↳ au. Michael is Jack’s twin (they both do not have a last name) and Jack represents the good from their mother while Michael represents their father’s more evil tendencies.
status: on-going
[1] [2]
someone new ( ^ x )
↳ Jon Snow and Robb Stark both had a crush on the reader, the reader is in love with Jon, they lay together for the first time (sort of like a flashback), then Jon goes to the Walls and the reader finds a different kind of comfort in Robb.
status: unknown
x
sanctity ( ^ ! )
↳ the goddess of war, freyja, is put onto kattegat to aid the lothbroks during their future raids. both the seer and aslaug have seen her coming, and the queen welcomes her with open arms. catching the eye of hvitserk lothbrok, she treats him as no one has done before; as an equal, instead of a dog.
x
brutus ( ^ * ! )
↳ taken after the song brutus by the buttress, it essentially goes lyric by lyric, and the chapters will be based off the lyric i choose that day !
masterlist
gimme that ! (^ * )
shortly after the apocalypse happens, survivors go into hiding in outposts that are set up around the world. outpost 3, however, doesn’t realize that three of the people that have taken up residence in their walls are vampires, feeding on the others whilst they are asleep. all they know is that they are finding bite marks on them, and have little to no recollection as to how they are getting them. when michael langdon makes his way into outpost 3, the vampires are keen on making him the fourth in the relationship.
masterlist
No Thieves Welcome: When Hvitserk’s crush turns him down for his lesser, illegitimate brother, Hvitserk snaps his shit.
Warnings
Modern AU, Dark!Hvitty, cherry lollipops, violence, abusive behaviour, period sex, other sex, mental illness, unlikable character (so @alicedopey lets me know), crazy exes, mention of alcohol and drugs, manipulation, mention of character death (OC and canon characters), mention of child loss, abandonment.
a series masterlist for jeon jae-jun x f!reader...
𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠: in a world shadowed by past traumas, reader navigates the dangerous return of her high school lover and abuser, jeon jae-jun, who seeks to claim their daughter seo-yeon, pulling reader into a new cycle of revenge. as old wounds reopen, reader allies with an old friend to dismantle jae-jun and his circle, risking everything to protect her daughter’s future.
Summary: When Bucky’s professor unfairly grades his college assignment, ruining his perfect GPA, he finds a way to get revenge — And doesn’t his sweet little wife look delicious?
Warnings: Bucky POV, revenge plot, age gap, older!reader, flirting, cheating, kissing, smut, mommy kink, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), ass play, spanking, p in v sex, recording of sex, cum play.
Author’s Note: Unbeta’d. Dividers by @saradika. Hi, lovelies! It’s been a while 🤍 This is by far not my best work, but I started it at the beginning of the year and finally finished it and decided to let it go before I convince myself not to post it.
Also, I have little to no knowledge about the education system outside of the UK, since I’m British. So please excuse any facts I may have gotten wrong, this was purely for the smut 😅
The arms of the leather chair Bucky was sitting on creaked, straining under the tense grip of his fingers. Fury coursed through every muscle of his body, boiling his blood until he was sure steam was blowing out of his ears.
He had been sitting in his professor’s office for thirty whole minutes and not once had the man had the decency to look him in the eye and tell him a good enough reason for the C- marked on his most recent assignment. Thinking about it, he wasn’t even sure if his professor had ever made eye contact with him before; certain that he wouldn’t be able to recognise him if he ever looked at him.
Bucky was a straight A student, working towards the perfect GPA to graduate with full honors and claim the job of his dreams. And yet, the second since his professor had licked his finger and slapped the stack of papers — stained with a ring of coffee that wasn’t there when he handed it in — on Bucky’s desk, his whole world had been turned upside down.
He remembered his frenzy, the whirlwind of erratically flicking through each page and trying to find a single comment or suggestion that could help explain the low grade. But there was nothing. Only a forbidden red-inked C- that had taunted him ever since.
Immediately, Bucky had booked an office session, since his professor was strict on the rules of when and where to discuss anything other than current class material. There must have been a mistake he reasoned with himself in the beginning — maybe a mix up with another student or maybe his professor had missed a chunk of his work because surely that godforsaken C- wasn’t right.
However, Bucky soon came to realise in the thirty long minutes of his office session, that it wasn’t a mistake. In fact, it was the most generous grade received of the whole class.
“Sir.” He attempted once again to get through to his professor. “With all due respect, I worked extremely hard on his assignment. Every variable is valid, I ran through each test multiple times to gain an accurate representation. My method has been executed perfectly.” He swallowed the dryness in his throat. “I can’t understand why I’ve been graded so low.”
Dr Parker couldn’t have seemed less interested if he tried, the keys of his computer clicking away aimlessly as his brown eyes were glued to the screen. “For the last time, if you don’t understand what is wrong with your assignment, then I can’t help you.”
Bucky discreetly gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. The logic his professor spewed made absolutely no sense. He took a calming breath before he responded. “I’m not sure I can understand what exactly is wrong with my work if there’s no feedback to go off, Sir.”
Dr Parker sighed, seemingly fed up with the conversation. “It's not for me to serve you on a silver platter. If you want a mentor who gives you a free ride or has to hold your hand through a grade then it seems like college isn’t the place for you, James.”
The material of the chair almost ripped where Bucky’s nails began to furiously dig in. He never wanted a hand to hold or a free ride during his time in college; the bare minimum he expected was to at least have some kind of evaluation or support that offered more than a lousy grade that wasn’t fair.
Out of options, he desperately pleaded with his professor once again. “Sir, all I’m asking for is a reason for my grade being low. My GPA has been perfect all year and this assignment has made it take a huge hit. Please understand.”
Still, Dr Parker continued uselessly typing away without looking at him. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Mr Barnes.”
Bucky’s words came out jumbled as he jumped to offer an alternative. “What about— What if I did something for extra credit! You know? Just for— to boost my GPA back up?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Bucky was at the end of his tether and his throat began to tighten. “Please, Sir—I need—“
“What you need to do is move on from this assignment and work harder on the next one.” Dr Parker interrupted him coldly as he suddenly stood, packing his papers into his satchel. “My office hours are over and I have somewhere to be, so if you wouldn’t mind shutting the door behind you when you leave that would be great. Goodbye.” With that, his professor walked around the desk and out of the door without a second glance.
Tears sprung to Bucky’s eyes while he sat there, staring mindlessly at the now empty chair behind the desk in front of him. He forced the lump building in his chest down, never having felt so defeated in his life. Throughout his years of education, he had sacrificed, placed everything that wasn’t important on the back burner; holidays, parties, normal friendships, just to put his future career first and for what? For one complete asshole to decide he didn’t care enough about his job or students to fuck him over?
He shot out of his seat and paced over the carpeted floor. All of his dedication to his studies had been pointless — the thought burned through his mind and wounded him. All his life he had worked hard and this is how he had been repaid. The soles of his shoes thudded heavily until he came to a stop, running his hands down his face in despair.
When Bucky opened his eyes, he blinked until his blurred vision became clear, finding himself in front of the floor to ceiling bookcase that panned over the length of the full wall. Sighing at a complete loss on what to do, his eye flitted over the polished ornaments in front of him.
As he trailed over the neatly placed trophies and certificates, a scoff left his mouth — bitter and venomous. Every one of the awarded achievements built his resentment even more. The pretentiousness was aggravating.
He was about to walk away, go for a stroll with some fresh air to try and cool himself down and think properly. But just as he was going to leave, his eagle eye caught a small wooden picture frame shoved to the very back corner of the shelf, hardly noticeable with everything else taking front and center and ultimately hiding it.
Bucky glanced over his shoulder, making sure his professor had really left before stepping forward. His nosiness had gotten the better of him and now his interest was peaked. Careful not to knock over any ornaments, he plucked out the frame and blew off the dust that had accumulated over the picture for god knows how long.
To his surprise, it was a photograph of Dr Parker, many years younger and dressed in a tuxedo. Next to him, a stunning woman with the biggest smile on her face, dressed in an ivory, white dress.
Bucky’s eyes flew wide open while his jaw unhinged in shock.
Dr Parker had a wife?
Now that he thought about it, his professor did wear a gold band around his finger; one that the sun caught during a lecture one time and blinded Bucky enough to choke while he was drinking his coffee.
Studying the photo some more, Bucky only focused on the woman, one with kind eyes, pretty lips and a body to kill for; silhouetted in a gown that complimented her figure amazingly. He was utterly blown away.
The picture was at least ten years old, he summarised. His professor looked way younger than he did now, with frown lines and dark circles underneath his eyes. But he couldn’t get over how beautiful his wife was and how the hell he had managed to snag her with his douchebag personality. His mind ran a million miles per hour.
For all Bucky knew, you could have been just like your husband; just as dull and just as unbearable. It was only rational, because no one in their right mind would willingly be with a man like that.
He stared at you through the glass and tilted his head in thought, until the cogs started to turn. What if? he asked himself. What if he got his comeuppance somehow?
As soon as the thought presented itself, he batted it away, shaking his head and placing the photo frame back in its place.
But as he stood the frame upon the shelf, his hand stayed with it, unable to let go of the nagging idea that had now taken root in his mind.
What if you were his perfect route for revenge?
Looking out towards the window of the office, the setting sun beamed in. Bucky followed the streams of light that shined through, one landing on another photograph, larger in size of a chocolate haired boy with bright eyes. While he resembled Dr Parker, the boy’s eyes were all yours, kind and filled with light. The kid looked around the same age as himself, in a lab coat that had the same emblem as Bucky’s college.
A plan began to quickly form in his mind, each piece and detail intricately connected together to create the most beautiful retribution. The biggest fuck you to his professor for screwing him over.
Bucky sheathed his hands into his front pockets, running his tongue over his teeth with the most evil grin on his face. Dr Parker was going to get what he rightfully deserved.
Vengeance.
Having met up after their last classes of the day, Bucky followed Peter into his home when he opened the door, the droolworthy aroma of a home cooked meal slinking into his senses and making his stomach grumble.
It was now routine for him to come round to the Parker residence every week on a Friday afternoon. Once you found out your son had a new friend at college, you had extended the invitation to Bucky as Peter had recited. And of course, it would be rude of him to refuse.
The execution of his plan had come together seamlessly, almost too perfectly. It was just his luck that a clumsy Peter Parker happened to bump into Bucky on campus in a rush to his next class, spilling his coffee onto the ground and offering to buy him a new one.
Since then, he had made it his mission to become closer to Peter and soon enough, it was the night of his first dinner with you.
Before that first meeting, he had drilled it into his head that his scheme of revenge was strictly business; to get in and out and call it a day. But that went down the drain when he rounded the corner to the kitchen to introduce himself and he choked on his words when you spun around on your heels.
Bucky still remembered that moment, the first time he laid eyes on you in the cutest sundress, decorated with daisies that hugged your waist sinfully. The way your tits practically spilled out the damn thing stuck with him too.
You were a vision, a sight for sore eyes — the photograph in his professor’s office did not do you justice even with ten years added on. Then, as soon as you bounced over to him and pulled him into a hug that made his dick hard, his initial intentions went out the window. He was a goner and he knew one time wouldn’t be enough of you.
However, when it came down to dinner, Bucky was admittedly nervous. It wasn’t only just meeting you in the flesh and having his expectations blown out of the water that threw him off balance, the inevitable of seeing his professor outside of college worried him. His plan for revenge could have fallen through as soon as he met him. They almost did. If that would have been the case, Bucky wasn’t sure what his next steps would be.
But when he sat down at the dining table, his professor had only just noticed another guest in his home. Bucky remembered the slight sweat of his palms, the dryness of his throat as your husband looked at him over his newspaper and cocked his head; a familiarity brewing between them. Those couple of seconds lasted longer than he cared for. Then, unexpectedly, Dr Parker brushed him off and went straight back to reading his paper — evidently deeming Bucky unrecognisable and only a new friend of his son’s.
That memory still offended him slightly. There wasn’t a hint of recognition, even though he had fucked Bucky’s chances of attaining his dream career.
Snapping out of his memory, Bucky quickly shook his jacket off, taking care to hang it neatly on the coat rack and made a beeline to the kitchen.
“Dude. I know you like my mom’s cooking but damn.” Peter shook his head with laughter but Bucky ignored him in favour of something of much higher importance.
Stepping into the kitchen, he immediately found you balancing on your tiptoes, trying to reach the spice rack on the highest shelf. The skirt of your dress inched up your thighs and he couldn’t help but stare unabashedly at a sneak peak of your white g-string.
Clearing his throat, Bucky held out his arms wide and acted casual with a wide smile. “Where’s my favourite girl?”
His heart jumped as you snapped your head around, grinning wide once you saw who it was. “Bucky!” you cheerfully sang. “Hi, sweetie. I’m so happy you made it.”
You have no idea how happy I am to see you too, he groaned internally. “What do you take me for? Like I would ever miss your cookin’, Mrs Parker,” he teased aloud.
Raising an eyebrow playfully, you cocked your hip and crossed your arms over each other. “What have I told you about that, hm? Call me Honey, sweetheart. All my friends do.”
Bucky held his arms up to placate you. “Forgive me. Your food is too damn good to pass up, Honey.”
You rolled your eyes lightheartedly and turned back around to try and pluck the thyme from the top shelf. “You and that charm, boy. You’re gonna be the death of some poor college girl one day.”
Noticing your struggle, Bucky took the opportunity to come up behind you and reach over your head. His lips perfectly aligned with your ear and so with a sly hand to your waist, he grabbed the jar of herbs and placed them onto the counter in front of you while he whispered, “What if I’m not into college girls?”
Bucky heard the sharp inhale you tried so hard to smother, but it was useless with the proximity between you. It was instinct to then squeeze your hip, listening for your sweet whimper he lived to be the cause of.
The moment lasted only a couple seconds longer until Peter called out for you from the hallway. “Hi, Mom. We’re home if you hadn’t already noticed.”
Breaking away from Bucky sharply, you held a shaky hand to your chest. “H-Hey P, how was your week?”
Small incidents as such repeated themselves every week. You and Bucky would find yourselves — or he would create them — in intimate, dangerous positions that wouldn’t be explainable to your son or your husband should they ever catch you.
Which only made the game all the more exciting for him.
“Mom,” Peter whined while he walked into the kitchen. “Can you please not call me that when I have friends around?”
Bucky held his laughter behind his hand when you passed your son by, pinching his cheek and putting on a baby voice. “Oh, but you’re just so cute!”
However, that smile was soon wiped away from his face when the front door opened, immediately slamming shut with a loud bang. “I’m home, Honey,” your husband yelled.
Your name on another man’s lips left a sour taste in Bucky’s mouth. He had come to learn that your nickname was born from your old college roommate who had affectionately bestowed it upon you after your love of baking dessert treats.
The story was adorable, one he had soaked in with all the details you offered him. But your husband and his boring, monotonous tone turned even the sweetest name into something unpleasant.
With his keen eye, Bucky had spotted the fake smile you plastered on your face to greet your husband, even when he walked straight past you without a hug or a kiss and into his usual chair at the dining table.
“Glad your home safe, love,” you quickly offered him a half assed hello and headed back towards the kitchen to grab the meat out of the oven.
“Hey.” Bucky shot forward before you could grab the handle and slid the oven mitts laying on the counter onto his hands. “I got this, don’t worry about it.”
You paused to look at him like he had grown another head. “Bucky, I've done this a million times. I’m perfectly capable.”
“I know you are, beautiful.” He didn’t miss the way your lips parted from his compliment, reserved for your moments alone. “Doesn’t mean you should have to. Lemme do it, please.”
It didn’t take much for you to relent, already flustered enough to give in to him. Stepping aside, you made room for Bucky to take the dish out of the oven and place it on the worktop.
“Smells fuckin’ delicious, Honey.” You gently swatted his arm for his colourful language, but he couldn’t help test the waters as he stared directly into your eyes. “Hopefully tastes as good as she looks.”
What he didn’t expect was for you to retort back with a quick wit. “Oh, don’t worry about that. She’s as juicy as they get.”
These interactions were just considered harmless flirting to you. Bucky knew you had no idea that he went home and fucked his fist, replaying these exact moments in his head. He licked his lips with a groan. “I bet she is.”
“Where the hell is this damn food, woman? I’m eating away here!” your husband barked from the dining table.
Bucky gritted his teeth while he watched you bow your head in embarrassment. “Just plating up now. It won’t be much longer, dear!”
Turning back to Bucky, you smiled apologetically. “Sorry about that, he gets a little grumpy when he’s hungry.”
He couldn’t believe you were apologising for that son of a bitch, though this was a regular occurrence by now; excusing your husband’s wrongdoings even if you were ashamed of it.
Placing his hand over yours, Bucky told you firmly, “Don’t think for one second that you have to apologise to me, Honey.” The next words he grumbled under his breath. “Especially never on behalf of that fucker.”
Your free hand smoothed over the skirt of your dress, a nervous habit of yours when you were upset.
Bucky recognised your unease and took initiative to derail the conversation. “What do you need me to take?” he asked while rolling the sleeves of his shirt up.
You looked at him then, quick to protest and shake your head. “No, sweetheart. You’ve done enough, honestly. Go sit down and—”
“Honey.” Bucky held your hand, rubbing his thumb over your skin. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll help you. I’m all yours.”
