You stopped in front of him again, so close you could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat. "You wanted my attention, Stephen? You have it. All of it." You reached out, not to caress his cheek, but to grip his chin, your fingers firm, forcing his gaze down to meet yours. His whole body went rigid, then seemed to melt under your touch.
"Tell me what you were doing," you commanded.
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I was... thinking of you. Touching myself." The confession was torn from him, humiliating and exhilarating.
"And the picture?"
"I... I look at them. I have... others." His eyes were wide, glazed with a mixture of shame and fervent excitement. He was completely in your thrall, the master manipulator utterly dismantled.
A slow, cold smile touched your lips. You leaned in, your mouth hovering just inches from his. You could feel the heat of his breath, see the desperate longing in his eyes. "You are a sick, twisted boy, Stephen. And you are mine to deal with."
Then you closed the distance and kissed him.
It was not a kiss of passion, but of possession. It was hard and demanding, a searing brand of your authority. You bit his lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make him gasp, and you swallowed the sound. His hands came up to clutch at your arms, not to push you away, but to anchor himself. He was pliant, surrendering completely to the force of your will.
When you pulled back, he was breathless, lips swollen, eyes dazed. The mask was shattered at your feet.
You gripped his chin harder, tilting his head down to meet your gaze. "On your knees," you ordered, voice low and unyielding. "Now."
Stephen's legs buckled instantly, dropping him to the carpet with a soft thud. His hands trembled at his sides, not daring to touch you without permission. His cock throbbed visibly in his pants, the fabric tented. He looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes, lips quivering.
"Please," he whispered, voice breaking. "Y/N, I... I'll be good. Tell me what to do."
You stepped closer, your heel pressing lightly against his thigh, forcing his legs apart. The office air hung heavy, the distant hum of the city outside the only witness to his unraveling. "Unzip your pants," you commanded. "Show me."
His fingers fumbled with the zipper, shaking so badly he nearly missed. Finally, he shoved his pants and underwear down, his cock springing free—hard and leaking pre-cum in thick drops that smeared his shirt. It twitched under your scrutiny, and a whimper escaped his throat.
"Touch it," you said, watching him closely. "But only how I tell you."
He wrapped a hand around his shaft, stroking slowly from base to tip. His breath came in short gasps, hips jerking involuntarily. "Like this? Is this what you want?" he whined, eyes locked on your face for approval.
"Slower," you snapped, and he obeyed, his strokes turning torturously languid. Pre-cum oozed over his knuckles, making the motion slick. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he fought the urge to speed up.
You hiked up your skirt, revealing your panties, already soaked from the rush of control. Sliding them aside, you exposed your pussy, wet folds glistening under the monitor's glow. "Crawl to me."
He scrambled forward on hands and knees, face inches from your core. His hot breath fanned your skin. "Lick my pussy, Stephen. Make me wetter."
His tongue flicked out tentatively at first, then plunged in with desperate hunger. He lapped at your entrance, sucking your clit between his lips, moaning into your flesh. The vibrations sent jolts through you, and you grabbed his hair, yanking him closer.
"Harder," you demanded, grinding against his mouth. He whimpered against your pussy, tongue thrusting inside you, then circling your clit in frantic swirls. His free hand gripped your thigh, nails digging in as he devoured you, chin dripping with your arousal.
You rode his face, hips rolling as pleasure built. His cock bobbed untouched between his legs, leaking steadily onto the floor. "Don't you dare cum," you warned, voice sharp. He nodded frantically into your folds, a muffled sob vibrating through you.
The coil tightened, and you came hard, flooding his mouth with your juices. He swallowed greedily, licking every drop, his whimpers turning to needy cries. "Thank you... fuck, you taste so good... please, more..."
Pushing him back with your heel onto the carpet, you straddled his hips, your dripping pussy hovering over his cock. He bucked up, desperate for contact. "Beg for it."
