touch me like you mean it | a.s
ROTS!anakin skywalker x f!reader
MDNI
word count: 2.9k
summary: haunted by his past, anakin discovers comfort in your forbidden touch
warnings: SMUT, dirty talk, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms f!receiving, fingering f!receiving, heavy bionic arm mention, anakin yearning, confessions of love, forbidden romance, fluffy aftercare, let me know if i missed any!
a/n: this is my first anakin/star wars fic ever i recently got into anakin and i can never go back anyways i hope u all enjoy!!
The Jedi Temple always had a way of making you feel cold.
Despite the Coruscant sun filtering through its high windows and the polished stone warmed by thousands of footsteps, there was an emptiness in the air that training and discipline could never fill. It was silence masquerading as peace. And you—barely a Jedi, no longer a Padawan—were beginning to see the cracks in the Order’s perfectly composed exterior.
And then there was Anakin Skywalker.
He wasn’t a crack. He was a rift.
The first time you met, he had just returned from a campaign in the Outer Rim. His robes were scorched, hair damp with sweat, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. You were in the Archives, studying doctrine you were no longer sure you believed in. He passed by you—then paused.
“You’re not just reading that,” he said, voice low, tinged with amusement. “You’re trying to believe it.”
You looked up, startled. His gaze pinned you. Not unkind, but sharp. Intimate. Intrusive.
You didn’t respond. He smiled anyway.
“Don’t worry,” he said, walking away. “I don’t believe it either.”
You should have let it go. But that one sentence lodged in your chest and stayed there like a live wire.
Since then, he’s been everywhere.
In the Temple, brushing shoulders in hallways. On missions, volunteered for with what he insisted was coincidence. His presence charged the air around you. He didn’t flirt—Jedi weren’t supposed to. But there was something far more dangerous than words.
A glance held too long.
A breath caught in his throat when your fingers brushed.
The way his hand hovered at your lower back, never quite touching—but gods, you wanted it to.
And tonight, the line between restraint and surrender is thinner than ever.
⸻
The war is quiet, for once. You’re both stationed on a Republic cruiser, en route back to Coruscant after assisting with negotiations on a neutral system. Anakin had done most of the talking—charismatic, unpredictable, disarming even when he was furious. You just stood beside him, your voice calm, your force presence grounding his.
You’re in your quarters now. The lights are low. You haven’t slept.
A knock.
You hesitate, heart racing.
The door slides open and there he is—hair a tousled mess, dark robes loose around his shoulders. There’s a tension in his jaw, a heat in his eyes that doesn’t match the calm expression he tries to wear.
“You’re awake,” he says softly.
You nod. “So are you.”
He glances down the hall as the door closes behind him, sealing you both in quiet.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
He takes a slow step forward. You don’t back away.
“You feel it too,” he says. Not a question.
Your pulse thrums. “It doesn’t matter.”
His hand—the real one—lifts and brushes your cheek with such care, it shatters the wall of silence between you. “It does to me.”
His voice is rough with restraint. The force trembles faintly around him, echoing his unrest.
“Anakin…”
His name on your lips pulls a soft groan from his throat. His head dips—close, so close, but he doesn’t kiss you. He hovers.
“I dream about you,” he whispers. “When I’m gone. When I’m in battle. Every time I close my eyes.”
You can feel the heat of him, smell the dust of the stars and war clinging to his skin. Your body aches for him like a song with no words.
“You’re a Jedi,” you say, but even your voice is trembling.
“I’m human,” he replies. “And I want you.”
The words hit like a tidal wave. You gasp softly, the sound swallowed between your bodies. His bionic hand, usually hidden beneath a glove or sleeve, is bare. The metallic sheen of it catches in the low light. It rests at his side—still, but alive with tension.
Your eyes drop to it.
He sees.
And for the first time, Anakin Skywalker looks… uncertain.
“It’s not just a weapon,” he says, voice low. “Not with you.”
Your fingers reach for it, hesitating only once before brushing against the cool metal. His breath hitches. You trace the edge of his palm, slowly, reverently.
“Then show me what else it can be,” you whisper.
He swallows hard, jaw clenching.
He doesn’t move for a long moment—then steps back.
“Not here,” he murmurs. “Not rushed.”
You stare at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I want you,” he says, as if it physically hurts him to admit it. “But I don’t want to take. I want you to give.”
Your body feels lit from within, but your heart stutters.
He’s always been intense. But this is different.
“Then take your time,” you say, voice barely audible.
He looks at you like he’s drowning in everything he shouldn’t feel—but he’s not letting go. Not this time.