Sighing defeatedly, you nodded your head to the foil covered dishes on top of the counter. “The vegetables and mashed potatoes could do with taking to the table.”
Bucky grinned wide, all teeth and brought your hand up to place a kiss to the back of it. “Good girl.”
A shudder ran down your spine that he didn’t miss, the hitch of your breath that blew the front strands of his hair giving you away. With a wink, he backed away to grab the dishes, piling them in his arms, along with a couple extra to take to the dining table.
Soon enough, a full roast dinner was set out, steaming hot and ready to be eaten.
Peter was already sitting on the chair by his Dad’s side, speaking animatedly about his recent discoveries on his science assignment for class. You always sat opposite your husband, which meant the only free seat that Bucky could take was opposite Peter and next to you.
Not that he was complaining.
He steadily pulled the chair out and sat down. It wasn’t exactly a coincidence that he brushed against you, not when he shuffled his chair as close as possible to you without raising suspicion. “Everything looks incredible,” he whispered as he leaned into you.
The grip you had on your cutlery faltered. Bucky reveled in your bashfulness, always competing with himself to see how much he could make you squirm. So he smirked when you gulped, peeking at him from the corner of your eye. “T-Thank you, Bucky.”
Your son‘s voice brought you out of your flustered state “—So I was right, Dad! My results actually confirmed my hypothesis.”
You cleared your throat and chimed in cheerfully when your husband only answered with an uninterested hum. “That’s amazing news, P!” With a stern tone, you addressed your husband this time. “Aren’t you proud of him, love?”
But instead of congratulating him, your husband turned the page of his newspaper while shoveling food into his mouth. “Mhm. He did good, I guess.”
Luckily, Peter didn’t notice or bat an eye to his father. Bucky had witnessed over the few weeks he had been invited over for dinner that your son had enough support from you alone to keep his spirits uplifted.
You decided not to bite and move on with the conversation, mouth open about to speak when your husband suddenly laid his newspaper down and spoke over you. “You know, I’ve had the worst week at work.”
Frustrated, your fingers clenched tightly around your knife. “Oh yeah?”
Dr Parker blew out an irritating sigh. “The students this week—god—I had a flock of them at my door, complaining about their grades being too low.”
Bucky felt the blood in his veins begin to boil. Normally he would tune out the grating voice of your husband, but he couldn’t help but listen to something that directly involved him — unknowingly to his professor.
“I mean, I can’t help that their work isn’t up to par. What do they want me to do? Mollycoddle them?” he scoffed. “If they come crying to me for help all the time then they may as well cut their losses and drop out. They’re only wasting their own money.”
The loud clink of your cutlery dropping against the plate cut through the tense atmosphere. “Are you serious right now?”
“Dad,” Peter cringed, obviously uncomfortable. “You can’t say that.”
“I’m not saying anything that’s not true.” Dr Parker shrugged.
“It is your job to guide your students—who are paying thousands for their education by the way—and give them feedback to help them improve,” you shot back, heatedly.
Bucky’s chest puffed out in pride. Though he couldn’t outwardly say anything, he was proud of you for inadvertently defending him — even if you didn’t know it.
Your husband’s tone turned biting towards you, however. “I’m not their babysitter, Honey.”
But you stood your ground. “No you’re not. You’re their teacher and they look to you for guidance. It's the bare minimum your job requires.”
A weighted silence fell over the dinner table while you and your husband glared at each other until the chime of a text cut through the awkwardness.
Dr Parker retrieved his phone from his pocket and read his message. After a couple of seconds, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and threw it onto his plate. “I’ve got to go back into the office. Emergency.”
“What?” you asked in disbelief. “But you’ve only just come home.”
“Well, unlike some, I can’t just slack off at home all day.”
Bucky watched out of the corner of his eye as your mouth dropped open in shock at your husband’s barely hidden jab. Unrestrained anger filled his veins as he had to hold back. Though the urge to fly over the table at Dr Parker was hanging on by a thread.
Is this what life was like at home for you? A husband who so obviously didn’t care for you while you made his life as comfortable as possible. And Peter, a son who held his tongue while he stiffly carried on eating his dinner and not defending his own mother?
Bucky looked to you as you quickly regathered yourself, blinking away the tears building over your waterline and pretending like you weren’t hurt.
Your husband passed over his harmful statement as nonchalantly as he said it while lifting out of his seat. “Don’t wait up for me, I’ll be home late.”
And just as rudely as he came home, he walked out, the slam of the door reverberating through the house.
It wasn’t a minute after that when Peter also received a text. After reading the message, his eyes lit up with excitement. Bucky knew well enough what that face meant — Peter was getting lucky. “Hey mom, is it okay if I go out? Hang with my friends for the night?”
The dinner you laboured over had already gone out the window once your husband had ruined it. Of course it didn’t bother you as much that your son wanted to leave too. “Of course, sweetie.” You stood up and collected the half empty plates from the table robotically. “Just be careful and let me know when you’re there.”
With a dejected sigh that only Bucky noticed, you gathered the rest of the cutlery and took them to the kitchen, beginning to fill the sink to wash up.
Peter waited until you were out of ear shot to whisper, “Dude, MJ asked me to come round tonight. I think she finally wants it!” Bucky held back a cringe. “You think it’s cool if I shoot off? You can make your own way home, right?”
Bucky couldn’t have given a single fuck where Peter went or what he did right now. All he cared about, as he shot discreet glances of you in the kitchen washing the plates, was your wellbeing. “Sure, Parker. I can figure it out.”
“Awesome!” Peter laughed before whipping out of his seat and running towards the door. “Catch you Monday, pal!”
The house grew silent apart from the departing slam of the door, this time by your son. As soon as Peter was gone, Bucky instantly left his seat to join you.
He leaned his shoulder against the archway of the kitchen. “You okay, Honey?”
Looking towards him in surprise, your eyes held onto a last tendril of hope that someone hadn’t let you be alone. “Sweetheart, I thought you would have left with P.”
Bucky shook his head with a fond smile, the curls at the top of his head bouncing with the movement. “Of course not. I’ve got nothing better to do with my Friday night than spend time with a gorgeous woman.”
He caught the tightening of your lips, as though you were holding back your flustered smile. “Oh, stop that. You flatter me.”
“I can’t help it. You make a man go weak. What can I say?”
“Are you flirting with me?” you laughed incredulously.
“And what if I was?” Bucky noticed the way your eyes latched onto the sight of his shirt, tightening over his arms as he crossed them over each other. “Would you like it?”
Your eyes flicked up to his, holding his intense gaze for a few seconds before you huffed a breath and began cleaning the dishes again. “You’re cute, Bucky.”
Bucky licked his lips and ravaged your form silhouetted in your fitted dress. “Wouldn’t exactly be the word I would use, but I’ll take it from you.”
A rare giggle, only let out in his presence, escaped you. “Scram would you? You don’t want to be spending your Friday night with your friend’s mom, sweetie.”
Testing the waters, Bucky let slip exactly what was on his mind. “Actually, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Your hand stilled, chest rising and falling at a faster pace than before. “Oh, if only I was twenty years younger,” you chuckled quietly to yourself, not expecting for Bucky to overhear.
Jackpot, he smirked to himself.
Walking to the kitchen island, Bucky leaned his elbow on the counter beside you. “What would you do, Mrs Parker?”
You jumped with a yelp, visibly surprised to have received a response so close; eyes blown wide as they flitted over Bucky’s face in panic. “E-Excuse me?”
Bucky closed the distance between you even further. He leaned over the sink to turn the running water off. “I said,” he whispered huskily, keeping consistent eye contact with you. “What would you do if you were twenty years younger?”
“I—I um,” your breathing started to become heavy while Bucky stared shamelessly at you. “It’s just an expression, sweetie,” you laughed, shaking your head to try and brush the comment off. “I d-didn’t mean it like that—“
“No?” He watched carefully as your eyes darted around, trying so hard not to look at him. “How did you mean it then?”
The spotlight Bucky was intentionally putting on you made you falter, even more so when he tucked your hair behind your ear and let his hand linger over your collarbone.
“C’mon, tell me. I don’t bite.” A sadistic smirk adorned his face while you stared at his lips. “Unless you want me to, of course.”
“I s-swear, Bucky.” Your voice was breathless with the heat of his stare. “There was nothing behind it, I—”
“I don’t believe you.” Bucky backed you against the sink, trapping you with his arms on each side of your waist. “I think,” he rasped, teasingly trailing his fingers up the bare skin of your arms. “That you would let me bend you over this counter right here and fuck you senseless.”
The wind was audibly knocked from your lungs as you gasped. Words failed you, stuttering over yourself which was most amusing to Bucky.
Nonetheless, your eyes still followed him with a glaze, hooked onto every word that left his lips. “I think you’d let me take you from behind. Stuff your pretty pussy full with my fat cock.” He grabbed your hand and pressed it against the bulge in his trousers. “You feel that, huh? How good it would feel to take all a’me, pretty mama?”
Bucky watched as your eyes fluttered and you bit your lip — the last of your reserve hanging by a thread. One more deadly blow to your empty head and you would be putty in his hands.
Any remaining distance between you disappeared as he placed wet kisses from the pulse of your neck up to the corner of your mouth. “I think—” he whispered against your lips, his next words uttered in his most seductive voice. “I think you’d let me do it. Right. Fuckin’. Now.”
You placed your hands over the shirt on his chest to push him away; a mistake he imagined as you alternatively began bundling the material up with clenched fists. “Bucky—“ you painfully uttered with your eyes squeezed shut. You shook your head, as though that would help you. “This—this isn’t right. You’re my son’s friend and I n-need you to leave—“
“Look at me.” Bucky slid his hands over your neck, holding your jaw with his thumbs to tilt your head up. Slowly, your eyes squinted open and he saw the confliction clear as day in your glossy eyes, the battle you were facing in your mind. “You’re practically melting in my hands, Honey. You just gotta give in. We’ve been playin’ this game for far too long now, don’t you think?”
There was no escaping his blue eyes when you tried to look away once again and he firmly guided your gaze back to him. “None of that, now. Do as I say.”
Your expression was tortured — torn between right and wrong, pleasure and sin. Bucky knew you were good, a dutiful housewife and loyal to a fault to a man who didn’t deserve it.
Where had that gotten you? Whilst the revenge plan was hot on his mind — the very reason he had meticulously planned everything up to this exact moment — he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth that he was getting something extra out of this. You.
“We shouldn’t do this,” you pleaded painfully, still with a wild spark in your eye. “We can’t do this.”
“You know what I’m not hearing, Honey?” Bucky asked. “I’m not hearing that you don’t want to do it.”
You shook your head frantically with wide eyes until he tightened his grip on your cheeks. “I’m gonna give you one chance to answer me.” He squeezed your cheeks until your lips puckered. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”
Desire rolled through your eyes as your thighs clenched together. Though you still tried to deny your need for him. “Bucky—”
“Ah, ah. I want an answer.”
Bucky watched as your throat bobbed. Your nostrils flared with your harsh breaths and your breasts heaved up and down with exerted force. Seconds went by, the two of you staring at each other before you finally answered. “Yes.”
The two of you burst into the master bedroom — the one you shared with your husband, kissing erratically while your hands fumbled through Bucky’s hair.
He moaned deeply, pushing you against the wall, and turning feral over the feel of you as he kneaded your body. “You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he hummed against your lips.
Your head thumped back against the wall, chest heaving while you tried to catch your breath. All of Bucky’s attention was drawn to your chest. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got the most perfect tits?”
Choking on your spit, you stumbled over your words, so adorably oblivious to your own attraction. “I—I didn’t realise—um, t—thank you—”
Bucky laughed, shaking his head before quickly ripping down your dress to your waist with force. Your upper body was bare, free for him to roam his rabid eyes over your naked tits.
“Bucky!” Your squeal of shock was followed by you hastily trying to cover your chest with your hands.
But a scowling Bucky immediately ripped them away; offended you would dare try to keep them from him. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ cover yourself up, Honey.”
He could tell it was intense for you, to be so thoroughly desired and the thought that you had never received this much attention before made him angry once again.
“It’s been a while,” you mumbled. The mousy confession only heightened Bucky’s fury towards your pathetic husband.
Delicately, he kissed you and began to trail his lips down the slope of your neck. “Ain’t gotta worry about that. I’ll take care of you.”
Slowly descending, Bucky laved his tongue over your peaked nipple, sucking it into his mouth and letting it go with a pop. Your breast bounced with the motion and he squeezed his dick over his trousers with a groan. “Look at you, Honey. You’re a fuckin’ goddess.”
Bucky’s tunnel vision made whatever you said next pointless. Grabbing your tits, he buried his head in between them, relishing in your softness. He peppered his kisses across to your other nipple and swirled his tongue around the peak.
Your legs crumbled, the sensation overwhelming for you. The thought that Bucky could get you off by just playing with your tits made his cock even harder. But he had so much more in store for you.
“Why don’t you take off your dress, baby?” he murmured into your skin. “Want you to kneel on the bed for me, alright?”
You nodded shakily. Bucky hovered over your breasts a couple of seconds more, savouring the feel of you before stepping backwards to give you space to move.
With a deep breath, you walked on unsteady legs towards your bed, letting your dress shimmy down your body on your way. Your back was turned to Bucky and he salaciously eyed your figure, each and every curve of your body. He internally created a map of your stretch marks and imperfections that only made him more crazed for you.
The mattress sank down while you knelt onto it carefully. Bucky watched the arch of your back intently, the flesh of your ass rounding out from your position.
Forget the damn reason he plotted this very moment, he was just excited to finally get a taste of you.
Your quiet murmur sounded over Bucky’s thoughts. “I’m ready.”
Biting his lip, he strolled forward until he came to a stop behind you. Still fully clothed, Bucky desperately singed the picture in front of him into his mind. He held so much power in that moment, and it felt like a dream that he had you bent over solely for him.
Bucky leaned over your form, beginning to place delicate kisses down your back. He basked in the goosebumps that arose on your skin. “How the fuck are you real?” he murmured to himself.
With a shaky sigh, you whispered, “I still don’t know about this.”
Chuckling, Bucky finally dropped down to his knees, ignoring your reluctance to eye the flimsy piece of material covering your pussy. Hooking a finger inside your underwear, he peeled it away and held it to the side. “Oh, fuck me.”
You squirmed in place as the cold air hit you in your most vulnerable state. Your raw scent clogged Bucky’s nose and his eyes rolled to the back of his head in bliss. “Can’t fuckin’ wait any longer, Honey. Gotta know how you taste.”
Surging forward, Bucky buried himself between your thighs. You screamed in retaliation to the feel of his tongue snaking its way through your folds and he was sure he hadn’t heard a better sound.
He explored every inch of your cunt, unwilling to leave the heaven you so graciously granted him. But it was the sensation of Bucky’s tongue beginning to ease its way inside your hole that made you vocal once again.
“My husband—“ you called out, obvious to Bucky that you were trying to clear your conscience of guilt. But he knew you couldn’t care less about him — you didn’t even mention the fucker once while you were too busy feeling sorry for your son in the kitchen and making silly excuses to not let him have his way with you.
Landing a harsh smack to the top of your thigh, Bucky savored your squeal of shock. “Don’t act like you give a fuck about him now, Honey. Who’s the one eating your pussy this good, hm?” He ran two fingers down the middle of your folds, biting his lip at the wetness coating them. When your only answer was a moan muffled by your pillow, he spanked you again in the same place with more force. “Answer me.”
“You, Bucky!” you instantly shouted out. “You’re the one eating my pussy so good!”
“There we go. That wasn’t so hard was it?” He eased over the marks beginning to bloom on your skin and smiled to himself. “Call me James, though. I like it better.”
Without letting you reply, Bucky dived back in, fucking your pussy with his tongue. You reached back to hold your asscheeks open with each hand, desperate to have him go deeper into your hole. The glint from the diamond of your wedding ring caught his attention and he smirked into your cunt; the reminder that you were married only fuelled his arousal even more.
“Fuck, baby,” he spoke into your cunt. “You really are sweet, ain’t ya? Taste fuckin’ incredible.”
The filthy sounds of slurps and moans filled the room. Bucky was a starved beast, held back and pushed to the edge for too long and every little bit of anger and resentment that had built in his body from your husband’s treatment was taken out on you.
It only boosted his ego when you grinded your cunt back against him too. His cock jumped with excitement with how fucking dirty you truly were. You had been locked up too, he remembered. Stuck holding back your true self for a shitty excuse of a man.
Bucky grunted deeply before licking a wide stripe from your clit, slowly running through your pussy lips and reaching higher towards the puckered hole that twitched with anticipation.
“Oh!” you exclaimed aloud in surprise. Bucky thought he may have gone too far, then. But once you relaxed and backed yourself into his tongue, he smiled wickedly.
“You like that, filthy girl?” he laughed, darkly. “Should’ve known you’d be a little freak.”
Bucky circled the tip of his tongue teasingly around your asshole, moaning at your eagerness when you tried to reach further back with your hands and drag him closer.
“Don’t tease,” you gasped, out of breath. “Please, I want more. Gimmie more.”
Almost immediately, Bucky complied, ripping your hands away with vigor to replace them with his. He spreaded your asscheeks wide and lapped at your tight hole.
“Fuck yes—oh my god, James—yes!”
The depravity was obscene and disgusting and Bucky absolutely loved it. Never had he been more turned on and he decided then and there that this wasn’t going to be a one and done deal. He wanted you to be his.