"Please, Y/N," he sobbed, body arching beneath you. "Fuck me. Let me feel your pussy around my cock. I'll do anything—be your toy, your slut. Just... I need it so bad." His voice cracked into high-pitched whines, tears streaming as his cock pulsed against your entrance.
You sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch. His thickness stretched you, filling your pussy completely. He gasped, hips stuttering as you bottomed out, your clit grinding against his base.
"No," you said, starting a deliberate pace, lifting and slamming down. "You take what I give." Each thrust made wet sounds echo, his cock sliding deep into your heat.
He writhed under you. "Yes... oh god, your pussy's so tight... clenching my cock... I'm yours..." Whimpers poured from him, broken and pathetic, as you bounced faster, your breasts heaving with the motion.
His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard as you fucked him. But you slapped them away. "No touching. Just lie there and take it."
He keened, a long, trembling sound, his cock throbbing inside you. "Please... gonna cum... can't hold it..."
"Hold it," you growled, slowing to a grind that tortured his sensitive head. He cried out, body shaking, pre-cum mixing with your wetness. "Beg louder."
"Fuck, Y/N! Let me cum in your pussy! Fill you up, mark you... I'm yours , please!" His pleas dissolved into sobs, hips jerking helplessly.
Satisfied, you slammed down hard, riding him ruthlessly. The slap of skin filled the room, your pussy squeezing his cock until he broke. "Now," you commanded.
He wailed, cock erupting in hot spurts, cum flooding your pussy as his body convulsed. You clenched around him, chasing your own release, cumming with a sharp moan as his seed spilled deep.
You collapsed forward, his chest heaving beneath you. He wrapped shaky arms around your waist, still whimpering softly. "Thank you... Thank you... ."
Pulling back, you slid off him with deliberate slowness, a wet sound accompanying the separation. His cum dripped from your pussy onto his thigh, and he watched it with wide eyes, licking his lips. "Look at the mess you made," you said, voice laced with mock sternness. "Clean it up. Tomorrow, meet me in the office. Nine sharp. Don't be late."
Summary: Anakin and (Y/N), have been best friends for years, but when she begins to struggle with confusing feelings and romantic curiosity, she turns to him for guidance.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ only), vaginal and oral sex, corruption, dry humping, dom Anakin, mutual masturbation, romantic tension and sexual curiosity, innocent reader, strong language, unprotected sex/creampie, dirty talk, perv Anakin. Written from Anakin's POV.
~3k words
Please proceed with caution
The first time I noticed the shift, we were in the refectory. The low hum of a hundred other Padawans was a dull roar I usually ignored, but your silence was a siren’s call. You weren't eating. You were staring, utterly transfixed, at a pair of Twi'lek diplomats. Their lekku were twined together in an intimate, unconscious gesture. Your head was tilted, your brow furrowed not in Jedi analysis, but in pure, unadulterated confusion. You were trying to deconstruct a feeling, and you had no tools for the job.
I slid onto the bench opposite you, my tray clattering. You jumped, your eyes—so wide, so endlessly earnest—snapping to me. A faint blush crept up your neck. Caught.
“Anakin! I didn’t see you.”
“I didn't meant to startle you,” I said, grinning. The lie came easy. I’d been watching you for ten minutes. “You were a million parsecs away. What’s got you so focused?”
You bit your lip, a nervous habit I found captivating. “It’s… nothing. Just observing.”
“Observing what?” I pressed, leaning forward, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. This was my favorite part. I had cultivated this role for years: your guide to the galaxy the Temple forbade. I knew things from the Outer Rim, from a life of visceral reality, and you… you were the perfect, pristine student. Your trust was a drug.
You leaned in, your voice a hushed secret. “Their head-tails. They’re… touching. It seems so deliberate. Why would they do that?”
A dark, possessive thrill curled in my stomach. “It’s a sign of affection, (Y/N). For Twi'leks, that’s like a kiss.”
Your eyes went impossibly wider. “A kiss? But… the mechanics don’t correlate. How does that physical contact translate to an emotional significance?”