He brushes your cheek again, and this time he does kiss you. Soft. Lingering. Like a promise sealed with heat and desperation.
And when he leaves—just for now—your lips are still tingling, your body thrumming, and you know this tension won’t hold much longer.
⸻
Three days pass.
Three days of war briefings, close quarters, and the kind of silence that vibrates with everything unsaid.
Anakin doesn’t touch you again. Not in the hallways, not during missions, not even during quiet conversations shared over rations and datapads. But his eyes never leave you. They follow you like shadows: watching, wanting, waiting.
You can feel the tension winding tighter each day—until it finally snaps.
It happens late at night, when the ship is running on low power and everyone’s settled into uneasy rest. Your quarters are too small for the way your body tosses beneath thin sheets, haunted by the memory of his mouth on yours.
A soft chime.
You don’t think. You answer.
He slips in without a word, his cloak shed in one motion. The door seals behind him, and for a breathless moment, all he does is stare at you. Hair mussed. Shadows under his eyes. Chest rising and falling with a rhythm that speaks of war—not the one outside, but the one inside him.
You whisper, “Anakin…”
He crosses the room in three strides and kisses you like a man starved.
No pretense. No delay. His hands—flesh and metal—wrap around your waist, anchoring you to him as his mouth claims yours with a force that steals air and thought. You whimper into the kiss, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic as he walks you backward, bumping gently into the edge of the bed.
He pulls back—just far enough to speak. His voice is a growl.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t. You can’t.
You arch up to kiss him again, nails dragging lightly down his chest, and that’s all he needs.
He groans, deep and guttural, and suddenly he’s everywhere—mouth mapping your neck, hands exploring like he’s trying to memorize every inch. His flesh hand pushes up your tunic, the warmth of his palm a contrast to the chill of metal as his bionic hand slides up your bare spine.
The first full contact of it makes you gasp.
It’s cold, precise—and somehow just as reverent as flesh. It follows the curve of your spine with shocking delicacy, each joint moving fluidly like water over skin. The sensation is overwhelming. Alien. Erotic.
He watches your reaction carefully. “Too much?”
You shake your head, heart thundering. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
The bionic hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your face so he can kiss you again, deeper this time. His tongue explores your mouth with hungry strokes, matching the rhythm of his thumb—cold, calloused, metal—brushing over your pulse point.
You moan into his mouth.
He breaks the kiss to pant against your jaw. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me…”
Your hands find his shoulders, pushing the robes off slowly. Beneath, his body is heat and muscle and scars. But your fingers move to the base of the bionic arm—where metal meets skin. You touch the seam gently.
He shudders.
“You hate it,” you say softly.
He freezes.
“No,” he breathes. “I hate what it represents. But you…” His forehead touches yours. “You make me feel like I’m more than what they made me.”
The ache in your chest is almost worse than the ache between your legs.
You guide his bionic hand down your torso, pressing it over your breast, your nipple already hard beneath thin fabric. His breath catches. His fingers twitch, adjusting pressure.
He’s learning you.
The hand shifts—fingers spreading, curving, applying pressure with maddening precision. It’s like being touched by a machine programmed to worship you.
You grind into him with a needy moan, your body begging.
“Anakin, please—”
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, settling you on the bed. His knee nudges between your thighs, his body covering yours, and you’ve never felt so consumed.
But even now, even while trembling with want, he pauses.
“You can stop this any time,” he whispers. “You say the word, and I walk out that door.”
You look up at him—his wild hair, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from your kisses. His body is tense above you, like a dam about to break.
And you whisper, “Don’t you dare.”
His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, there is no holding back.
Anakin’s weight settles over you, his heat pressing into every line of your body. His kiss deepens, bruising and wet, his tongue claiming every soft sound you make. You arch into him, desperate for contact, for friction, and he gives it—his hips pressing into yours, clothed heat grinding against the aching center between your thighs.
“Force,” he gasps against your throat. “You feel… you feel like—”
You cut him off with a kiss, panting. “Touch me. I need—I want—Anakin, please.”
The last thread of control inside him snaps.
He pushes your tunic up and over your head, baring your chest to the chilled air. His eyes drink you in like he’s memorizing, worshiping, burning.
“Maker,” he breathes, running his real hand down your side—soothing, grounding—but it’s the bionic one that moves with intent. The sound of shifting metal is soft, intimate, as the arm flexes above you. It moves with uncanny precision, brushing your nipple with the pad of his thumb, adjusting pressure when you gasp and arch into the touch.