A string of saliva connected Bucky’s mouth to your ass as he reluctantly backed away. The slick that had poured out of you smothered his chin and cheeks and Bucky happily licked his lips with a groan. “Baby, as much as I wanna keep eating your ass, I need to feel your pretty little cunt wrapped around my cock.”
You whimpered while your pussy clenched with a need to be filled. Bucky watched your cute little hole flutter. “Put it in me,” you slurred. “Need your cock.”
He wasted no time unfastening his jeans to pull them down enough until his dick bobbed out of its confines. Bucky caught you peeking your head around, trying to catch a glimpse of his cock, but he spanked your ass and bit his lip with amusement at your scream. “Not yet, baby. You’ll get a chance to see it when I fuck your throat later.”
You squirmed impatiently, needy moans escaping you and Bucky couldn’t hold back any longer. Grabbing his cock, he began to push the fat head of his length inside you.
A loud gasp tore from your throat and your pussy instantly tried to suck him in deeper. Your walls, tight and warm, hugged his dick like a vice. “You’re—oh my fucking god—how are you so big?”
The smirk that donned Bucky’s face was lethal. He had you right where he wanted you. And yet his eye rolled back all the same, savouring the flutter of your tight hole around him.
“This is all for you, baby,” he breathily whispered, bullying his way deeper into your pussy. “Get me so fuckin’ hard everytime I see you. Cookin’ in them pretty little dresses. Just wanna lift your skirt up and fuck you wherever I want.”
Your moans both fell into sync as Bucky finally slid his cock all the way to the hilt. You couldn’t stop squirming and it drove him crazy.
“You need to move,” you begged in between pants. “Please, I can’t stay still.”
Bucky licked his teeth with desire blazing through him. “Since you asked so nicely, Honey.”
Without the decency to ease you into it, Bucky instantly set a brutal pace. He looked down, admiring the thick coating of your juices lathering his dick and he willed himself not to blow his load so fast. He tightly closed his eyes, adjusted his stance and began to fuck you.
You were quick to grab ahold of whatever you could, scrambling for purchase within the sheets, but you were useless to try to stop how your head buried into the bed. The force of Bucky’s thrusts were too violent and so you surrendered to what was inevitable, letting yourself drool over the cotton.
“Bu—CKY!” your cry of surprise when he lifted his foot onto the bed, allowing him a better angle to fuck you, was music to his ears.
“What’s’a matter, baby?” Bucky mocked. “Thought you were a big girl, huh? Can’t handle me?”
Your reply was instant. “I can! I can, I promise, I promise!”
“Then shut the fuck up and take it.”
Bucky didn’t know where to look, he was spoilt for choice. To watch your eyes roll back in ecstasy? To concentrate on the shlick shlick of your soaked cunt? Ultimately, his eyes were glued to the jiggle of your ass, his hands soon following as though he was hypnotised. How it so perfectly met his hips without a falt in rhythm.
“Fuck me—this ass is heaven, baby. You been hiding it from me all this time?”
There was no answer this time, at least not a coherent one. Bucky was instead graced with your constant squeaks and groans — a woman too invested in a physical gratification she had so sadly been starved of.
Bucky chuckled. “Ain’t gotta answer, Honey. The sounds comin’ outta that mouth are keeping my dick happy enough.”
He almost forgot the end goal of his proposition in the midst of the delectable feel of your cunt. With a sudden bolt of clarification as he felt a vibration against his leg, Bucky kept one hand on your hip while he reached for his phone in his pocket with the other. Keeping up the pace of his thrusts, you were clueless as he unlocked it and opened the camera app.
“Now, Honey, I want you to really scream my name, okay? Wanna hear how good I’m makin’ you feel. Can you do that for me?”
“Uh-huh.” You nodded, dumbly. “C-Can do that for you, James.”
He grinned wickedly and threw his head back. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.” Looking back down at you through the phone screen, he hovered his finger over the record button and brought his other hand down hard on your ass. “Go on then, baby. Put on a show for me.”
If Bucky thought you were a fucking treat before, his mind was blown once you began to take the reigns of your own pleasure. Bucky hardly had to move and you still plunged yourself onto his cock with an unmatched enthusiasm to anyone else he had fucked. He could hardly keep his hand that held the phone up from shaking. The combined sounds coming from the both of you were insane.
None of his wet dreams could compare to his reality. “You—shit—you’re killing me, Honey.”
You must not have heard him because you decided to torture him even more by arching your back just that little bit further.
Bucky thought he was a goner, soon to approach his end. But he couldn’t let that happen. He was far from done with you yet.
Propping one foot up onto the bed for better leverage, he gathered his restraint and began to drive forward once more. He felt high.
“That husband of yours ever fuck you like this, huh?” Bucky demanded. “Can he make you leak all over his dick like a fuckin’ slut?”
You violently shook your head from side to side, like the thought of your husband left a sour taste in your mouth you wanted to get rid of. “Nuh-uh,” you whimpered, popping your ass up even more to take as much as you could. “O-Only you.”
“Tell him, baby.” Bucky noticed too late that he had slipped up, too gone off the feel of your cunt wrapped snug around his dick. But you hadn’t seemed to realise his mistake either and the thought that you were too much of a wreck from his cock to comprehend who he was talking about made him even harder. “Let him know who’s balls deep in your tight, slutty pussy.”
“Atta girl,” he cooed, hoarsely. “Look at the fuckin’ mess you’re makin’ on me.”
Bucky reached down to where the two of you were connected with his free hand, sweeping the copious amount of your slick gathered in a ring around the bottom of his cock. “Here.” He leant forward, one palm up towards you with his phone still in his other hand out of your view. “Open your mouth, pretty mama.”
You slightly turned your head with your tongue sticking out wide and eagerly sucked the juices off his hand with a long moan.
Managing to get all of it on camera, Bucky watched as you licked between his fingers, not wasting a drop. “Holy fuck,” he grunted deeply. “You’ll really do anything I say, won’t you?”
You bobbed your head up and down, eventually letting his fingers go, clean as a whistle.
“What a fuckin’ filthy whore. You’re perfect for me.”
You backed yourself onto Bucky’s cock, meeting his thrusts perfectly while the meat of your ass clapped against his toned waist. “You’re a needy little thing, ain’t you baby?”
“Anythin’ you want,” you slurred. “Can be whatever you need.”
“Poor mommy hasn’t been treated this good in a long time I can tell.” Bucky gripped your ass harshly with his hand, jiggling the flesh for his own satisfaction. “Women like you, need putting in their place on a daily basis. Need a good fuckin’ to keep them happy.”
“Yes!” you agreed, firmly. “Mommy needs to be fucked like this all the time.”
Unbelievable. Bucky didn’t even have to try to add salt into the wound. He couldn’t help the continuous conspicuous messages that he could easily pass off to you. “This is what happens when you don’t take care of your wife.”
Harsh slaps echoed in your bedroom. The two of you could only share the raw sounds that left your mouths in your haze of the thrill as the string between you pulled tighter and tighter.
“I’m—so—close,” you murmured with all your depleted energy.
Bucky didn’t need the confirmation when he could feel the rapid pulses of your walls that squeezed him. He knew your orgasm was clutching at its straws and he was so close himself. The blood from his head had long since made its way to his dick and his composure was swiftly deflating.
“Want that cum,” he garbled as his mouth hung open. “I’ve been such a good boy, mommy. Give it to me, please.”
You whined loudly, like a dog in heat. But your voices became lost on each other. That didn’t stop Bucky from losing his inhibitions out loud.
Thrust. “I’ve been such,” thrust. “A good,” thrust. “Boy.”
The wound up ball of tension in your lower stomach exploded in a series of screams and violent shivering that overtook your whole nervous system and the very sensation brought Bucky to his defeat.
The muscles in his legs failed him as they turned to jelly. Bucky let out the sluttiest moan he’s ever experienced in his life and all but collapsed onto your sweat slicked body. He could feel his cock shooting a constant stream of cum into your cunt with seemingly no end in sight.
“Fuck,” he whimpered into your ear. Slowly, his conscience came back to life and the flow of his load finally came to a stop.
The two of you laid still, only the heavy panting serving to fill the silence. After a couple of minutes, Bucky kissed your shoulder blade, before lifting himself up. He gathered the strength to gently retrieve his length from your hole that still strangled him.
Bucky was reminded of the phone that was still recording in his hand and he quickly made sure to get the winning money shot of his load dripping out of your pulsing hole while he wholly detached himself from you.
He was only human to push his finger into your cunt, he thought, letting himself gather himself on his own fingers.
Flipping the camera around to himself, Bucky put his coated finger in his mouth, sucking your combined juices and humming and letting it go with a pop. He laughed, out of breath, his red cheeks and mussed hair only adding to the depravity of the video. “Y’know some people should really keep an eye on their wives. You never know what they’re up to in their spare time. Ain’t that right, Honey?”
Bucky knew you were out of it — he watched on while you buried your head in the sheets, rubbing your thighs together as aftershocks made your body twitch. Your needy, high pitched keens bounced off the walls. “Wan’ more of your cock, James—please—need you to fuck me again.”
He licked his lips in delight, the sight of your ass wiggling with his cum leaking out of you and your unprompted addition to the recording filling him with glee.
“Well,” he sighed, turning back to the camera and shrugging with no remorse. “You heard the wife. Duty calls.” With a cocky wink, he ended the recording with a final farewell. “See you in class, Professor.”
Bucky exited his camera app and quickly brought up his emails, scouring through to a saved draft and attaching the video link. After pressing send, he shut off his phone, making sure any future notifications would be silenced before throwing it to the ground with a careless thump.
“Baby,” you whimpered, looking behind you to search for him. “What are you doing? I said I wanna be fucked again.”
Undressing the rest of his clothes, Bucky stalked towards you, kneeling onto the bed and effortlessly flipping you over to kiss you deeply to share your combined tastes. “Don’t worry, mommy,” he breathed into your mouth. “I’ll take care of you now.”
Meanwhile at his college, a new email popped up on Dr Parker’s computer screen, shrouding the dark office with a white glow in the late night. With an exhausted huff, he looked up from grading papers — all of them marked with a C or lower — and squinted his eyes at the bright screen.
New Email from James Buchanan Barnes
He rolled his eyes with a sigh. The name was familiar as he thought back to the day the kid almost cried in his office, complaining about his poorly-graded assignment and his GPA; Dr Parker had gossiped with Professor Stark in his department on his dinner break, recounting the annoying way this particular student had whined like a baby. Though he couldn’t quite remember how James looked, unable to place him among the hundreds of pupils he taught.
Amused curiosity ran through him, wondering what his student had to moan about this time and so with a sadistic smirk, he clicked on the link, waiting until his message came up.
Though that smirk was quickly replaced with a frown when the email finally loaded with an attachment.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold. But I like mine warm, tight and sweet.
Y’all idk if you’ve ever heard or seen a feral cat in heat but that’s me when I look at these pictures, like his arms?? The muscles and veins?? 😩 DADDY! Whoa who said that 😏
anakin skywalker x f!naberrie!reader
word count: 10.4k (my longest yet... i'm so sorry)
warnings: two idiots pining, pining, reader is padme's younger sister (whether biological or adopted is up to you), first time having sex, soft smut, angst
synopsis: a life spent in padmé amidala's shadow and never once did she ever think she'd be envious of her sister. that is, until anakin skywalker walks his way into her life and she finds herself praying that one day, he'd look at her the way he does at padmé, that she'll be given a place in the sea of stars, that her destiny will include him.
It came as no surprise that Anakin Skywalker would be enamored with her second-to-oldest sister.
After a life spent behind Padmé Amidala’s shadow, she’d grown accustomed to it— being overlooked. But for once, just this once, she wished history wouldn’t repeat itself, wished the prophecy could be rewritten and for once, let it be her who was chosen, who was noticed.
But of course, it’s futile.
You can sink to your knees and pray to whatever higher being is in the sky but at the end of the day, there are millions of lost souls just like you doing the same. You can have faith, you can believe that someday you’ll be heard but with each silent day that passes, your voice still falls on deaf ears.
She’s done her time playing the fool who sinks to her knees and pleads with the night sky to find her a place in the sea of stars, so that she may fit in a constellation too. She’s been the statue who's been made to wait— and she’s started to crumble.
She remembers the day she started to pray like it was yesterday. It was the day she first met Anakin Skywalker, back when he was only a Padawan, still searching for his own place in the world. Her parents were restless then, having heard of the multiple assassination attempts on their dear second oldest daughter. Of course she was worried too, but she still could feel the guilt that settled into the marrow of her bones when she found herself pondering whether her parents would react the same way if it had been her life at stake instead.
She remembers helping her eldest sister, Sola, and her mother with dinner in preparation for the arrival of their sister Padmé and her Jedi escort. She’d been tasked with bringing a bowl of fruit to the table and she remembered nearly being trampled over by her nieces, Ryoo and Pooja, as they squeal Padmé’s name, sprinting for the door.
She remembers huffing, mumbling a curse in an alien language beneath her breath just as their guests step inside, looking up from where she leaned over the table, dropping the bowl down onto the surface. She remembers her breath catching in her throat when her gaze found a sea of blue that put the Naboo waters to shame.
Padmé’s lips curved into a grin as she exclaimed her sister’s name, circling the table to capture her in an embrace. Her sister wrapped her arms around her and her chin found Padmé’s shoulder as the blue that took her breath away crashed into her and she swore everything changed in that moment.
She remembers the first time Anakin Skywalker looked at her. It was a brief, friendly locking of the eyes but a fleeting moment for him felt like lightyears for her. His eyes were the blue of the water where the sun’s reflection gently ripples and warps. They were the blue of the sky after it rains and the sun begins to spill through the cracks of the wall of clouds.
She’s never understood what it meant to be speechless, for something to literally steal the breath away from her lungs. But from the moment her eyes met his, she began to understand.
“Anakin! This is my youngest sister,” Padmé announced, pulling away from their embrace. Her spine stiffened when her sister introduced her and she watched as his full, pink lips moved to form her name. His voice is like nails scraping against the itch she can’t reach on her back, his voice is like velvet she can swallow, deliciously soft and rich against her throat.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Anakin dipped his chin in greeting, the silly, little braid falling off his shoulder. She drained the lump that had formed in her throat, bowing her head. Her lips trembled and her breath was shaky as she prepared her salutations but her words fell dead on the tip of her tongue when Padmé’s squeal permeated the room.
“And my eldest sister Sola!”
And just like that, all attention rolled away from her and onto her eldest sisters but she still watched him, heart beating against her chest.
And that was the moment she began to pray.
She prayed, even though the looks he’d given Padmé didn’t go unnoticed. The way he watched her, even when she wasn’t the one speaking, the way he’d soak in every word, every praise for her that fell past her parents’ mouths. The way he stared longingly at her sister when he was certain nobody was watching— and no one was, for their attentions were on Padmé, save for hers.
It was typical.
It should come as no surprise that everyone would worship the ground her sister— the former Queen, current Senator of Naboo— walked on. She’s not surprised that someone young and benign like him would fall in love with her sister— she’d only seen it happen more times than she ever really cared to count.
And she’d never really cared about all the suitors on their knees at Padmé’s feet before— they were her sister’s problems, not hers. She’d never even really envied her sister, at least in that sense.
But everything changed the moment Anakin stepped through the door. Everything changed the moment their eyes met, if only for the most fleeting of seconds.
So she prayed.
Inside the inner realms of her mind, she sinks to her knees and stares into the void above her, the stars that beamed down at her twinkling, almost as if they taunted her. She swallowed her pride, folding her hands together and raising them to her chin, brow dipping as she pleaded with the higher being in the sky to hear her cry.
“Please, hear me, Maker,” she whispered into her mind, externally staring at Anakin, internally losing her gaze amongst the stars as if the Maker himself would appear between them. “Hear my plea. Whatever destiny you’ve pre-written for me, please be sure it includes Anakin Skywalker.”
She didn’t see Anakin Skywalker again for another year after that.
Apparently, being a Jedi means he’s constantly from place to place, but next time they do end up in the same place, it’s even more fleeting than the last. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever see him again, if she was foolish to continue hoping that he might notice her, that he might even love her. But she still remembers the way his eyes flickered in recognition when they caught hers across the courtyard of Theed Royal Palace. His hair was longer and he didn’t have that ridiculous braid or tiny ponytail on the back of his neck anymore. The Chancellor was speaking to him and another Jedi with umber hair and a matching beard, but his attention was on her.
He looked… darker. As if the years of war had finally begun taking its toll on him. But he’s still the same man he’s always been, still the same one she’s dreamed about. He even looked better.
They don’t get the chance to talk, only share knowing glances, as he was on duty and their paths unfortunately didn’t cross. But that gleaming in his eyes, the one that blazes with knowing is all the kindling in the pit of her belly needs to bloom, to blossom into a raging wildfire.
So, she prayed again.
“Maker,” she said into that night sky inside of her head. The stars shone brighter, as if to laugh at the foolish girl beneath them. She ignored them of course— because she truly believed that one day, she’d prove them wrong. “Please. Hear my plea. Let Anakin Skywalker see me again. Give me a place in your sea of stars and make sure it is in Anakin Skywalker’s orbit.”
She doesn’t see him again for another two years.