I could have given you a clinical answer. But I am not a clinical man. “It’s not about mechanics. It’s about connection. Touch. Closeness.” I let my voice soften, imbue with a hint of warmth. “It feels good.”
“Feels… good?” you repeated, the concept foreign yet fascinating. The Jedi teachings on attachment were a cage you’d never thought to question. You were like a master programmer who had just discovered a fundamental line of code was missing. “The Code teaches that such physical attachments are fleeting. A distraction.”
“The Code was written by beings who may have forgotten what it’s like to have a body that feels,” I said carefully, watching the conflict play out in your eyes. I was planting a seed, and I loved watching it take root.
That was the beginning of my true obsession. I started seeing the signs everywhere. The way you’d watch holodramas with a new, critical intensity, your brow furrowed during scenes of casual touch. The way you’d flinch, then still, when I’d adjust your lightsaber grip, my hand covering yours for a moment too long. You were waking up, and I was the only one who saw the dawn. I made sure of it. I’d position myself behind you in the archives, my chest almost touching your back, breathing in the clean, soapy scent of your skin. I’d note the way your tunics stretched across your shoulders, the vulnerable curve of your neck when you were deep in thought. It was a private study, and you were my sole subject.
The climax came on a night when the Coruscanti rain streaked the transparisteel like tears. I was in my room, the familiar scent of ozone and grease a comfort. The knock on my door was an interruption I’d half-expected, half-hoped for.
I opened it, and there you stood. Your hair was mussed from sleep, your eyes wide, pupils dilated not with fear, but with a profound, swirling confusion. You hugged yourself, looking smaller than ever wearing nothing but a nightgown.
A pale, thin fabric that whispers around your knees. So different from the stiff, layered Jedi tunics that hide every curve. This… this clings to the gentle slope of your shoulders and the soft shape of your hips before floating away, a ghost of a garment that hints at more than it reveals. The dim corridor light behind you catches the delicate material, and I can trace the slender silhouette of your body beneath it. It’s the attire of someone utterly off-guard, vulnerable in a way that makes my breath catch. The fact that you have come to me dressed like this, so trusting and unarmored, sends a jolt of pure, intoxicating heat straight through me.
“(Y/N)? What’s wrong?”
“Can I… can I talk to you?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “It’s… I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Of course. Always.” I stepped aside. You slipped into my sanctuary, a stark contrast to your own orderly cell. The door hissed shut, sealing us in.
You stood amidst the scattered droid parts, shifting your weight. “I had a dream,” you began, your gaze fixed on the floor. “It wasn’t a bad dream. That’s what’s so… confusing to me.”
I leaned against my workbench, crossing my arms, giving you my full attention. My heart was a steady, heavy drumbeat. “Tell me.”
You took a shaky breath. “It was about you.”
The air in the room stilled. I kept my face a mask of calm. “About me?”
You finally looked up, and the raw trust in your eyes was almost painful. “We were… close. In the Room of a Thousand Fountains. You were showing me a lightsaber technique, but then… your hands were on my waist. To correct my stance, I thought. But they stayed. And it was… warm. And I felt this… this buzzing sensation. Like a low-power energy field, but it was inside me. It started where you touched me and spread everywhere.” Your cheeks flushed a deep, beautiful pink. “And it felt… significant. Important. Not like a distraction at all.”
Every word was a precious gift. Every word sending you closer to my carefully crafted trap. Every word sending jolts of heat to my groin. You were handing me the fragmented pieces of your awakening, and I was the only one who could assemble the puzzle. I pushed off the bench and took a step toward you. You didn’t retreat.
“Dreams can be the mind’s way of exploring concepts it doesn’t have words for,” I said, my voice low and gentle.
“But why this concept?” you asked, your voice pleading. "I try to release it into the Force as Master says, but it… it doesn’t feel like something to be released. It feels like a question I’m supposed to answer.”
