synopsis: your first night in your arranged marriage with padmé
word count: 638
warnings: 18+ only. Minors DNI. References to sex & pregnancy.
a/n: this fic is for day fifteen of AU-pril (hosted by @monthlywritingchallenges)! Beta’d by my irl friend who loves Padmé as much as I do 🥰 If I could marry Padmé I would in a heartbeat.
The sunlight softly wakes you in the morning, an unfamiliar curved ceiling coming into focus.
Awareness comes slower.
You roll your head to the side and take in the unfamiliar sight of another person sharing your bed.
Your wife - it feels strange to think of her in that way - breathes softly in sleep. She looks vulnerable, her expression unguarded and relaxed. You reach a hand out and take a lock of her long, brown hair fanned out on the pillow between two fingers.
The texture is soft and luxurious, exactly how you had imagined it. Yesterday, it was arranged in soft curls cascading down her back.
She had taken your breath away the moment you saw her in her wedding attire. It had been an intricate, beautiful piece, making you feel underdressed in the moment.
Your outfit was much simpler; light and breathable to match the warm summer days on Naboo, the circlet resting on your brow the only symbol of your noble heritage.
It only took you a fraction of the time it took her to undress last night. She was still going when you were washed up and ready for bed.
You offered to help.
She denied you.
Like everything else about your relationship so far, it was a brief, formal conversation.
The silence stretched out between you as you sat perched on the bed. There were so many things you wanted to say to her: you look so beautiful, I’ve always admired your career, I would never hurt you… but none of them seemed appropriate to say while she was struggling with the back of her dress.
Finally she relented. “Actually, I could use your help,” she said, her voice calm and detached.
You sat upright immediately, gaze snapping back to her as your heart skipped a beat. “Of course.”
You stood, and came to stand behind her. Your hands ghosted down her back. There were multiple strands of fabric fastened and tied down in intricate knots. “Stars,” you muttered, “how long does this normally take you on your own?”
“Usually, I have servants.”
Your hands faltered at the implication. There could be many different reasons she dismissed them for the evening. You tried not to dwell on it.
Once you pulled one knot loose, the others were easier.
Bit by bit, fabric gave way to the smooth, bare skin beneath.
The dress fell away the moment you unfastened the last knot. You turned away and retreated before you could violate her privacy any further.
It wasn’t like you weren’t attracted to her. You were. Very much so. And had she shown any sign of interest in you, perhaps you would have lingered, trailed the pad of your finger down the fine curve of her spine and watched goosebumps spread across her flesh.
It would be different if you had the right body parts to make a baby together, but, since you cannot get her pregnant, or vice versa, of course you could not expect anything physical between you.
Sex has no bearing on the success of a political union such as this.
With no further reason to wait, you peeled back the covers of the bed and slipped inside, realising too late that you hadn’t asked her if she had a preferred side to sleep on.
You laid there, looking out at the window, the gauzy curtains billowing in the night breeze while the lake outside provided a natural, twinkling melody. Inside, the sounds of your wife getting ready for bed - fabric rustling over skin, padded footsteps, and the even stroke of a hairbrush - lulled you to sleep.
You slide your fingers along the lock of her hair, watching the morning sun turn the brown into gold, and wonder if she’ll ever let you touch her when she is awake.
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