But still, he lingers, just like a phantom weaving through every corner she passes, cloaked in shadow. She sees Anakin Skywalker everywhere she goes— in the lakes of shining waters out in the country, in the rain that falls on a dark, cloudy day, in the litany of stars that idle in the sky.
She sees him in her dreams, staring the way he did at Padmé. Only, in her dreams, his gaze finds her. Almost like he had that day in the courtyard, but in her dreams, his eyes would linger longer.
His voice calls out to her whenever she’s sleeping and it lingers in gooseflesh on her skin, frosting over her bones. She’ll open her eyes when he calls but she’s never truly awake. Alas, if dreaming is the only way she’ll see Anakin Skywalker again, she’d gladly succumb to her sleep and trick herself into believing it is real.
Except tonight, she does not think she can take it much longer.
“Anakin,” she whispers one day when she peels her eyelids open after he calls. She says his name like it’ll be the last time she ever will. That look is on his face again— the one she’s seen so many times directed at her in her dreams, she’s nearly forgotten it wasn’t meant for her in the first place.
She used to wake and long for sleep to come again, just so she could watch him look at her like that.
But three long years of waiting and foolishly praying to beings who do not hear have begun to rust the illusion she’s deluded herself into hopelessly believing in. Three long years of silence and she’s finally cracked. She is broken— she sees it now. She’s grown weary of hoping he’d be the one to fix her.
His lips curve to form a smile and for three years, she’s fooled herself into believing it could be for her— truly be for her, outside of her dreams. But to be forthright, she’s tired. She’s grown tired of pretending, tired of clinging onto the dying embers of mere memories of how a man looked at someone that wasn’t her— but rather her sister. She’s grown tired of hoping, waiting, praying that one day, he may wander back into her life and thread his way into the tapestry that her destiny’s been woven into.
Tonight is the night she forfeits with her palms to the sky, tonight is the night she yields to the stars that have taunted her for far too long and admits her defeat. That they were right all along. Tonight is the night she blows away the ashes she’s desperately held so close to her chest and sealed away in secret urns inside for far too long.
Tonight is the night she lets go.
When she wakes the following morning, birds chirp outside her window. Sunlight spills into her room as it rises over the mountains across the lake and she yawns, stretching her arms over her head. Today is merry— it is the day her sister, Padmé Amidala, marries.
Today is merry but instead, she feels dread seep into the marrow of her bones. She’s happy for her sister, really, she is, but it serves only as a reminder that her time is ticking, and time has turned vexing. It serves as a reminder that she must make haste to find her own purpose, to find someone who will cherish her the way she’s spent many fortnights dreaming about. Sola’s already married and found her purpose, and Padmé’s had her entire life laid out before her since she was only fourteen years of age.
Sola, the wife and mother, Padmé, the Queen and then the Senator, and then there’s her. Unsure. Undecided. An ellipsis.
She’s envious. How could she not be? She’s envious that she’ll never be the perfect mother like Sola, envious that she’ll never live up to Padmé’s legacy, she’s even grown envious of the stars: they simply idle in the night sky but even their idleness has a purpose because their places have reason, to create constellations that in turn, tell stories.
She knows that after today, the pressure of fulfilling whatever destiny’s been written for her will only further suffocate her. She will suffocate beneath the weight of this pressure and she will be expected to continue breathing. She’s tried for so long to keep the air in her lungs but it’s so hard when with each day that passes by, the darkness grows more appealing.
She’s tried so hard to find the right path she’s supposed to take, but there are so many roads, so many choices and so many consequences. She’s afraid— and it’s why she’s allowed herself to hide in her sisters’ shadows for so long. But it feels so stifling now.
She sighs and blinks up to the terracotta ceiling. And then of course, dread wears her bones for an entirely different reason. Because it’s inevitable that she’s going to see Anakin Skywalker today. And things will be different.
It’s been lingering like an annoying, little insect since Padmé announced she’d invited her Jedi friends to the wedding, ever since she heard Anakin’s name being read off the list. Things were certain to change because he is but a mere guest, and not the groom.
It may have come as no surprise that Anakin would fall for her, but it certainly came as a shock that Padmé wouldn’t fall for him.
It makes her flesh blaze with a strange anger she’s not quite sure how to describe. How could her sister have something she so desperately wanted but not pursue it? How could she reject Anakin when he would willingly break and bend to her every whim? Why must her sister take his infatuation for granted— why could it not be given to her instead?
She thinks it must be some cruel trick the Maker is playing on her, dangling Anakin in front of her like that, cursing him with an unrequited love when she was right there. She thinks it must be the Maker’s— damn him— cruel way of taunting her, as if the sneering stars had eyes, his eyes. Even if part of her is relieved Anakin is not marrying her sister, it still feels like a blaster wound to her chest, puncturing her skin and searing her insides.
She hears her name called from outside her room’s door and groans.
“What do you want?” She replies in displeasure as the door slides open. Her eldest sister, Sola, steps into the room and glowers at her youngest sister’s tone.
“Well, good morning sunshine,” Sola remarks and she rolls her eyes. Sola makes her way towards the bed, dropping a dress the color of fire onto the mattress. “Is there a reason for your ill-temper today?”
She pushes herself to sit upright, wrinkling her nose at the dress as she takes a fistful of it in her hand. “Orange?” She scoffs, tossing it back down onto the bed. “I thought we were wearing blue?”
Sola shrugs, plopping down onto the mattress. “Padmé changed her mind last minute,” she says. “I suppose if we wore blue, we’d mesh with the background, don’t you think?”
She sighs and flops back down against her pillows, one arm folded over her stomach, the other folded behind her head. Sola pokes her forefinger against her knee and she grumbles, narrowing her eyes at the ceiling.
“Now, answer the question,” her oldest sister insists. “What’s the matter with you?”
Her eyelids flutter closed and she wishes more than anything that she could simply wink out of existence. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be here for Padmé, she does, but she’s uncertain how she could possibly explain how she feels to Sola in a way she could understand. It’s exactly this that’s made her feel so alone all these years.
She’s never had someone who could understand her, really get her. She’s always been different from her sisters, even before marriage and coronations and political promotions. It’s something she’s certain her sisters have known, that even her parents must’ve known. She’s never been jovial and nurturing like Sola, or clever and independent like Padmé. She’s always preferred silence and privacy, and maybe that’s been her problem. But it’s all she knows, being alone.
Sola’s never spent years yearning for a boy who yearns for another, so she couldn’t possibly understand. She doesn’t think she could even make her understand.
She sighs, lolling her head to the side until her gaze finds Sola’s.
“Not looking forward to wearing that dress for the entire evening,” she says instead. Sola’s eyes roll and she leans over to pinch her calf beneath the covers. She hisses and swats her sister’s hand away as she clicks her tongue, moving out of the way.
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” Sola tries to reason.
“It’s hideous,” she deadpans.
Sola deflates with the acceptance of her defeat. She grabs her sister’s knee, giving it a shake. She glares at her older sister.
“Come on, that can’t be the only reason why you’re in such a foul mood,” Sola insists, her bottom lip rolling in a pout and she swears it’s almost comical how her eldest sister can act like such a child. It’s a wonder how she has children of her own.
She blinks at Sola as a sort of realization creeps onto her eldest sister’s face and she blinks, internally grimacing. For she knows that whatever is bound to come out of her sister’s mouth next is going to be completely and utterly wrong.
“I think I get it now,” Sola’s tone is softer, her face falling to match it. “You’re upset you’ll be the last of us to be married.”
And there it is.
She internally cringes at just how wrong Sola is but she says nothing, further prompting her sister to lean forward, reaching for the hand that rests on her stomach. Her muscles stiffen when she takes it and she wills herself to stay still. It was better to let Sola say whatever she had to say than recoil and deny it— it’s not like she had any better excuse anyways.
“I know it can be tough,” she begins. “Feeling like you’re left out. Believe me, I had my fair share of it. I was so jealous of yours and Padmé’s relationship when you were younger because I was so much older, I felt like I just didn’t quite fit in with you two.”
Her eyes finally meet Sola’s and she begins to see her eldest sister in a different light. All this time, she’s believed she’s the only one who’s felt this way— lost, left behind. While this isn’t quite the same context, she still feels her heart tremble in her chest for her sister, still feels like something’s shifted. It’s at least one thing they can understand each other on.
“But then, I found my husband. And then I had Ryoo and Pooja,” Sola continues. “And it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”
Sola’s grip tightens around her hand and she leans forward to place her other one on top. “I know it must seem hard, seeing as both Padmé and I are married— well, almost anyway.” Her lips curve into a soft, reassuring grin. “But you’ll find that same happiness one day. I just know it. So don’t fret, little sister.”
And there, she fears, is where her sister misses the plot.
She almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous this all sounds. She remains silent, however, and Sola gives the back of her hand one last reassuring pat before she lets go, sliding off of the mattress.
“Anyways, I’m going to breakfast. You should come too before all the blue waffles are gone.”
She watches as her eldest sister slips out of the room, the door sliding closed behind her and she sighs, digging her knuckles into her closed eyelids until the galaxy shimmers before her. How could Sola have come so close to understanding her one minute only to read her so wrong the next?
She doesn’t make any effort to get out of bed and in all honesty, she wishes she could simply stay here forever, or at least for the rest of the night. At least long enough that she doesn’t have to face Anakin Skywalker.
Because even though she’s already promised herself that she’d let him go, she wasn’t entirely certain she could hold true to her own word when she sees him again.
The day goes by in a blur. In the blink of an eye, she’s wearing a satin dress in that deep orange she finds hideous beside Sola who stands beside Padmé. Padmé stands facing her husband-to-be, fingertips delicately placed in his palms as they recite their vows.
The sun paints the villa’s terrace with an orange glow and she watches it sink beneath the mountains across the lake from the corner of her eye. The sunlight looks like fire rippling in the gentle waves of the water below and she has to look away because she thinks of Anakin, how his eyes glimmer just the same.
She’s determined to keep her gaze away from the audience, however, because she knows he’s there, the incarnation of all she’s ever wanted, of all her bad ideas, of everything she cannot trust herself with in one. She searches the ground below, watches the way her dress ruffles with the breeze, like fire askew in the wind.
Padmé says something that makes the audience erupt in laughter and it startles her, so much that the hair on the back of her neck erects. When she flinches, she makes the mistake of blinking up— right into the eyes she’d been bound to avoid all night.
The world around Anakin Skywalker seems to stir until it’s all wet, blurry hues of orange, green, and white. Anakin is the only one she sees in high resolution— she can see every lock of wavy, dark blonde hair, every rippling wave in his irises, the scarlet line that slices just beside his right eye. She’d never seen this scar before— it must be new.
But what’s the most peculiar of all is that she meets his eyes— she meets his eyes. She’d blinked up to find he’d already been staring, already transfixed on her by the time their gazes met and his eyes had illuminated with that same knowing gleam she’d seen in them that day in the royal courtyard.
Anakin Skywalker is looking at her and she is not in a dream. It’s both momentous and utterly devastating all the same.
She isn’t quite sure whether to look away or not. This is what she's mooned over more times than her pride will allow her to admit. She’s dreamed this many nights, for Anakin Skywalker to simply look at her and now he is. Anakin Skywalker is looking at her and she should feel elated but instead she feels… conflicted.
Does her heart flutter in her chest? Sure.
Does her stomach twist itself into knots? Certainly.
She felt so confident just the night before when she threw her hands up in surrender to the black sky, admitting her defeat to the stars who spent many moons mocking her that she was done. She felt so confident that she was ready to move on, to let go of this desire she’s harbored for Anakin for so long.
With the simplest of looks, Anakin Skywalker has proven capable of crumpling the paper walls she’d placed around herself. She was left feeling feeble, exposed and any sense of courage she thought she had was now lost.
Because three years of waiting and praying to higher entities who did not hear her pleas could not cease overnight. Her attraction to Anakin Skywalker could not cease in hours. She thought she’d extinguished the last flames of her withering hope but, as it turns out, a single dying ember remained. It means a part of her still yearned for him. A part of her still burned for him.
She wonders now, that he’s still looking at her, what possibly goes on inside his head. Why does he look at her now? Why does he stare, why do his lips twitch before curving in a smile when their eyes meet, why do they irradiate the longer her gaze lingers on his? Why does he not look sad at the wedding of the woman he loves? Why does he not even look at Padmé?
Her mind swirls like a tempest— churning with unhinged, vicious anguish. She has to look away before the acid that bubbles in her throat can come to fruition but she can’t, and Anakin seemingly can’t tear his gaze away from her either. It’s all the more sickening and earth-shattering nonetheless. Her heart swells and pounds in her chest, the border of her vision beginning to blur with the familiar sting of tears. Her head is aching and it’s all just too much— she needs an escape.
“I now pronounce you, husband and wife.”
She blinks away her emotion to the best of her ability, using the end of the ceremony as an excuse to look away as the crowd around her thunders with applause. Her mind is reeling and she feels like her head is spinning as she subconsciously claps her palms together, the sound muffled like water in her ears. The watercolor around her stirs until it’s clear again and the entire world suddenly seems to move again— it’s her, this time, that’s in slow motion.
The cheering sounds like thunder, the applause like rain pelting against a window, and her mind begins to crumple, just like metal. She longs for escape, to flee and to be beside herself for the rest of the night. Padmé and her husband begin walking back down the aisle as their guests congratulate them, tossing flower petals into the air above them. She thinks that this is her chance to escape, she thinks everyone is distracted enough that no one will notice her leaving.
They never cared to notice her before anyways.
She begins to shuffle away but she doesn’t make it very far before her stomach lurches when someone clasps a hand around her wrist, tugging her forward. She snaps her head to the source to find her eldest sister, Sola, with her face illuminated by a grin.
“Come on!” Sola exclaims, dragging her down the aisle and back inside the villa. “It’s time to party!”
Dread drains the blood from her cheeks but she’s given no time to protest before she’s being dragged down the aisle, right past Anakin Skywalker. She doesn’t dare look up but she feels him when she passes by, a mere brush of the arms, the feeling of his elbow brushing going just as fast as it came.
And it’s still enough to make liquid of her insides.
She drowns in a sea of people as she and Sola find Padmé, wrapped in their mother’s arms. She can hear her heart drum in her ears as Sola releases her hand to draw Padmé into an embrace, tears streaming down the apples of her cheeks. Everyone around her is so happy and she should be too— but she still feels like she’s beside the altar, caught in the trap Anakin has seemingly laid out for her.
A tear that’s been painfully dormant in her eye falls and she’s certain her distress shows on her face but it must be easily mistaken for tears of joy, because Padmé pulls away from Sola to turn to her, drawing her in for a hug. Her sister’s arms wrap around her body, a palm on her back, the other cupping the back of her head. Even Sola reaches forward to give her upper arm a reassuring squeeze, undoubtedly thinking back to the conversation they’d had earlier.
“Don’t cry for me, baby sister,” Padmé laughs tearfully beside her ear. She can feel Padmé’s smile against her shoulder. She pulls away and rubs her palms up and down the length of her arms. “I’m still the same Padmé I’ve always been.”
She’s unable to reply— again, she’s misunderstood. But it’s her sister’s wedding day, she won’t burden her with her own confliction. So she swallows the boulder-sized lump in her throat, curving her lips just enough to form a tight-lipped smile.
“I’m just… happy for you,” she manages. Padmé cups her cheek and soothes the pad of her thumb over her skin before Ryoo and Pooja draw her attention away. Padmé’s hands fall from her arms and finally, she can breathe.
But even that is momentary.
“You make a perfectly fine bride if I do say so myself, Senator.”
Her spine stiffens. She knows that voice. And she knows exactly who is near when she hears it.
Padmé laughs and tosses her hands. “Obi-Wan,” she greets him just like an old friend would, pulling him in for an embrace. “And little Ani.”
How is it that she’s already seen him more tonight than she has in the past three years? She sees Anakin’s dark boots from the top of her vision, not daring to tear her gaze from the ground.
“Padmé,” Anakin’s deep, enriching voice sounds and rumbles deep in her belly. She shifts uncomfortably where she stands, desperate to flee. She thinks she can manage it now— Obi-Wan and Anakin are engrossed with Padmé now, right?
She begins to make her first attempt of escape, taking slow, careful steps to the side until her second effort crumbles when Anakin speaks her name.
Ice frosts over her spine and she’s no choice but to acknowledge the man she was so intent on avoiding the entire evening. Padmé and Obi-Wan are engrossed in their own conversation but Anakin’s gaze remains on her, eyes even sparkling when she finally meets them.
Her mouth is a desiccated oasis and her throat feels like a desert as it constricts painfully when she swallows. Still, she manages to breathe out, “Anakin.”
It’s the first time she can ever recall having a true, proper conversation with him. The last time being when they said their goodbyes that very first time before he and Padmé left for the Lake Country. It’s confusing how this is everything she’s ever wanted yet, she feels an urge to push it all away.
Anakin clears his throat and his eyes flicker to his feet for a moment as if he could possibly be nervous before they find hers again. “You look good,” he says and her heart stops beating in her chest. “That dress is beautiful on you.”
She thinks she could punch him.
Or kiss him.
She has to look away, or she may very well do the latter.
She wonders if this is some cruel, senseless joke the Maker is playing on her. She wonders if she’d upset him by unlatching herself from his hook and this is his way of reeling her back in. She hates that it has the potential to work.