Another step. I was close enough to see the flecks of color in your irises, to feel the nervous energy radiating from you. “The Jedi teachings are all theory, (Y/N). It doesn’t tell you what the wind feels like on your skin, or the scent of the Umgullian blight-flowers. It doesn’t have a symbol for that… buzzing.” I let the word hang between us. “That’s called arousal.”
“Arousal,” you repeated, tasting the word. It sounded so innocent on your lips. You were a scientist who had just discovered a new fundamental particle and had no idea it was radioactive.
“It’s a biological reality,” I continued, my tone that of a knowledgeable instructor. “A fundamental part of connection for most sentient beings. Of intimacy.”
“Intimacy beyond the Force?” you asked, and the question was so profoundly you, so perfectly blending Jedi doctrine with your new curiosity, that it made my chest ache.
“Yes. A more… personal kind.” I reached out, slowly, deliberately. My fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear. My knuckles grazed the sensitive skin of your temple.
You shuddered, a full-body tremor. Your eyes locked with mine, and your pupils dilated further, the color all but swallowed by black. Your breath hitched.
“That…” you whispered, your voice cracking. “That’s the feeling. From the dream.”
The look in your eyes—that blown-out, dazed wonder—was the most potent thing I’d ever seen. It was innocence, not stupidity. A brilliant mind encountering a new, overwhelming discovery.
“Do you want to understand it?” I asked, my thumb stroking the line of your jaw. The question was a threshold. “Not just as a concept, but as a reality? I can show you. Some things must be felt to be known.”
I was offering you the forbidden fruit, polishing it with the sheen of knowledge, and you were so, so hungry to learn.
You nodded, a tiny, helpless movement. “Yes. Please, Anakin. I need to know.”
My other hand came up to cradle your face. Your skin was impossibly soft. You leaned into the touch, your eyes fluttering closed for a second, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The surrender was absolute.
“Surrender to me.” I murmured, leaning in. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
I closed the final distance and brought my lips to yours.
They were soft, hesitant, unmoving. You were frozen, a beautiful statue coming to life. I kept the kiss gentle, a soft, persistent pressure. I could feel the frantic beat of your heart where my thumb rested on your neck.
After a moment of stunned stillness, you began to respond. It was clumsy, untutored, a mirror of my movements, but utterly sincere. Your lips parted on a shaky exhale, and I took the invitation, deepening the kiss just enough for my tongue to taste you. You jolted, a small, surprised sound escaping you, but you didn’t pull away. Your hands came up, gripping the fabric of my tunic at my sides, holding on as if I were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
I broke the kiss. We were both breathing heavily. Your eyes were hazy, your lips slightly swollen. You looked beautifully, profoundly disoriented.
“Was… was that it?” you asked, your voice breathy. “Intimacy?”
“That’s a part of it,” I said, my own voice rough with a hunger I was struggling to leash. “That’s a kiss.”
"Oh.” You looked dazed, processing the sensory input. "So that's... that's what everyone's always..."
A genuine chuckle escaped me. “Yeah.” I leaned in again, but this time I pressed my lips to the line of your jaw. You gasped, your head tilting back in a gesture of unconscious surrender. Your grip on my tunic tightened.
“Ani…” you breathed, and my name was a prayer.
“Just feel,” I whispered against your skin, my hands sliding from your face down to your waist, pulling you gently against me. I was painfully hard, and the sharp, startled intake of breath you let out told me you’d felt it. Your body went rigid for a second, then softened, melting against mine in a trusting acceptance.
I kissed you again, this time with more intencity. My hands roamed your back, learning the shape of you through your nightgown. You moaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. Your body was learning faster than your mind, your hips making a small, involuntary movement. The confusion was being burned away by a raw, physical need, and I was the one to recieve it.
I walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of my rumpled bed. You fell onto it, looking up at me with those huge, stormy eyes, your chest rising and falling rapidly. I stood over you, drinking in the sight. You were in my bed, on my sheets. The ultimate act of possession.
I knelt over you, caging you in. “Do you still feel confused?” I asked, my face inches from yours.