“I…” she stammers and closes her lids frustratedly, willing air back into her lungs. She shakes her head— she cannot be here any longer. She may very well explode if she has to succumb to this torture for even a second more. “…thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
And then, she bolts.
She’s lost track of how long she’s been locked in her room, sitting in the window, staring at the moonlight that ripples in the water below. It was long enough for the chatter downstairs to quiet to murmurs until it finally ceased altogether. The villa is now quiet and suddenly, her room feels suffocating.
With a sigh, her feet meet the floor and she pushes away from the window seat, cupping her neck to roll it around her shoulders as she pads towards the door. It slides open and she slips through, making her way down the hallway leading towards the main foyer. Her dress flows behind her like flames in the wind, the satin cool against her legs as she walks. Fresh, night air greets her and she inhales, letting it flood her lungs as she saunters to the wide terrace ahead.
She stops at the stone arches of the railing and exhales, feeling the wind sift its fingers through her hair, breathing on her skin like a lover in the throes of passion. It caresses her neck and rolls down her back, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.
She’d spent many nights just like this one. Staring at the moon rippling through the water, at the stars that twinkle overhead, the sky that blackens behind them. She’d spent many nights praying, releasing her pleas into the air and letting it drift away with the breeze.
She does not pray this time. When she lifts her head to brave the dark that faces her, she merely asks why.
“Why, Maker,” she whispers beneath her breath. There’s an edge, a strain to her voice that stings her throat, that feels like daggers to her chest. “Why must you be so cruel? I have done everything, I have given you everything. Why wasn’t it enough? Why do you mock me now?”
The stars overhead gleam as they cackle, sneering at the misfit below. “You’ll never have a place among us,” they seem to say. Tears well in her eyes and she drops her head, fingernails scraping the stone edge of the railing. She leans back on her heels and wills herself to breathe before a sob could wrack her body.
She feels lost and utterly alone, and she truly begins to feel like the weight of this prolonged pain has started to fall on top of her. She’s lost and alone and her entire world has started to crumble around her. And then she hears her name.
It’s like the call that haunts her every time she closes her eyes, the same velvety voice that caresses her ear every night when she lies down in bed. But it is not a ghostly whisper this time, because it is real.
Footsteps sound behind her and she further scratches her nails against the railing.
“I was wondering where you wandered off to,” Anakin remarks as he approaches and she can feel him beside her, like a whisper of shadow creeping along her skin. She rolls back onto the balls of her feet and stands straight, sniffing.
“Anakin,” she says, steadily, methodically. As if it took great effort to say it without stammering. She can see him out of her peripheral, dark blonde curls falling when he leans an elbow against the railing, tilting his head in an attempt to meet her eye.
She does not move.
“I was looking for you, you know,” he continues. “You must’ve found a good hiding spot.”
She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was in my room,” she replies simply, a steely, monotone in her voice.
Anakin inhales and hums. “Then it makes sense why I could not find you. I would never barge into a lady’s room.”
It’s an attempt at humor but she feels anything but. She’s stuck between a rock and a hard place with seemingly no clear solution in sight. She could walk away. She should walk away. She shouldn't spend a single second more in Anakin Skywalker’s presence— she simply couldn’t trust herself to not betray her own vow.
Or she could stay. She could stay and once again succumb to the fool’s game she’s been playing. She could stay and let Anakin Skywalker tie another noose around her neck, allowing him to drag her along for another three years.
She knows what is right. She knows what she should do.
But she’s frozen.
She cannot move, cannot even bring her lips to move so she can speak. She instead wilts, like a rose who once stood beautifully now losing its color, shriveling in on herself until she inevitably withers away.
She can feel Anakin draw himself just an inch closer beside her, and he’s like a single drop of rain that’s enough to somewhat salvage the husk of who she once was.
“Why do you avoid me?” He asks and it’s a question so simply but so damn infuriating all the while. She’s been a volcano in dormancy up until this point, but there’s a rumbling deep within her, threatening to erupt.
“Why are you doing this?” She questions, snapping her head towards him, brows dipped and drawn. Anakin blinks and draws back, a dent forming between his own brows.
“Doing what?” He asks and that feeling of wanting to ram her fist into his face comes back. She turns to fully face him and he pushes off the railing, uncertainty warping his features.
“This,” she gestures between them. “Staring at me. Talking to me. As if we’ve spoken more than hellos and goodbyes to each other.”
Anakin raises a brow, the one his scar pierces, and it warps with the movement.
She continues. “And then you have the audacity to tell me I look beautiful in this gods-awful dress just to spite me.” She is a volcano, no longer dormant, no longer overlooked. She is exploding and Anakin is unfortunate enough to be in her wake.
He shakes his head. “Spite you?” He repeats. She begins to pace, a hand on her hip, the other rubbing her chin. Anakin follows, exactly like a lost puppy. “I wasn’t— I would never—“
“Don’t say you’d never,” she turns on him, sticking an accusatory finger in his face. He blinks from it back to her, that ocean in the irises of his eyes raging, lightning cracking in the sinkhole at its center. She drops her hand and it curls at her side, her fists two shaking balls of fury. Blood bites her cheeks and she thinks of all the times she’s imagined speaking with Anakin Skywalker, of being alone with him.
This certainly was not how she’d ever imagined the scenario playing out.
She inhales. “Don’t say you’d never do anything to spite me while you are actively using me to get over Padmé,” she exhales, braving the stormy sea in his eyes. The tide shifts and his manner does too and she believes she’s already cracked him. She thinks she’s already shattered the illusion he was trying to create, that she’s lifted the wool he’s tried to veil over her eyes.
She thinks that he believes whatever game he was trying to play was over.
Anakin straightens. “You have no idea what you are talking about,” he says and she scoffs, backing away.
“Don’t I?” She retorts. “You don’t think I’ve noticed how you’ve always looked at her? How you’ve always loved her?”
It brings her great pain to merely mention it. Her palms wipe at her face as tears begin welling in her eyes again, her cheeks warm as she desperately tries to quell the beginnings of a sob that stutters through her chest. She realizes now that by keeping all of these emotions, these feelings she’s harbored for Anakin for so long bottled has made her restless, has made her tick like a time bomb.
And her time to detonate has come.
He says her name again and tries to step forward, reeling back when she steps away from him. His hand wrapped in a leather glove hovers in the air between them and he drops it with an exasperated sigh.
“Your sister means a great deal to me, yes,” he begins. “But it is not—“
“My sister is the sole reason why you torment me!” She snaps. “And you have no right to use how I feel against me just because she does not love you back.”
Her words are an arrow meant to strike, to pierce through his chest, his heart her target. Her words are meant to cut deep, to draw blood, to make him bleed just like she has everyday since they met. She thinks they will, she thinks her blows will etch deep, will even leave scars in their wake. Part of her longs to see that pained expression upon his face, just like the one she wears now.
But her arrow merely grazes, soaring past until it sinks in the shining waters below.
Anakin’s face shifts but it is not in the way she thought it would, not in the way she hoped it would. His brows dip and his eyes swarm with a pained sort of desperation she’s never seen before in someone. She certainly never expected to see it in someone like him. His chest rises and falls with his breaths as he steps forward again. She stands still, unable to move. She is stunned— Anakin Skywalker has surprised her.
“Padmé does not love me,” he admits. “I met her when I was only a child. The only girl I’d ever seen before her was my own mother. So, of course, I felt drawn to her.” Her jaw tightens and her lips fall together in a firm, thin line. Anakin’s brows knit closer together and there’s a flicker in his eyes that she swears looks like the predecessor to tears.
She doesn’t quite want to believe it. He could not cry.
“And I spent a decade pining, a decade praying that I’d one day see her again, a decade hoping she’d been counting down the days until she saw me again, just like I was.”
She doesn’t believe what she’s hearing. It’s a reflection of her own story, her own foolish pining, her own foolish praying but not hers, but Anakin’s. Her heart stutters in her chest and she forgets to breathe, having to gasp to gather air back into her lungs.
She’s never once felt like she could be understood. She’s never once felt like anyone else could experience the inner turmoil she has, the seemingly fruitless yearning she has.
But she’s realizing now that that's not true. Not anymore, at least. Everything is changing right before her eyes.
“And then I did,” Anakin shakes his head, a humorless laugh leaving his lips. “And I felt nothing. But I tried. I tried to convince myself I loved her. But I just… didn’t.”
Her brow furrows and Anakin’s gaze darkens as it finds hers.
“I spent a decade obsessing over someone I didn’t really know, and how could I? I was a child.” His eyes search hers, searching for something unbeknownst to her. But she lets him. “I didn’t know what love was. All I knew was infatuation. I didn’t know what it meant to truly feel seen, to truly feel drawn to someone.”
Anakin pauses and she gets the feeling that whatever he says next will be calamitous.
“Until I saw you again, that day outside the palace.”
Her lips tremble and her breath shudders, an icy chill frosting over her skin. To think he’s thought about her everyday since their eyes briefly met in the midst of a crowded courtyard was hard to believe yet, when she looks at Anakin Skywalker now, she sees the softening of his brow, the quiver in his lips, the honesty in his eyes.
She’s only ever imagined one look in his eyes. Desire.
But she looks at him now and finds an entire galaxy— there’s longing, there’s earnest, there’s optimism, there’s burning. As it turns out, living creatures are not black and white like she initially thought them to be. Anakin Skywalker is a complex creature, made of flesh and blood and of an intricacy she’d never stopped to consider before.
He’s even better than she’s imagined he’d be.
Every moment spent under the stars, praying that she’d one day have a place among them, that she one day would sit among them with purpose rather than in an ellipsis suddenly begins to feel like it wasn’t all for nothing after all. Every prayer she’s whispered into the night breeze with Anakin Skywalker’s name in it suddenly feels like they begin to matter, like they begin to come true.
Still, she is wary, and Anakin seems to recognize this caution.
He takes a step closer and he steals the breath from her chest, just like he had the first moment she saw him. Her fingers twitch, itching to find his, her palms tingling with the desire to feel his skin, her lips buzzing with yearning. She does not touch him, she does not kiss him, she does not do anything. She simply waits for the rest of his story to unfold and her brain aches with the hope that it will unravel into hers.
“I saw you that day at the palace to find you were already looking at me. That you were already seeing me,” he mutters, a little breathlessly. “It may have been for… for only a moment but when you looked at me, I felt…” he trails off, a furrow in his brow as he searches for the correct word. “…I felt… like something shifted.”
She watches as he rolls his lips together, watches as the moonlight catches how they glisten with spittle. Her breath catches a little bit, her gaze lingering there, her desire to lap it all up flaring.
“It felt like there was a string there between us I’d never noticed before,” he continues. “There was a connection I’d never realized until the moment our eyes met. I felt you, and I felt you see me. There hasn’t been a day that’s passed by since where I didn’t feel you, where I didn’t feel like we were connected, like we were two stars written in the same constellation.”
Her chest rises and falls to the erratic beating of her heart as Anakin draws nearer, the hand with his glove meeting her cheek with a tenderness she’d felt from no one before. She’d never realized how starved of touch she’s been until now and it feels so invigorating. Her stare drops to his lips and she feels that string Anakin must’ve been talking about, feels it drawing her closer into his mouth.
“Padmé does not love me back, and I do not care,” he says in just above a whisper, his voice rising and falling in a way that jellifies her knees, that makes liquid of her insides. “Because I am burning– foolishly, maybe, yes– for you.”
She inhales sharply and it truly feels like all her prayers are finally being answered, like she’s being inducted into her rightful place in the sea of stars. And in her constellation, Anakin Skywalker resides too.
She reaches up with a hand to hold the crook of his elbow that’s strung between them as he brings his other, ungloved hand to rest on her other cheek. She feels his skin on her cheek as the pad of his thumb soothes over the warmth of her flesh and her body quakes with shivers that roll down her spine all the way to her toes. He begins to lean in, his breath hot where it fans against her skin but she tilts backwards, just enough for him to halt, a quirk in one of his brows.
“I will not let you settle for me, Anakin Skywalker,” she whispers, admitting that insecurity still lingers, despite his words. Anakin’s eyes narrow as he uses his hands on either sides of her face to draw her in, his lips but a mere whisper away from hers when he murmurs, “settle? This is not settling. This is binding.”
Then, his lips are on hers in an electrifying bind that shatters her spine with cracks of lightning and she falls into him, her hands on either of his forearms to keep herself steady.
Anakin kisses her with an ardor she could never even dream up in all of her wildest of fantasies. He kisses her and she feels like she finally fits in her dress, as it is the color of fire and she’s engulfed in flames. He kisses her and he is the flame that lights her candle, the flame that melts her from the center, that makes heat course through her that washes all the way down to her toes. He kisses her and she is melting, right into him.
His tongue pirouettes over hers and she hums into his mouth, feeling his fingers thread through her hair. Her heart is pounding and her lips are buzzing but all she feels is Anakin, she feels the muscles in his arms, the warmth that radiates off his body and spills into her. She feels the push and pull of the passion, the yearning he’s kept inside all this time. She feels her own longing and fervor pour into him and they are floating, two clouds that collide into one another to become one.
Anakin steps forward and steps backwards until she hits a wall. When they pull away for breath, she realizes he’s backed her into one of the pillars, a vine caught in the hair on the back of her head. Their chests heave with the weight of their breaths and she watches as Anakin’s hand, not the gloved one, but the one with skin rises, following it as it reaches for her neck. She shudders when he touches her collarbone, exposed from the side of the fiery satin of her dress. His fingertips sear her skin as it drags to the neck of her dress, following the satin where it wraps around her throat, all the way to the back of her neck where the lace falls.
Her breath catches when his fingers find the small strings keeping her dress together. Her gaze finds his again to find he’s already staring, a narrow, earnest look upon his face that darkens his eyes and hardens his features. There is a silent question that hangs in the air between them: “do you want to stop?”
Maybe they’re moving too fast. Maybe this is crazy, maybe they’re simply caught up in the moment, high off the feeling of burning for someone who burns for them too. But after years of pining, of waiting, of praying, it only feels right.
But still, she asks, “what if someone sees? Someone like Obi-Wan who can get you in trouble?”
Anakin shakes his head, “they won’t. Now, I don’t want to talk about Obi-Wan. Do you want to stop?”
The shake of her head is all Anakin needs to see before he unlaces the strings holding her dress together, the satin falling like a spark blazing down the frayed edges of a rope until it pools at her elbows. Her breasts spill from the dress and the night’s ghostly whisper chills her skin, peaking her nipples.
Anakin’s eyes devour and she is prey.
His stare pierces through her skin to the marrow of her bones that catch a chill and she quakes. He meets her eyes again as his hands drift lower, dipping until they finally find her chest. A sharp gasp escapes when his palms cup either of her breasts and she arches into his touch, already aching for more.
“Anakin!” She gasps in a breathy exclaim when he dips his chin to press a kiss over the top of one of her breasts, heat blossoming in his lips’ wake. His eyes catch her again, a little warily. “Is this okay?” He asks, his voice low and gravely, scratching the itch in her brain she didn’t even know she had. It makes her knees feel weak and if it hadn’t been for his body pressed up against hers, she would’ve crumpled straight to the ground.
“Yes,” she breathes, chest heaving into his palms. “I’m sorry, I’ve just… never…”
Anakin’s lips curve and she can see a flash of white peek between them. He shakes his head. “Me neither,” he admits with a breathy laugh and she titters too, grateful for the fact that she’s not the only one who’s a little green.
“Can I keep going?” He questions and his voice is liquid desire, melting straight down to her core. She swallows the lump that’s formed in her throat, nodding. “Please,” she adds, feeling her heart beat straight into his palm.
Anakin’s head dips again and she watches, cheeks warm as he places an open-mouthed kiss just above her nipple. His palm kneads the other breast as his lips venture just an inch lower, finding the peaked bud that awaits, suckling it into his mouth.
It’s like electricity flooding through her veins.
She throws her head back, lips falling agape as her eyelids snap closed, soaking in the pleasure of Anakin’s lips on her nipple. He cautiously flicks his tongue against the bud, watching through his lids as a moan falls from her lips, encouraging him to do it again. He flattens his tongue against her nipple and licks a long, fat stripe from the underside of it up, feeling her tremble in his arms. He lets go of her breast with a wet pop, trailing kisses through the valley between them to make his way to the other.
Touching him, feeling him, kissing him is somehow even better than she’d ever imagined, even after all those years of dreaming for moments like this. She can’t believe she’s gone so long without feeling him like this, she doesn’t think she can ever stop touching him.
Anakin suckles on her breast, flicking his tongue against her nipple as his hand not wrapped in a glove ventures down her body, past her waist, down her hip. He pulls the satin material of her dress up until his arm can sneak his way beneath it and she shivers when his fingers find her center over her underwear. Her nails dig into his sleeves above his shoulders, holding her breath as he finds the wet spot in her underwear, gently pressing against it.
Her hands tighten on his shoulders and ceases all movement, peering up at her. “You’re wet,” he says rather matter-of-factly because of course she is, how could she not be? She nods down at him, swallowing thick layers of saliva down her throat. “Can I touch you here?” He asks and his voice drops to that silky, velvety tone that makes her core ache. She presses her lips together to stifle her groan, head vigorously nodding up and down.
“Gods yes, Anakin,” she moans, slowly rocking her hips against his finger. “Please.”
She feels filthy in a way for asking, for needing friction so desperately. She’s only ever taken her own fingers when she’s too lost in pleasure at night to sleep, never been touched by anyone else but it’s all she craves now, for Anakin’s fingers to touch her, for him— whatever part it may be— to be inside her.
A flame had been ignited in the pit of her belly long ago, back when Anakin first stepped through the door the day they met. It’s sat stagnant for too long, waiting for its moment to further bloom and now it has. It blossomed when her eyes met Anakin’s that day in the courtyard but it’s now in full bloom, now that they burn together, now that his kisses have seared her skin, now that his fingers are pulling her underwear down her thighs, just enough that he can reach her center.
When his fingertips brush her clit, she bursts.
Anakin’s arm wraps around her waist as she practically collapses into him, his middle finger drawing circles against her clit, his breath hot as his lips rest on her brow.
“Is this good?” He asks against her forehead. “Do you feel good?” He questions again as he adds his forefinger to the mix, applying just a little more pressure and it makes her eyes roll.
“Yes, just… just don’t stop,” she exhales, feeling her stomach twist itself into a knot, his fingers against her clit threatening to pull it undone any moment.
So he doesn’t.
He’s unrelenting in the way his fingers press to the aching bud in her center, tracing tight circles until her eyes squeeze closed so hard, milky-ways shimmer behind her lids. He dares venture lower, gathering her slick on the pads of his fingers as he teases near her entrance. It’s a foreign and strange feeling, it’s a pattern she’s traced many times with her own fingers but never been touched by someone else. Even in spite of how many nights she spent trekking that path wishing it was Anakin’s fingers instead, but it’s still strange feeling him there now.
She clutches his arm tighter and he slows, beginning to retract his hand. She stops him, lifting her head until their eyes meet again.
“No,” she pants, shaking her head. “Don’t stop, just… just take it slow.”
He nods, his finger a little unsure as it circles her entrance, unintentionally teasing until she begins to crack. She’s panting, trying to wiggle her hips so that she can draw his fingers in, seeking that feeling of being full. Anakin dips his forefinger into her hole and she tosses her head back, her lips parting for an “oh” to emit.
He watches her face, even if she can’t see it, she can feel his gaze behind her closed lids. He is testing the waters, learning what makes her moan, what makes her squirm, what makes her come. Slowly, he sinks his finger further in and she feels every single millimeter that drags along her walls until he’s knuckle deep. Her legs feel like jelly and her knees begin to wobble, nails clinging to his sleeves like they were her lifeline.
Pressure builds in the pit of her belly as Anakin carefully retracts his finger, just to sink it back in again, a slow, cautious rhythm that leaves her mind spinning. His fingers are so much bigger than hers and she already feels so stuffed despite it only being one finger. Somehow, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.
“Ana… Anakin,” she gasps, peeling open her lids to find he’s already looking. His finger slows but picks up its pace again when he realizes she’s not in any pain. “Another.”
His brow dips and his head tilts in confusion, uncertain what she means. She gathers moisture on her lips, trying to speak through the pleasure-driven haze in her mind.
“Another finger. Please.”
Their eyes lock and there’s a flicker in his, a hint of doubt.
“Are you su—“
“Please.”
So, Anakin gathers her lips with his and she mewls into his mouth when he presses his middle against his pointer, sinking them into her cunt until they reach as far as they can. She’s trembling against him but he keeps her upright, with his arm and with his lips.
Just one of Anakin’s fingers had made her feel stuffed but two of his fingers made her feel full to the brim. Her walls clench around his fingers and she gasps his name like the beginning of a prayer, pleading for more.
It’s a twist on the prayers she recites to the Maker every night. It’s rewriting her every broken hymn, transforming it into something entirely new. She moans Anakin’s name and his fingers turn it into a song so that she cries like a dove into the night. The Maker may have left her feeling broken, wasted, unimportant but Anakin has found her, patched her up, polished her until she’s brand new.
The tangle in her belly begins to rupture, slowly unraveling and so she pushes his arm away, his fingers sliding out of her cunt, her walls pulsing with the loss. They both pant and Anakin’s face hardens in question as his chest heaves.
“What is it?” He asks, searching her face.
She gathers air deep in her chest. “I want…” She trails off, her embarrassment washing over her cheeks in blood. Her gaze drops and Anakin tilts his head to find it again, their eyes locked. He says nothing, only the nod of his head encourages her to continue. “…I want more. I want… I want you to…”
She purses her lips in frustration. For heaven’s sake, she’s talking to the man who just had his fingers inside of her mere moments ago. Why does she feel embarrassed now?
She takes another deep breath, mustering the courage to tell what she truly wants. “…I want you to feel good too.”
Something shifts in Anakin’s eyes. It could be easily mistaken as a trick of the light but she sees it, she feels it. Anakin is burning just the same as her, his pupils becoming a backdrop behind the fires of desire, and she burns within it.
She watches as Anakin’s hand sinks below the belt around his middle, all the way down to the waistband of his trousers beneath his dark tunic. She watches with her breath lodged at the base of her throat as he pulls down his pants, just enough for his cock to be set free and oh, it is just like her dreams but even better.
Nothing could have ever prepared her for the sight of Anakin Skywalker’s cock. Not even the wildest of her dreams could ever capture the essence of the art of Anakin Skywalker. He is handcrafted by the gods themselves— he is the physical embodiment of masterpiece.
He steps forward and towers over her, his breath like smoke rolling over her face. She peers up at him, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing. His hands find either side of her face and she stops breathing altogether, wondering what he will do next.
Then, “put your arms here,” he whispers, guiding her arms over his shoulder. “And hold on.”
She squeals when he drops his hands to the undersides of her thighs, lifting her off the ground so that her ankles lock behind his back. Her arms tighten around his neck as he presses her back against the pillar, his chest pressed into hers. She can feel his length as it’s squeezed between either of their bodies and her walls clench around nothing, practically sobbing to feel him inside.
For a moment, the world stills around them and it’s like when she sees him in the audience during Padmé’s wedding. The night stirs and blurs until it’s dark watercolor, but Anakin is what she sees in high resolution. It’s the perfect mirage— she and Anakin feel like two stars in the middle of the black abyss above, forming their own little constellation.
And when Anakin finally slides himself inside of her, she feels like her place in the sea of stars has been cemented. She finally feels like she’s where she belongs.
a/n; SO! MY LONGEST IMAGINE YET.... may or may not have gotten a bit carried away (more like a little too wordy...) BUT! i really hope some of you enjoy and i truly appreciate anyone who reads this all the way through. i know 10k words is a lot 😭 also i hope this doesn’t seem too insta-lovey… this idea just came to me in a dream so i wrote what I dreamt lol
💫 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! it means the world to me 🫶
I NEED taboo anakin somno shit NOWWW. The worse, the better. The more fucked up and taboo, the better
yes!!
—somnophilia with dilf!anakin who’s your fiancés older brother
-might make something similar but with boyfriend’s dad anakin. This was kinda tame tbh.
She was already pushing it with her fiancé, he was 10 years older than her. Now she was really pushing it since his older brother was around 20 years older than her. Who could blame her though? He was tall, classy, so charming, and unbelievably sexy.
“Not sure golfing is for me after all .” Her fiancé laughed, he finished telling a golf story to the table, which consisted of his mother, father, and older brother. Her fingers mindlessly played with his own as he spoke, she wasn’t there mentally. Not with the way his older brother’s eyes would catch hers every few minutes.
They’ve all had a few drinks and she blamed the incessant lustful thoughts on it. Why else would she be imagining Anakin’s strong hands? Maybe they’d pull her hair, force themselves into her mouth, inside of her. Even just the thought of how well they could grip her skin made her head dizzy. But the way her eyelids began to droop and become heavy wasn’t something she could ignore any longer. With a soft, sleepy yawn, she tapped her soon-to-be husband’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go to sleep, okay?” He nodded, barely registering what she was saying before going back to speaking.
“Goodnight guys, I’ll see you in the morning.” The smile that graced her face faltered slightly as she made eye contact with Anakin again, her skin felt as though it was going to catch fire as it warmed. He rubbed a hand over his chin as he said goodnight, the small act seemingly very loud. The tension between them, unknown to everybody else, steadily rose and it had her walking a bit quicker up the stairs to the guest room.
It was wrong, obviously. No matter how much her body craved whatever skills he possessed, it was wrong. With a huff, she got ready for bed, soon crawling under the covers almost half asleep.
The dreams conjured up in her unconscious mind weren’t any better than the day dreaming she’s been doing. In her dreams Anakin had a sinful way of talking, a sinful way of touching her.
“That’s it, god I want my cum leaking out of your nose” He’d say, gripping her hair tightly as he forced her further down his cock. He shivered at the tightness of her throat as he slid into it. “Would you like that?” His deep voice was velvety, painfully smooth as he spoke. All she could do was moan around him, spit bubbling from the sides of her mouth.
Back at the table Anakin excused himself, saying he was going to the bathroom. His tall figure stalked up the stairs, stopping in front of the guest bedroom’s door. He leaned closer, slowing his breathing to check if he could hear her. It was silent, proving that she was probably asleep.
With a gentle turn of the doorknob, he pushed the door open, his eyes landing on her sleeping figure almost immediately.
His heart beat faster in his chest as he shut the door behind him, stepping closer to gaze at her sleeping face, the only light came from the tv that softly played in the background. From what he could tell, she was perfect. Perfect face, perfect lips, perfect body.
Oh, he loved her body. The way she’d wear low cut tops, her cleavage almost spilling from the fabric. The pants she’d wear were tight, sometimes too tight and he’d have to excuse himself to jerk off in the bathroom. All he wanted was to get his hands, his mouth on her and do as he pleased. He knew he could treat her better, fuck her better than his brother. She needed a man like him, someone who could handle her, fuck her tired when she couldn’t sleep, when she was bratty, he’d do it all with a smile.
He’d teach her how to be the perfect whore, he knew she’d be eager to please him, to learn how to take it.
His pants tightened at the thought and he couldn’t stop himself from hooking his fingers in the comforter and dragging it down to her ankles. She was wearing a tank top and shorts, shorts that would have killed him if she wore them around him. The globes of her ass strained the material and he thanked whatever god was listening to his prayers and brought her into his life.
“So pretty.” He mumbled, his voice thick with need. The shorts were cute but had to go so he softly yanked them down and off, leaving them discarded on the floor. He bit down a smile at the panties she adorned, white lace, it was almost like she was doing this on purpose.
His gaze flicked upward, checking if she was stirring awake at all. When he knew it was safe to keep going he spread her legs, almost moaning at her panty-clad mound. It took every ounce of self restraint to not tear the lacy material off and force his aching cock inside of her.
She laid on her stomach, shielding her breasts from him which he didn’t really appreciate. He thought about flipping her over but that was too risky and he was on a time crunch. So he pushed down his pants and boxers just enough to free his cock, his hand lazily stroking as he positioned himself behind her. She had such an effect on him, his tip already leaking pearls of pre cum as he pushed her panties to the side.
The gentle musk of her had his eyes rolling to the back of his head, oh what he wouldn’t give to press his face against her pussy and live out the rest of his days there. Another shaky breath left him as he leaned on his hands over her, guiding himself to her core.
The first touch had goosebumps spreading over his clothed skin, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from fully pushing forward and filling her up. His mouth parted and his hips stuttered at the heavenly feel of her tight walls enveloping him. It took a few soft thrusts to fully get inside her but he didn’t care, the house could be burning down at that moment and he still wouldn’t have cared.
She made a few sounds in her sleep, moving a little but didn’t wake up. His gaze was fierce as he stared at the side of her face as his thrusts picked up, her eyebrows knit together a moment later. Lowering himself to her back, his chest pressed against it and he nudged his hands under her to get to her breasts, harshly groping when he made contact. Anakin lets out a strained groan into her neck, feeling like he was on cloud nine.
He fucked her like they’ve been married for years, like this wasn’t the first time, like she wasn’t engaged to his little brother. Her body lunged forward every thrust and soon her eyes were creaking open.
He didnt care, his hand made quick work of leaving her breast and pressing tightly against her mouth. His cock twitched when she fully came to and tried to push him off, her feeble attempts made this so much hotter.
“‘uh-uh, baby, you’re not going anywhere. Be a good girl and take it.” He panted into her ear, his forehead pressed against the side of her head.
She was beyond confused, but the one thing she knew is that he felt amazing in her. Anakin’s tip kissed her cervix every thrust, her fiancé had never done that before.
Anakin was big, she could feel the veins on his shaft, she could feel how he split her in half to accommodate his size. It was mind numbing as he picked up the pace, even just the way his broad frame shadowed her own. He could break her in half if he wanted and it had a muffled whimper leaving her throat.
The man above her smirked, it was lewd and predatory. He was right, she was a whore, a slut for good dick. He hummed against her ear, pressing harder against her mouth so her head was pushed back further. He slowed his hips, opting for pushing deeper in her.
She groaned into his hand, pushing back into his hips as best she could, trying to signal for him to speed up again. He chuckled darkly, digging his teeth into his bottom lip, the action threatened to draw blood but he didnt pay any mind to it.
Most people would’ve been distraught by now, but not her. She wanted this and he knew it. She stuffed her hand down and into her panties, toying with her puffy clit in fast circles.
“You want more? You’re fucking pathetic, begging your fiancé’s brother to fuck you faster. What would he say if he saw you dripping all over my dick? Hm? If he saw you being fucked stupid.” He taunted cruelly, he decided to drive into her again, fast enough to make her brain stop working but not fast enough to have the bed make any noise.
The realness of his words caused her stomach to tighten in worry, but the idea that his brother could walk in any moment and catch them had her squeezing Anakin’s cock and coming around him hard. A broken moan leaves her, still muffled by his hand thankfully. Humiliation nips at her because of how fast she came, but she couldn’t help it. She’s touched herself to this exact scenario multiple times, being taken roughly and without choice by him.
The euphoric feeling had her toes curling, her fingers digging into the sheets below, and her eyes rolling.
“That’s a good girl, pussy so fucking tight.” The feeling of her orgasm had his balls tightening, he was getting close. Her gummy, wet walls almost suctioning around him was lethal, and he would happily die right then and there. Lodged in the most perfect pussy he’s ever fucked.
“Gonna cum inside you, fill you up. Kay, baby?” She nodded quickly, sweat dripping down the sides of her face. Anakin wasn’t any better, drops of sweat dripped onto her hair and the back of her neck.
A muffled “please” came from her and he groaned, probably a bit too loud before his hips stuttered once more. He pressed himself as far as he could inside her and pressed his face into the junction of her neck and shoulder, painting her walls white.
“That’s it, taking it so well.” He murmured, gently thrusting before coming to a stop. The pair panted, catching their breaths before he gripped her hips and pulled out. White leaked from her abused hole, making it almost impossible for Anakin to get up.
But he did, pulling his pants and boxers back up. She thought he was going to leave just like that, but he leaned over to firmly grasp her hair, tugging her head backwards so he could duck down and sloppily connect their lips. It’s all teeth and tongue but has a familiar feeling stirring in her gut again.
“Don’t waste what I gave you, I’ll check tomorrow.” His gaze bores into hers and she dumbly nods. Tapping her cheek meanly, he stood back up straight, stretching his arms to get rid of the stiffness in his joints before he cast one last glance at her debauched form and left. She tried to call out to him softly but he didn’t turn back, only shutting the door silently.
notes: non-canon events! not following the show's timeline. warnings: kissing, talk of war and wounds (i think that's all) feedback is appreciated!!
The acrid smell of smoke and blood hung heavy in the air as you made your way through the aftermath of the battle. Your eyes scanned the field, searching for survivors amidst the carnage. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the war-torn landscape, when you spotted him.
A young man, barely clinging to life, his curled hair matted with blood and dirt. You approached cautiously, your heart racing as you realized who he was – Jacaerys Velaryon, the dragon rider, prince, and heir to the throne of Rhaenyra.
You knelt beside him, your trained hands quickly assessing his injuries. Multiple lacerations, a deep gash across his abdomen, and what appeared to be a broken arm. His breathing was shallow, each inhale a struggle. Without immediate care, he wouldn’t survive the night.
“Hold on,” you whispered, though you were unsure if he could hear you. “I've got you.”
With a strength born of necessity, you managed to lift him onto your cart. Your cottage wasn't far, and you prayed to the gods, old and new, that he would make it there alive. As you guided your horse along the bumpy path, your mind raced. Treating a Velaryon, especially one as prominent as Jacaerys, could have been seen as an act of treason depending on who emerged victorious in this war. But as you glanced back at his pale face, you knew you couldn't live with yourself if you left him to die.
The journey felt endless, but finally, your modest cottage came into view. With great effort, you managed to bring Jacaerys inside and lay him on your bed. You worked tirelessly through the night, cleaning his wounds, stitching gashes, and setting his broken arm. Your stores of herbs were nearly depleted by the time you finished, but as dawn broke, his breathing had steadied, and some color had returned to his face.
Exhausted, you slumped into a chair by the bedside. You allowed yourself a moment of rest, watching the rise and fall of his chest. In sleep, the hardness of battle faded from his features, revealing a young man not much older than yourself. With a wet cloth, you gently cleaned his face, wiping away the stains of dry blood and dirt from the battle.