You shook your head, a lie we both recognized. The confusion was still there, but it was now secondary to the overwhelming tide of sensation.
“Good,” I murmured, and lowered my head. This time, my hand slid from your waist up your side, my thumb brushing, with deliberate slowness, the underside of your breast through the soft fabric.
You flinched, a sharp intake of breath. But then, your eyes found mine, wide and questioning. You didn’t push me away. Instead, you pressed upward, just slightly, into the touch. A silent, desperate plea for more.
The last shred of my Jedi training screamed that this was a violation. But the roar of my own want, and the sight of your willing, trusting surrender, drowned it out. This was mine. You were mine. Your innocence wasn't a shield; it was the key that had unlocked the door. You had come to me for guidance, and I was leading you, step by step, into the delicious, corrupting dark.
I broke the kiss, both of us panting. Your world had narrowed to this room, this bed, me.
“Do you want me to stop?” I asked. It was the final, cruel formality.
You blinked, processing the words from a great distance. Stopping was an absurdity. An impossibility. You shook your head, slow and deliberate.
“No,” you whispered. “Please don’t stop.”
A victorious smile touched my lips. I lowered my head again, my mouth finding the skin at your neckline. You tasted of sleep and something unnamably,fundamentally pure and I was a starving man. Your hands tangled in my hair, not to pull me away, but to hold me closer, sealing your own fate.
Your body arched beneath me, a soft whimper escaping your lips as your fingers tightened in my hair. I shifted my weight, pressing my thigh between your legs, feeling the heat radiating from your core through the thin fabric of your nightgown.
"Anakin," you gasped, your voice trembling with need. Your hips bucked instinctively against my leg, seeking friction. I groaned at the sensation, my cock throbbing painfully against the confines of my pants.
I pulled back just enough to yank my tunic over my head, tossing it aside. Your eyes widened, drinking in the sight of my bare chest, the scars from battles past marking my skin. Hesitantly, your hands reached out, tracing the lines of muscle on my abdomen. Your touch was feather-light, exploratory, sending jolts of electricity straight to my groin.
"Touch me," I commanded softly, guiding one of your hands lower, to the bulge straining at my waistband. You hesitated, then cupped me through the fabric, your palm pressing against my hard length. I hissed in pleasure, thrusting into your grip. "Like that. Squeeze it."
You obeyed, your fingers wrapping around my cock as best you could over the cloth, stroking tentatively. The innocence in your movements only fueled my hunger. I captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, my tongue plunging deep.
Breaking away, I hooked my fingers under the hem of your nightgown and dragged it up your thighs, exposing your bare skin inch by inch. You lifted your hips to help, your breath coming in short pants. When the fabric bunched at your waist, I paused, staring at the sight of you—legs parted, pussy glistening with arousal, untouched and waiting for me.
"So wet already," I murmured, sliding my hand between your thighs. My fingers brushed your slick folds, and you cried out, your body jerking. I circled your clit with my thumb, slow and deliberate, watching your face contort in pleasure. Your eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent moan.
"Open your eyes," I ordered. "Watch me touch you."
You did, those stormy depths locking onto mine as I dipped a finger inside you. You were tight, so fucking tight, clenching around the intrusion. I pumped in and out, adding a second finger when your hips started rocking to meet me. Your walls fluttered, coating my hand in your juices.
"Anakin... it feels... oh gods," you moaned, your free hand clutching the sheets. I leaned down, sucking your nipple into my mouth through the nightgown, then shoving the fabric aside to latch onto the bare peak. I bit down gently, flicking my tongue over the hardened bud while my fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot that made your back bow off the bed.
Your hand on my cock grew bolder, fumbling with the ties of my pants until you freed me. My length sprang out, pre-cum beading at the tip. You stared at it, fascination mixing with desire, then wrapped your fingers around the bare shaft, stroking from base to head.
"That's it," I growled, thrusting into your fist. "Touch me while I finger your pussy."