As you continued to clean his face, you couldn't help but study his features more closely. His curled hair, now free from the grime of battle, fell in soft waves across your pillow. You noticed a small scar near his left eyebrow, wondering what tale it might tell. His strong jaw was softened in sleep, and you found yourself tracing the line of it with your eyes.
A sudden twitch of his hand startled you from your reverie. You held your breath, watching intently, but he didn't wake. Releasing a sigh, you realized how dangerous this situation truly was. Housing and healing the son of Rhaenyra Targaryen could have cost you your life if the wrong people found out.
Despite the dangers, you couldn't bring yourself to abandon Jacaerys to the impersonal care of a volunteer center. The prince's injuries were severe, and his condition delicate. Each day was a delicate dance of tending wounds, easing fevers, and ensuring he had enough nourishment to sustain his weakened body. The thought of him being at the mercy of soldiers or opportunistic enemies made your decision clear – his safety was worth the risk.
In the quiet moments between changing bandages and preparing meals, you wrestled with guilt and anxiety. Every noise outside your cottage, every unfamiliar visitor passing by, sent a jolt of fear through you. Would they discover him? Would someone recognize him?
You rarely left Jacaerys' side, tending to his wounds and watching for any signs of fever or infection. His condition remained precarious, teetering on the edge between life and death.
On the third day, as you were changing the dressing on his abdominal wound, Jacaerys stirred. His eyelids fluttered, and a low groan escaped his lips. You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as his eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they landed on you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the confusion in his eyes, followed quickly by a flash of fear and suspicion. His body tensed, and he tried to move away from you, only to grimace in pain at the sudden movement.
“Don't,” you said softly, holding up your hands to show you meant no harm. “You're badly injured. Any sudden movements could reopen your wounds.”
Jacaerys' eyes darted around the room, taking in his surroundings. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and weak. “Where am I? Who are you?”
His voice, while weak, sounded accusing, almost too sharp for it to match his tired expression. He could feel his throat dry and raw, each word an effort to push out. You reached for a cup of water nearby, offering it to him cautiously.
“Here,” you said, your voice gentle. “You need to drink.”
Jacaerys eyed the cup suspiciously, his gaze flickering between it and your face. You could see the internal struggle playing out in his eyes - the desperate thirst warring with his ingrained mistrust.
“It's just water,” you assured him, taking a small sip yourself to prove it. “You've been unconscious for days. Your body needs hydration to heal.”
After a moment's hesitation, he nodded slightly. You carefully supported his head, helping him take small sips. As the cool water touched his lips, his eyes closed briefly in relief. When he'd had enough, you set the cup aside and settled back into your chair. Jacaerys watched your every move, his body still tense despite the obvious pain it caused him.
“You didn't answer my questions,” he said, his voice a little clearer now. He ignored the grumbling of his stomach, having gotten used to being hungry because of the war.
You took a deep breath, considering your words carefully. The Prince's wariness was palpable, and you couldn't blame him given the circumstances.
“You're in my cottage,” you explained softly. “I found you on the battlefield three days ago, gravely wounded. I brought you here to treat your injuries.”
Jacaerys' eyes narrowed, suspicion evident in every line of his face. “And you just happened to stumble upon me? Why would you risk treating an enemy soldier?”
You met his gaze steadily. “I don't see enemies on the battlefield, my Prince. Only people in need of help. It's my duty to heal, regardless of allegiances.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face at your use of his title, but it was quickly replaced by a guarded expression. “How do I know you're not holding me for ransom? Or waiting to turn me over to my enemies?”
You sighed, feeling a mixture of frustration and understanding. “If that were my intention, I wouldn't have spent the last three days fighting to keep you alive. Your wounds were severe, my Prince. You very nearly died.”
He seemed to consider this, his eyes roaming over the bandages covering his body. A grimace of pain crossed his face as he shifted slightly. “And what do you expect in return for your... kindness?” he asked, the last word tinged with sarcasm.
“Nothing,” you replied simply. “Your recovery is payment enough.”
Jacaerys scoffed, wincing at the movement. “No one does anything for nothing in this world.”
You stood, moving to a small table where you'd prepared a simple broth. “Believe what you will, my Prince.”
He stayed silent, his eyes scanning your features. As you turned back to Jacaerys with the bowl of broth, you noticed his eyes following your every move. The suspicion in his gaze hadn't lessened, but there was a hint of something else now - perhaps curiosity, or simply the weariness of a man too exhausted to maintain his guard fully.
“You should eat,” you said, approaching the bed slowly. “Your body needs nourishment to heal.”
Jacaerys eyed the bowl warily. “And how do I know it's not poisoned?” he asked, his voice still rough.
You resisted the urge to sigh. Instead, you took a small sip of the broth yourself. “See? Not poisoned. Though I suppose if you're determined to believe the worst of me, you could argue I've built up an immunity.”
A flicker of something - maybe amusement? - passed across Jacaerys' face, but it was gone in an instant. He took the bowl from you with his good hand, careful not to let his fingers brush against yours. As you turned to take his glass, with the intention of getting him more water, you noticed him trying to push himself up into a sitting position. His face paled with the effort, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“Please,” you said, setting the bowl aside and moving to help him. “Let me-”
“Don't touch me,” he snapped, his voice strained. “I can manage on my own.”
“But-”
Jacaerys ignored you, gritting his teeth as he finally managed to prop himself up against the headboard. He was breathing heavily from the exertion, his good hand pressed against his bandaged abdomen.
You waited patiently for him to recover, then offered the bowl of broth once more. This time, he took it with a curt nod, though his hand trembled slightly as he brought the spoon to his lips.
As he ate, you busied yourself around the small room, straightening things and gathering fresh bandages. You could feel his eyes on you, tracking your movements.
“What's your name?” he asked suddenly, breaking the tense silence.
You turned to face him, surprised by the question. “It's Y/n,” you replied.
Jacaerys nodded slightly, his face unreadable. “You will be compensated, once I am fully healed.”
You shook your head gently, a small smile playing on your lips. “That's not necessary, my Prince. As I said before, your recovery is payment enough.”
Jacaerys frowned, his brow furrowing. “I insist. I won't be indebted to anyone, especially not...” He trailed off, seemingly catching himself before saying something potentially offensive.
“Especially not a commoner?” you finished for him, your tone mild but with a hint of challenge. “Or perhaps you meant to say 'especially not someone who could be an enemy'?”
The prince had the grace to look slightly abashed, though he quickly masked it with a scowl. “You can't blame me for being cautious. These are dangerous times.”
You nodded, acknowledging his point. “Indeed they are. Which is why I hope you can understand my reluctance to accept payment. I have no desire to be seen as profiting from this war, regardless of which side emerges victorious.”
Jacaerys studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face. “You're either very noble or very foolish,” he said finally.
“Perhaps a bit of both,” you replied with a wry smile. “Now, if you've finished eating, I need to change your bandages again.”
As you gathered the necessary supplies, Jacaerys watched you warily. “You never answered my question about where we are,” he said.
You paused, “We're in a small village near the God's Eye,” you said finally.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't press further. As you began to work on his bandages, he remained tense, flinching slightly at your touch despite your efforts to be gentle.
You could see him squirm from the corner of your eye as your hands removed the bandage that covered the gash on his abdomen, he moved his hand to the sheets, tightly clasping them as an attempt of relief at the pain.
As you carefully peeled away the bandage, Jacaerys inhaled sharply, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. You paused, looking up at him with concern.
“I'm sorry,” you said softly. “I know it hurts. I'll try to be as gentle as possible.”
Jacaerys clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above your head. “Just get on with it,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
You nodded, returning your attention to the wound. The gash was deep, running from just below his ribs to his hip. The stitches you'd placed held firm, but the skin around them was angry and red. You frowned, silently starting to clean it gently with a herb-infused solution, feeling Jacaerys flinch and hold back a pained grunt with each touch.
“How long might this take?” he broke the silence after you’d adjusted his posture on the bed to wrap the new bandage around his torso.
“I am almost done, my Prince.”
“No, how long until I can fight again?”
You paused, your hands stilling on the bandage. Looking up at Jacaerys, you saw determination burning in his eyes, mixed with a hint of desperation. You took a deep breath, considering your words carefully.
“My Prince,” you began gently, “your injuries are severe. The gash on your abdomen alone will take weeks, if not months, to heal completely. And that's not considering your broken arm or the other lacerations.”
Jacaerys' face darkened, his good hand clenching into a fist. “Weeks? Months? I don't have that kind of time. The war-”
“Will still be there when you're healed,” you interrupted, your voice firm but kind. “Fighting in your current condition would be a death sentence, my Prince. You'd be more of a liability than an asset on the battlefield.”
His eyes flashed with anger, but you held his gaze steadily. After a moment, he looked away, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“You don't understand,” he said, his voice low and tense. He didn’t say anything else, lifting his arms so you could start to wrap the clean bandage.
The silence that followed Jacaerys' words was heavy with unspoken thoughts and shared tension. His frustration was palpable, each breath he took a reminder of the pain he was in and the urgency he felt. As you continued to wrap the bandage around his torso, your fingers worked with practiced precision, yet you could feel the tight coil of tension in every muscle beneath your touch.
His skin was warm, the heat of fever not entirely gone, and as you wound the clean linen around his abdomen, you could see the fine lines of strain on his face, the way his jaw clenched against the discomfort. You tried to be as gentle as possible, but each movement seemed to draw a wince from him, a reminder of the toll the battle had taken.
“It’s not too tight, is it?” you asked, breaking the silence.
As you finished wrapping the bandage, Jacaerys gave a curt nod. “It's fine,” he said, his voice tight.
You could see the strain in his eyes, the way he held himself rigidly to avoid showing any sign of weakness. Gently, you helped him lean back against the pillows, ignoring his mumbled protests.
“You need to rest,” you said softly. “Your body has been through a tremendous ordeal.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. When he opened them again, the anger had faded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. “How am I supposed to rest when my family, my people, are out there fighting and dying?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart ached at the pain in his words. Carefully, you sat on the edge of the bed, making sure to give him space. “By remembering that you're no use to them dead,” you replied gently.
“I do not wish to rest,” he struggled to push himself onto a sitting position, trying to get his legs off of the bed. He let out a grunt and a small whine at the pain, immediately stopping to place his good hand over the newly placed bandage.
“See?” you said, “You can’t even sit without hurting yourself.”
Jacaerys clenched his jaw, frustration evident in every line of his face. “I've endured worse,” he said through gritted teeth, but he made no further attempt to move.
You sighed softly, understanding his determination but worried about the toll it was taking on his body. You stood, settling yourself before him and placing your hands on his shoulders. “You need to rest.”
“I’ve been resting for days!”
You gave him a look which made him shut his mouth. Before he could protest any further, you applied pressure on his shoulders, making his body follow suit to your moves, and you laid him back down on the bed. “I will get you more supper, my Prince.”
As you gently guided Jacaerys back onto the bed, you could feel the tension in his muscles, the reluctance in every inch of his body. His eyes, dark with frustration and pain, followed you as you moved away.
“I don't need more food,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I need to be out there, fighting alongside my family.”
You paused at the door, turning back to face him. The sight of him, pale and drawn against the pillows, made your heart ache. “My Prince,” you said softly, “I understand your desire to rejoin the fight. But right now, the best thing you can do for your family is to heal.”
Jacaerys let out a bitter laugh that turned into a wince of pain. As you busied yourself preparing the simple meal, you could hear Jacaerys shifting restlessly on the bed. His impatience was palpable, filling the small room with an almost tangible energy. When you returned with a steaming bowl and a chunk of crusty bread, you found him staring at the ceiling, his good hand clenched into a fist at his side.
Jacaerys allowed you to adjust the pillows behind him, wincing slightly as he leaned back. “I can feed myself,” he said quickly as you reached for the spoon.
You nodded, stepping back to give him space. “Of course, my Prince. Just... take it slowly. Your body is still healing.”
He shot you a look that was part irritation, part grudging acceptance. As he began to eat, you busied yourself tidying the room, keeping a watchful eye on him without being too obvious about it.
“Tell me about the war,” Jacaerys said suddenly, breaking the silence. “What news have you heard?”
You hesitated, unsure how much to share. “I... I don't know much, My Prince. We're quite isolated here, and news travels slowly.”
His eyes narrowed, sensing your reluctance. “But you must have heard something. Please, I need to know what's happening out there.”
Sighing softly, you perched on the edge of the bed. “The last I heard, the fighting had spread to the Riverlands. There were rumors of a great battle near Harrenhal, but I don't know the outcome.”
Jacaerys' face tightened, his spoon clattering against the bowl as his hand shook slightly. “What’s wrong?” you immediately asked. He shook his head.
Your hand quickly moved to his forehead, seeing that his fever had gone up since you last checked. Jacaerys' skin was warm to the touch, a worrying sign that the fever, which had seemed to abate, was now surging again. You frowned, your healer's instincts kicking in. He swatted your hand away weakly, but you persisted, feeling the heat radiating from him.
“You're burning up,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “I need to bring your fever down before it gets any worse.”
He sighed, relaxing onto the pillow, finally giving up trying to convince you to let him get up. You left the room to get herbal medicine and a wet towel, lowering yourself to the edge of the bed to place the cloth over his forehead. He shut his eyes at the contact.
The cloth felt cool against Jacaerys' fevered skin, and he let out a slow, shaky breath as his eyes closed. You could see the tension gradually easing from his body, though his brow remained furrowed with discomfort.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, barely audible, his voice thick with weariness.
Without thinking, you reached out, placing your hand over his. Jacaerys looked down at your hand, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might pull away, but instead, he took a deep breath, some of the tension leaving his body.
He swallowed the thick medicine, making a sour face before picking up his spoon again. As he resumed eating, you noticed a slight tremor in his hand, fatigue already setting in from the simple act of feeding himself. But you knew better than to offer help again, recognizing his need to maintain some sense of independence. Your hand was still in his, you tried not to pay much mind to it, he was wounded after all.
You watched Jacaerys closely as he struggled to finish his meal, concern etching lines on your face. The renewed fever worried you, a sign that his body was still fighting hard against infection. As he set the spoon down, his hand shaking with the effort, you gently took the bowl from him.
“That's enough for now,” you said softly. “You need to rest.”
Jacaerys opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it, nodding weakly. The fight seemed to have gone out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that tugged at your heart.
“I'm sorry,” he murmured, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I thought I was getting stronger.”
You shook your head, adjusting the cool cloth on his forehead. “Get some sleep.” His fingers tightened around yours, a small gesture of acknowledgment. You sat there in silence, holding his hand as his breathing gradually evened out into sleep.
As dawn broke, you stirred from your uncomfortable position in the chair by Jacaerys' bedside. You hadn't meant to fall asleep there, but exhaustion had finally claimed you. Your hand was still entwined with his, and you gently extricated yourself, hoping not to wake him.
Jacaerys' face was peaceful in sleep, the lines of pain and worry smoothed away. His curls were tousled against the pillow, and you resisted the urge to brush them back from his forehead. Instead, you carefully checked his temperature, relieved to find the fever had broken during the night.
Jacaerys stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake. You noticed the lines of tension easing from his face, his breathing steady and deep. It was a small victory, but in times of war, even the smallest victories mattered.
Leaving the room quietly, you headed to the small kitchen area to prepare breakfast. You moved with practiced ease, gathering the few ingredients you had. The war had made supplies scarce, and you’d been careful to ration what little you had left.
When you returned with a simple meal of bread, cheese, and a few herbs, Jacaerys was awake, propped up against the pillows, looking slightly less tense than the night before. His eyes followed you as you set the food down on a small table beside the bed.
“Good morrow,” he mumbled, reaching for the bread like a starved man.
You offered him a small smile, relieved to see him awake and seemingly better. “Good morrow, my Prince. How are you feeling?”
Jacaerys didn't answer immediately, instead taking a small bite of the bread and chewing thoughtfully. “Better,” he finally admitted, though his voice was still hoarse and weak. “Thank you.”
You nodded, pouring him a cup of water and placing it within easy reach. “You're welcome. Your fever broke during the night, which is a good sign.”
He grunted in response, focusing on finishing the bread. After a few moments of silence, during which you busied yourself tidying up, he spoke again.
“Do you live by yourself?”
“Yes, my Prince.” you nodded.
He furrowed his brows, making a face and stopping his chewing to shake his head. “Enough with the formalities, you’re not my servant,” he took a sip of the water, “Simply call me by my name.”
“Jacaerys,” you said softly, testing the name on your tongue. It felt strange yet oddly comforting to address him so casually. “And yes, I live alone here.”
He nodded slightly, seeming to relax marginally at the use of his name. “Why did you become such a good healer?” he asked after a moment, his voice still rough but curious.
You considered his question, moving to sit on the edge of the bed opposite him. “I suppose it was a calling of sorts,” you began, your gaze thoughtful. “I grew up in a small village not far from here. My mother was a healer herself, and she taught me everything she knew.”
Jacaerys listened quietly, his eyes fixed on your face. As you gazed at each other, something shifted in the air between you. Jacaerys' eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again.
There was a vulnerability in his eyes that belied the prince he was supposed to be, a young man laid low by wounds and circumstance. You found yourself drawn to him in a way that surprised you, a healer's compassion mixing with something deeper, something unbidden.
“My mother always believed healing was a gift,” you continued, breaking the silence that had settled between you. “She taught me that every life saved was a victory against darkness and despair.”
Jacaerys nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “And you chose to follow in her footsteps,” he murmured, more a statement than a question.