The room filled with the wet sounds of my fingers plunging into you, your gasps, my grunts. I could feel you building, your inner muscles tightening. "Come for me," I demanded, pinching your clit. "Let me feel you squeeze my fingers."
You shattered with a cry, your body convulsing, pussy gushing around my hand. I didn't stop, drawing out your orgasm until you were trembling, oversensitive and begging. Only then did I withdraw my fingers, bringing them to your lips. "Taste yourself."
You sucked them clean, your tongue swirling around my digits, eyes never leaving mine. The sight nearly undid me. I shoved my pants down fully, kicking them off, then gripped your thighs, spreading you wide.
"You were always going to be mine." I said, positioning my cock at your entrance. The head nudged your folds, slicking itself with your release. "It might hurt at first, but you'll take it. You'll take all of me."
You nodded frantically, your hands reaching for my shoulders. "Please, Ani... I need you."
I pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching your pussy around my girth. You whimpered, nails digging into my back, but you didn't pull away. When I bottomed out, I stilled, letting you adjust to the fullness. Your walls gripped me like a vice, hot and velvety.
"So tight," I groaned, burying my face in your neck. "Your pussy was made for me."
After a moment, you shifted, testing the sensation. "Move... please."
I did, pulling back almost all the way out before slamming back in. You yelped, then moaned, your legs wrapping around my waist. I set a rhythm, thrusting deep and hard, the bed creaking under us. Each stroke hit that sweet spot inside you, making your breasts bounce, your cries grow louder.
I hiked your nightgown higher, fully exposing you, and watched my cock disappear into your pussy over and over. The sight was obscene, perfect—your lips stretched around me, cream coating my shaft. I reached between us, rubbing your clit in time with my thrusts.
"Harder," you pleaded, surprising us both. Your hips met mine, chasing the pleasure. I obliged, pounding into you, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room.
Sweat slicked our bodies as I flipped you over, pulling your ass up. You braced on your elbows, looking back at me with lust-glazed eyes. I entered you from behind, gripping your hips, fucking you deeper than before. My hand snaked around to pinch your nipples, then slid down to your clit again.
"Come on my cock, pretty," I rasped, feeling my own release building. "Take it all."
You did, clenching around me as another orgasm ripped through you, your pussy spasming. The sensation pulled me over the edge. I thrust once, twice more, then buried myself deep, flooding your insides with hot cum. Rope after rope painted your walls, marking you as mine.
We collapsed together, my cock still twitching inside you, our breaths mingling. I kissed your shoulder, your hair, holding you close as the aftershocks faded. You were no longer confused—just sated, claimed, and utterly mine.
In the hallowed halls of academia, the most dangerous lessons are never on the syllabus.
Professor Anakin Skywalker is a man of formidable intellect and unsettling intensity. When he selects a promising medical student as his protégé, their shared pursuit of knowledge spirals into a dark and consuming affair.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ only), vaginal and oral sex, corruption, dom Anakin, romantic tension, age gap, strong language, unprotected sex/creampie, dirty talk, medical terminology, professor/student relationship.
Please proceed with caution.
Medical school had promised an orderly universe of taxonomy and Latin nomenclature, a sanctuary where the body was a text to be decoded under the cool, impartial light of reason. You sought refuge in the silent, high-ceilinged libraries and the formaldehyde-scented dissection halls, believing yourself a devotee of a pure, clinical truth. You failed to anticipate the heresy that was Anakin Skywalker.
He was less a professor than a specter of unquiet genius haunting the university’s gothic corridors. When he entered the lecture hall, the very air grew heavy, charged with a kind of terrible potential. His brilliance was not the dry light of scholarship but something darker, more alchemical—an intelligence that seemed to grasp not just the structure of the body, but its shadows, its flaws, its secret frailties. He was a man whose past was a subject of fevered speculation, a fallen prodigy, a surgeon who had gazed too long into some abyss of the flesh and had not blinked. And his gaze, that penetrating, analytic blue, had settled upon you with the focus of a collector examining a rare and promising specimen.
The seduction was, from the first, an intellectual one.