“No... I-,” you replied softly. “I am simply a commoner,”
“You’re not spoken for?”
The question took you by surprise, it must’ve shown on your face by the way Jacaerys scurried to clarify. “I was just curious-”
“I... no, I’m not,” you replied, caught off guard by his sudden inquiry.
Jacaerys hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering away before returning to meet yours. “It’s just... unusual, for someone like you,” he said carefully.
“Someone like me?”
He seemed to panic for a second, eyes widening for a beat before he cleared his throat, “I mean, you’re very kind.” he clarified, though his gaze remained steady on yours.
You felt a slight flush rise to your cheeks at Jacaerys' words. The idea of being courted had always felt distant and almost foreign to you. Life in a small village near the God's Eye had been quiet and isolated, focused on survival rather than romance or social niceties. Most of the men you knew had gone off to fight in the war, leaving little time or opportunity for such things.
“I... thank you,” you managed to reply, your voice a touch quieter than before.
As he finished the last of the bread, Jacaerys set the plate aside, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. His eyes, still heavy with fatigue but clearer than they had been in days, studied you with a mixture of curiosity and something else you couldn't quite identify.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he said softly, breaking the silence that had settled between you. “How did you come to live here, alone?”
You hesitated, caught off guard by his sudden interest. “It's not a very exciting tale, I'm afraid,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. “After my mother passed, I inherited this cottage. It's been my home ever since.”
Jacaerys nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. “I am sorry, she sounds like a very kind woman,”
“It’s alright, it was years ago.” you paused, his chest heaved, lost in thought he bit the inside of his lip.
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
He was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he smiled. It was a small thing, just a slight upturn of his lips, but it transformed his face, softening the hard lines of battle and pain. “Thank you.”
Over the next few weeks, as Jacaerys' strength slowly returned, you fell into a comfortable routine. You would bring him meals, change his bandages, and help him with gentle exercises to regain his mobility. And in between these tasks, you talked.
Jacaerys, you discovered, was insatiably curious. He asked you about your life, your work, your thoughts on everything from the changing seasons to the intricacies of herbal remedies. At first, you were hesitant, unused to someone taking such an interest in your opinions. But gradually, you found yourself opening up, sharing stories of your childhood, your mother's teachings, the quiet joys and sorrows of your solitary life.
In turn, Jacaerys spoke of his own experiences, though he was careful to avoid mentioning anything too specific about the ongoing war. He told you of his love for flying, the exhilaration of soaring through the clouds on dragonback. He described the beauty of Driftmark, his family's ancestral home, with its shimmering waters and grand halls.
As the days passed, you found yourself looking forward to these conversations more and more. There was something about Jacaerys that put you at ease, despite his royal status. His quick wit and genuine interest in your thoughts made you feel seen in a way you never had before.
His arm had healed, the gash on his stomach still required careful tending, but it was gradually mending.
One day, as you were tending to the herb garden outside your cottage, you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. Turning, you saw Jacaerys standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on a makeshift cane you had fashioned for him so it wouldn’t hurt to walk. He looked stronger, more resolute, though still pale and somewhat fragile.
“You're up,” you said, a hint of surprise in your voice. “I didn't hear you come out.”
Jacaerys offered a small smile, his gaze sweeping over the garden. “I didn't want to disturb you,” he replied. “You looked... peaceful. I thought you might need some company,” he said, his voice lighter than it had been in days.
You smiled warmly, gesturing for him to join you. “I could always use an extra pair of hands,”
He nodded, making his way slowly to where you were kneeling among the herbs. He grunted as he joined your position, hand cradling his bandage in discomfort, “What shall I do?”
As Jacaerys settled beside you in the herb garden, you couldn't help but notice how different he looked in the soft afternoon light. The sun caught in his curls, giving them a golden sheen, and his eyes seemed brighter, more alive than you'd seen them since he first woke in your cottage.
“Here,” you said, handing him a small trowel. “We need to thin out these chamomile plants. They're growing too close together.”
Jacaerys took the tool, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment. You felt a small jolt at the contact, but quickly pushed the feeling aside.
“Like this?” he asked, carefully digging around one of the smaller plants.
You nodded, watching as he worked. His movements were slow and a bit clumsy, but he approached the task with the same determination you'd seen in his eyes when he spoke of returning to battle.
“You're a natural,” you said, offering an encouraging smile. “I imagine it's quite different from wielding a sword or riding a dragon.”
Jacaerys chuckled softly, the sound warming something deep inside you. “Indeed it is,” he replied.
You worked in silence for a while, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Every so often, you'd steal a glance at Jacaerys, marveling at how at ease he seemed in this simple task.
“Tell me,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence, hands threading the weeds as he stole glances at your own hands to mirror your movements. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
The question caught you off guard. You'd never really thought about leaving your small corner of the world before. You hummed, “I... I'm not sure,” you admitted. “I've never been far from here.”
Jacaerys looked up from his work, his eyes meeting yours. “Surely you must have dreamed of other places?”
You considered for a moment, your hands continuing to work almost of their own accord. “I suppose... I've always been curious about Oldtown,” you said finally. “The Citadel, with all its knowledge and learning. It must be amazing.”
Jacaerys nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “It is,” he said softly. “The libraries there are unlike anything you've ever seen. Shelves upon shelves of books, stretching as far as the eye can see.”
“You've been there?” you asked, unable to keep the awe from your voice.
He smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Once, when I was younger. Before...” he trailed off, his gaze turning distant.
You understood. Before the war, before the weight of his responsibilities had fully settled on his shoulders.
“Perhaps...” Jacaerys began, then hesitated. “Perhaps when this is all over, you could see it for yourself.”
Your heart skipped a beat at his words. The idea was so foreign, so impossible, and yet... the way he said it made it seem almost within reach. The thought of Jacaerys showing you around Oldtown, of exploring those vast libraries together, sent a thrill through you that you couldn't quite ignore.
“I... I would like that,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and something else you couldn't quite define.
Jacaerys smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes. “Good,” he said, his voice tinged with warmth. “It's a promise, then.”
Jacaerys' eyes met yours again, and for a moment, you felt as if you were teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken possibilities.
But then Jacaerys winced, his hand going to his side where you knew his wound still pained him. The moment shattered, reality rushing back in.
“We should get you back inside,” you said, your healer's instincts taking over. “You've been out here too long.”
Jacaerys nodded, allowing you to help him to his feet with a pained sound from his throat. As you made your way back to the cottage, his arm around your shoulders for support, you couldn't shake the feeling that, even though he was still in pain as of now, he’d eventually have to leave for war again.
Your thoughts raced as you helped Jacaerys back inside the cottage, his weight leaning heavily on you despite his efforts to remain upright after having strained himself into a bad position for his wounds. The image of him in pain, yet determined to return to the battlefield, haunted you. You knew his wounds were healing, but not fast enough for him, not when his heart and mind were still with his family and the war effort.
Inside, you guided him back to the bed, where he eased himself down with a grunt of pain. His face was drawn, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he settled against the pillows.
“You shouldn't have pushed yourself,” you said softly, your voice tinged with concern as you adjusted the pillows behind him.
Jacaerys spoke, his voice strained. “I can't just stay idle while others fight and die.”
You sighed, sitting beside him on the bed. “I understand your need to fight, Jacaerys. But you're not yet strong enough. Rushing back into battle could do more harm than good.”
His eyes searched for yours, frustration and determination warring within them. “But every day that passes, I feel more useless,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You're not useless,” you countered gently, your hand reaching out to grasp his.
Jacaerys sighed heavily, his fingers tightening around yours.
For a long moment, Jacaerys was silent, his gaze fixed on some distant point. The tension in his body slowly eased, his fingers relaxing slightly around yours. “I don't want to be weak,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself.
“You're not weak, Jacaerys,” you said firmly, meeting his eyes. “You're healing,” you continued softly, squeezing his hand gently. “It takes time. And taking the time you need now will make you stronger in the long run.”
Jacaerys looked down at your intertwined hands, his expression conflicted. “I've always been taught that strength is in action, not in rest,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
“Strength is also in knowing when to rest,” you replied gently.
As Jacaerys looked up at you, his eyes softened. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out with his free hand to gently cup your cheek. Letting out a sound that sounded almost like a plea, he pulled your face down to meet his.
The first brush of his lips sent a shiver through you, a gentle exploration that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions. Jacaerys' lips were warm and soft, molding against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own. His fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, as if afraid to let go of this fragile moment.
You responded instinctively, leaning into him, your hand finding its place against his chest. Beneath your touch, you felt the steady beat of his heart, strong and steady, echoing the rhythm of your own pulse. The scent of earth and herbs mingled with the subtle fragrance of his skin, creating a heady mix that enveloped you both.
He furrowed his brows, trying to focus on the kiss and not his inexperience. He’d spent most of his teen years fighting in wars, after all.
His lips moved tentatively against yours, a mixture of desire and uncertainty evident in his touch. His hand remained on your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your skin as if trying to commit every detail of this moment to memory.
His touch is tender, and his kiss carries a mix of uncertainty and desire. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your hand. Perhaps he's been so focused on duty and honor that he's only now allowing himself to explore softer, more vulnerable emotions. He kisses you as if it’s the last thing he will ever do, not hungry enough to be lust but soft enough for your mind to swirl with possibilities of why your heart feels fluttery in your chest.
But then, as Jacaerys shifted his position ever so slightly, a sharp intake of breath escaped him. His hand instinctively moved from your cheek to clutch at his side, where the lingering pain from his wound had suddenly flared up.
You pulled back immediately, concern etched on your face. “Are you alright?” Your voice carried a mixture of worry and compassion.
He winced, his features tense with pain. “It's nothing,” he managed through gritted teeth, trying to reassure you even as he struggled to catch his breath.
“I just... I wanted...” Jacaerys's voice trailed off, frustration evident in his eyes as he looked away, unable to finish his thought.
You gently placed your hand on Jacaerys's shoulder, silently urging him to rest against the pillows. His brow furrowed with pain as he settled back, his breathing still labored. The moment of intimacy between you both had faded into the background, replaced by the urgent need to tend to his worsening pain.
“It's alright,” you assured him softly, your fingers brushing lightly over his forehead. “Just breathe. Let the pain pass.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes briefly, focusing on regulating his breath. You followed the usual routine, giving him pain-killing medicine, stepping out of the room while he changed into your old father’s clothes, and continuing to provide the healing and care he needed in the following days. The conversation about the kiss was long gone.
As the days passed, Jacaerys continued to heal under your careful attention. The gash on his stomach gradually closed, leaving behind a thin scar that was appearing. His arm, once injured and immobile, regained strength. He was practically healed.
As Jacaerys's physical condition improved, a palpable tension grew between you both. The memory of that tender kiss lingered, unspoken but ever-present in the air. You found yourself stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking, your heart fluttering at the sight of his tousled curls or the way his brow furrowed in concentration as he read one of your few books.
Jacaerys, too, seemed more aware of your presence. His eyes would follow you as you moved about the cottage, and his hand would often linger a moment too long when you passed him things. Yet neither of you spoke of what had happened, as if addressing it might somehow break the fragile peace you had found.
One morning, you awoke to find Jacaerys standing by the window, his posture tense and alert. He ran his hands through his hair in stress, wearing the same clothes you found him in the day you took him into your care. Your heart sank as you realized what this meant.
“Jacaerys?” you said softly, approaching him.
He turned to face you, his expression a mix of determination and regret. “Y/n,” he began, his voice low and serious. “I must return to the war.”
A part of you had anticipated this moment would come, but you dreaded it. You had known from the beginning that Jacaerys was not just any injured soldier seeking refuge – he was a prince, with responsibilities that extended far beyond the confines of your quiet garden.
You approached him slowly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Jacaerys, rushing back into battle–”
He cut you off gently, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of gratitude and resolve. “I need to do this,” he said firmly. “They need to know that I haven't abandoned them.”
You sighed softly, “I understand,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Jacaerys's expression softened, his hand coming up to your chin. His eyes scanning your face for a few seconds, trying to memorize every freckle, every detail he possibly could before he left again.
For a moment, you both stood there, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Then, with a sudden urgency, Jacaerys leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, his eyes fluttering closed as his lips met yours. The kiss was urgent, passionate, filled with all the unspoken emotions that had built up between you. His lips were warm and soft against yours, moving with a newfound confidence and intensity.
One of his hands cupped your face gently, his thumb caressing your cheek, while the other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the steady beat of his heart echoing your own racing pulse.
The kiss deepened, Jacaerys tilting his head slightly to better capture your lips. There was a hint of desperation in the way he kissed you, as if he was trying to memorize every sensation, every taste, every feeling. His tongue gently traced your bottom lip, seeking permission, which you granted with a soft sigh.
As the kiss intensified, you found your hands moving of their own accord - one threading through his soft curls, the other gripping the fabric of his shirt at his chest. The scent of him enveloped you - a mixture of herbs from your garden, the earthiness of the forest, and something uniquely Jacaerys.
Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourself in the kiss. It was bittersweet, filled with the joy of finally giving in to your feelings, but tinged with the sadness of knowing it might be a goodbye. Jacaerys kissed you as if it was both the first and last time, pouring every ounce of his gratitude, affection, and regret into this one moment.
When you finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Jacaerys rested his forehead against yours. Silently, he moved his hands to your wrist, gently untying one of your bracelets and nudging your fingers with his. He held the bracelet in his hand for a moment, running his thumb over the woven threads.
“May I keep this?” he asked softly, his eyes meeting yours.
You nodded, unable to find words as emotion welled up in your throat. Jacaerys carefully tucked the bracelet into a pocket, as if it were a precious treasure.
He grasped your face in his hands again, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. Lingering, he moved down to your cheeks, your nose, the corner of your mouth. He kissed every inch of your face, his eyes furrowed close as if he was trying to forget where he was going – if he was ever going to see you again. Finally, he reached your mouth again, giving you a slow kiss.
Jacaerys stepped back. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as if preparing to face the world beyond your cottage. Unable to trust your voice to respond, you reached out and gently squeezed his hand, conveying your own gratitude and a silent farewell.
With a final, lingering look, Jacaerys turned away and made his way out of the cottage, his steps steadier than they had been in weeks. You watched him go, feeling a mix of pride and sadness as he disappeared from view. Alone once more in the quiet of your cottage, you leaned against the doorframe, your heart heavy with the weight of his absence. The memory of his touch lingered on your skin, his kiss still warm against your lips.
Months passed in a blur of uncertainty and waiting. As the war waged on, your heart remained tethered to Jacaerys, hoping and praying for his safety. You tended to your garden with a quiet determination, finding solace in the familiar rhythms of nature amid the turmoil beyond your cottage walls. Everytime a new black soldier came for aid at the care center, you’d sneakily ask about the war, for news, for numbers of wounded and dead – anything you could grasp onto.
News of the war's eventual end arrived like a bittersweet whisper, bringing relief mingled with sorrow for the lives lost. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as you continued your solitary existence, never quite giving up hope that one day Jacaerys might return.
Then, on a crisp morning that carried the promise of autumn, a knock echoed through your cottage. Startled, you set down your gardening tools and hurried to the door. When you opened it, your breath caught in your throat.
There stood Jacaerys, his once-pristine armor now battered and bloodied, a testament to the trials he had faced. His hair was unkempt, his face lined with weariness, but his eyes held a familiar spark of determination and relief as they met yours.
“Y/n,” he breathed, his voice hoarse but filled with emotion.
A rush of emotions flooded through you – joy, disbelief, and an overwhelming sense of relief that he had returned to you. Without a word, you threw your arms around him, holding him close as if afraid he might vanish again.
Jacaerys held you just as tightly, his arms wrapping around you as if seeking reassurance that you were real. “I'm here,” he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with exhaustion and gratitude.
Together, you stepped inside the cottage, the weight of the past months hanging in the air but overshadowed by the sheer relief of being reunited. Jacaerys sank into a chair, and you fetched a basin of water and a cloth to tend to his wounds. As you cleaned the blood and grime from his face and hands, your touch was gentle, conveying a silent understanding of all he had endured.
Once cleaned up, Jacaerys looked around the familiar surroundings of your cottage, a sense of peace settling over him. “It feels like a lifetime since I was last here,” he admitted softly, his eyes meeting yours.
You nodded, sitting beside him and taking his hand in yours. Your instinct made your hands immediately go to his forearm, a cut that was no longer bleeding on it, tenderly tracing over the healed wound, feeling the scar that marked him.
“I'm glad you're back,” you murmured, your voice filled with a mixture of relief and lingering concern. He took your hand in his, his eyes searching yours with earnest intensity.
“I want to stay,” he said quietly, his voice steady yet filled with vulnerability. “Here, with you.”
You squeezed his shoulder, a grin plastered on your face as he mirrored your movements.
“Let me tend to your wounds,” you said softly, guiding him to sit by the hearth where you had once helped him find refuge. Jacaerys lowered himself gratefully, wincing slightly as he settled, his armor clinking softly with the movement. The air was thick with unspoken emotions, a delicate balance of relief and the weight of their shared experiences.
You fetched fresh water and clean cloths, moving with practiced care as you began to clean the grime and blood from his face and hands. Each gentle touch spoke of the months apart, of your worry and hope intertwined.
Jacaerys watched you silently, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude, much like the first time you had tended to him.