It began in the dissection lab, under the pitiless glare of fluorescent lights that gleamed off steel and pale, preserved skin. “You have a sculptor’s hand,” his voice, low as a confessional whisper, came from just behind your shoulder. His proximity was a sudden warmth in the chill room. “You do not merely dissect; you reveal. There is a reverence in your incisions that borders on the sacred.”
You focused on the exposed musculature before you, the scalpel trembling slightly in your grip. “Thank you, Professor Skywalker.”
He leaned closer, his words meant for you alone. “Anakin,” he corrected, the name a secret passed between initiates. “In these moments of discovery, formality is a sacrilege.” The implication was clear: you were being invited past the veil, from the lecture hall into the inner sanctum.
What followed was a careful curriculum of corruption.
It was in the way his fingers would brush against yours as he handed you a bone saw, a touch that felt like a deliberate contamination. It was in the weight of his gaze during his lectures on moral philosophy in medicine, his eyes finding yours as he spoke of the thin line between healer and vivisectionist, between knowledge and damnation. He was not merely teaching you anatomy; he was instructing you in a kind of beautiful, dangerous amorality.
“You grasp the architecture,” he remarked one evening, finding you in the library surrounded by open folios of Vesalius. He traced a finger over your drawing of the heart’s chambers. “But architecture is sterile. You must seek the ghost in the machine—the passion that makes it beat, the fear that stills it. That is the true study.”
The final lesson commenced in the deep, wine-dark silence of the old library long after midnight. You were ensconced in a carrel, a pool of lamplight illuminating your notes on synaptic decay. His approach was silent, but you felt it as a sudden hush in the whispering archives, a presence that displaced the centuries of dust.
“The pursuit of knowledge often leads to solitary places,” his voice was a low murmur, weaving through the shadows between the bookshelves. “It is a path lined with temptations.”
You turned. He stood barely a foot away, his face a study in sharp angles and deep shadows. “Some temptations are worth the cost,” you heard yourself say, the words seeming to come from someone else.
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. “Cost implies a transaction. I prefer to think of it as an… alchemical exchange. Base curiosity transformed into golden understanding.”
He closed the final distance. The world contracted to the space between your body and his, to the scent of old leather, dry paper, and the faint, clean smell of his skin.
“Professor…” you breathed, a final, feeble incantation against the gathering dark.
“Titles are for the uninitiated,” he whispered, his hand rising to your face. His thumb brushed your lower lip, a gesture of startling intimacy. “We have moved beyond such trivialities.”
Then he kissed you. It was not a kiss of passion, but of consummation—the logical, inevitable conclusion to a long, unspoken argument. It was slow, deep, and tasted of bitter coffee and the profound silence of forgotten books. It was the kiss of a man annexing a soul. Your carefully constructed world of reason and order crumbled into dust.
He broke away, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing a ragged sound in the quiet. His eyes were black pools, the blue utterly extinguished.
“You have committed the entire nervous system to memory,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “You can trace the pathways of pleasure and pain as abstract concepts. But the map is not the territory.” His hand slid from your waist, his fingers sketching a slow, deliberate path up the inside of your thigh, a blasphemous annotation in the margins of a sacred text. “Allow me to provide the empirical data.”
A sharp, involuntary sound escaped you. This was the final transgression, the moment where scholarship became sin. He was using your own formidable intellect as the lever to pry you open, turning your hunger for knowledge into a complicit desire for ruin.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his lips against the frantic pulse at your throat as his fingers found the heated, secret heart of you. “Tell me this is not the most profound manuscript you have ever longed to read.”
You were silent, utterly conquered. He had reframed your damnation as the ultimate postgraduate thesis.
A smile of dark, absolute triumph curved his mouth. “I knew you were a true scholar,” he said, his voice thick with a possessive pride. “You do not fear the dark places in the text.”
His fingers danced along the edge of your panties, a teasing whisper of touch that sent shivers racing up your spine. He watched you with those piercing eyes, the kind that saw straight through pretense, unraveling your composure thread by thread.
"You've always been the diligent one," Anakin murmured, his voice low and smooth, like aged whiskey warming you from within. "Diligence deserves reward, don't you think?" Your breath caught as he eased the fabric aside, his fingertips grazing your damp heat with a precision that spoke of calculated intent, coaxing your body to betray its secrets.
You shifted, a flush creeping across your cheeks, but he steadied you with a firm hand on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles that ignited sparks beneath your skin. Lifting your blouse with deliberate care, he exposed the curve of your breast, his gaze lingering as if appraising a rare artifact. "Such untapped potential," he whispered, his breath ghosting over your collarbone. He cupped your breast gently, his palm enveloping the soft weight, then brushed his thumb across her hardening nipple, drawing out a soft gasp that echoed in the empty room. The sensation pooled low in your belly, a forbidden warmth you couldn't ignore.
With a sly curve to his lips, he delved deeper, parting your folds to find her slick core. "See how you respond to the right guidance?" he said, his tone laced with dark amusement as he slid a finger inside, then another, curling them just so to stroke that hidden spot that made her thighs tremble. Her hips bucked instinctively, chasing the building ache, and he chuckled softly—a sound rich with triumph. "That's it, let go of the good girl facade. I can feel you yielding, petal by petal." His thumb joined the rhythm, circling her clit with expert finesse, each pass stoking the fire until her moans filled the air, raw and unfiltered.
Arousal slicked his hand, a silken testament to your surrender, and he brought his fingers to your lips, tracing them with your own essence. "Taste your awakening," Anakin coaxed, his eyes locking onto yours, challenging, inviting. You parted your mouth, the tangy flavor blooming on your tongue as he freed himself from his trousers, his cock springing forth—thick, and insistent. He guided your hand to it, letting you feel the throb of his desire. "Feel how you've stirred this? A professor's restraint, undone by his brightest pupil."
He maneuvered you with effortless command, bending her over the desk so your breasts pressed against the polished surface, cool and unyielding. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, teasing the slick seam before pressing forward, inch by deliberate inch, stretching you with a fullness that blurred the line between ache and ecstasy. "Breathe through it," he advised, his voice a velvet command as he sank deeper, filling you completely. One hand gripped your hip, the other trailed down your back, possessive and reassuring. He began to move, slow, deep thrusts that claimed your rhythm, each one designed to erode your inhibitions further.
You clutched the desk's edge, your body arching into him, the slap of their skin a hushed symphony in the dim light. "You're mine to mold now," he breathed against your ear, his pace building with calculated intensity, his fingers finding your clit again to heighten the torment. Pleasure coiled tight within you, a vortex pulling you under, pussy clenching around his invading length as waves of heat crashed through. He groaned, low and guttural, his control fraying at the edges. "Come for me pet."
Your release hit like a storm, body convulsing in exquisite spasms, walls milking him as ecstasy ripped through you. He followed with a final, powerful surge, his cock pulsing hot seed deep inside, sealing their illicit bond. Anakin stayed buried within, holding you close as tremors faded, our breaths mingling in the charged silence.
Gently, he withdrew and turned you to face him, his expression a mix of satisfaction and lingering hunger. He claimed your lips in a slow, devouring kiss, tongues tangling with promise. "You've proven an eager study."
A/N: Hi! As a med student who should be studying, not crafting stories, I'm thrilled you made it to the end! This is my first fic, so any constructive feedback is genuinely appreciated. Thanks for reading🪼
My stories linger where light falters. Mostly dark tales, sometimes something else if the muse strikes. If you don’t like dark, you won’t find much to your liking here
✧ Hayden Christensen / Anakin Skywalker / Stephen Glass
✧ Tom riddle
✧ The Mandalorian/ Din Djarin
✧ Rafe cameron
✧ Klaus Mikaelson (maybe?)
requests are always open — toss a message in a bottle and let’s see what washes ashore.
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
areudirty
jacobvanloon
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origamiaround
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