Every motion feels calculated—deliberate—but not detached.
“Does it feel good?” he murmurs.
You nod, breathless. “More than good.”
He smiles against your skin, mouth warm as it trails lower, nipping at your sternum, then dragging his tongue down between your breasts. The bionic hand explores further—cool metal gliding over your ribs, down your belly, to the band of your pants.
“Let me…” he starts, voice raw.
You lift your hips before he finishes the sentence. He slides the fabric down slowly, savoring every inch he reveals. When you’re bare beneath him, he just… stares. Like you’re something sacred.
His human hand cradles your thigh. The metal one trails from your knee to the inside of your leg. He spreads you with inhuman strength masked by delicate control.
You shiver. “You’re staring.”
“I’ve imagined this so many times,” he confesses hoarsely. “But I never thought it would feel this… real.”
Then he moves.
His metal fingers slide down to your center, parting your folds with aching precision. His index finger—cool and deliberate—presses slow circles against your clit. He watches your face, absorbing every twitch, every gasp, every moan as his pace adjusts.
You choke on a whimper. “Anakin—”
“I know,” he says, voice shaking. “I know. Let me take care of you.”
His middle finger sinks into you.
The sensation is unreal—hard, smooth, and perfectly curved. It’s not the warmth of flesh, but something different. Something more intense. He pumps slowly, curling just so, brushing against your inner walls with devastating accuracy.
“Oh—Force—”
“That’s it,” he pants, eyes dark. “Let me feel you like this.”
You writhe beneath him, hips chasing each stroke. He adds another finger—his hand strong enough to stretch you without pain. You’re slick and pulsing around him, your moans getting louder with every thrust of those bionic fingers.
You clutch at the sheets. “I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Let go. I want to feel you come apart around my hand.”
You do.
The orgasm hits you like a shockwave—tightening every nerve, arching your back, mouth falling open in a wordless cry. His fingers don’t stop until your legs shake, until you’re trembling beneath him like a live wire.
When he finally pulls away, your thighs are wet and twitching, your chest heaving.
He kisses your temple. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
But you’re not done.
Your fingers fumble with the clasp of his belt. “I want you now.”
He freezes as you tug his pants down. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, thick and pulsing. You look up at him through your lashes, then down at his length, reaching for him. He gasps when your hand wraps around him—soft skin to skin.
“You’re perfect,” you whisper.
He groans. “I’m not. But… I am yours.”
You tug him closer. “Then show me.”
He slides into you slowly, with reverence, both hands braced beside your head. His bionic arm supports his weight with ease, letting his flesh hand stroke your cheek as he sinks deeper.
You both moan—finally, finally joined. The stretch is intense, but you take him easily, your body greedy for his weight, his heat, him.
Anakin rests his forehead against yours. “You feel like home.”
And then he moves.
His hips roll, thrusting into you with smooth, deliberate pace. The tension between you builds again—sweat, panting, the wet sound of bodies moving in perfect sync. His mouth finds your neck, your lips, your jaw—desperate and scattered.
“Say my name,” he begs, voice unraveling.
“Anakin,” you gasp. “Anakin—yes—”
He thrusts harder, deeper. His bionic hand grips your hip, holding you in place. It’s too much and not enough. You’re drowning in him. He groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a man whose soul is already half lost.
When you clench around him, tight and close to the edge, he loses control.
“Gonna come—can’t—stars, I—”
“Come inside,” you whisper. “Please. I want to feel you.”
He growls and buries himself to the hilt, trembling as his orgasm rips through him. You feel it—his cock pulsing, his breath stuttering, your name a broken chant on his lips.
You come again just from the sound of it.
This one is quieter, deeper, your body clinging to his, pulling him closer. You ride it together, shaking, crying, gasping.
And then… stillness.
You don’t know how long you lie there with him, tangled together in the dark.
Anakin hasn’t moved. His breath fans warm against your shoulder as he presses soft, barely-there kisses to your skin—each one more like an apology than a reward. Your fingers rest in his damp hair, gently carding through the curls at his nape, grounding you both in something too real to name.
The war, the Temple, the galaxy—it all feels very far away.
Only this exists now. This moment. This impossible, forbidden peace.
He shifts just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, lashes long and dark against his flushed skin. He looks younger like this. Less like the war hero. Less like the Chosen One.
More like a man who’s just been loved.
“…Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.
Your lips curve. “No. You were perfect.”
His brow creases, and his gaze flicks toward the bionic hand still curled gently against your thigh. He flexes the fingers experimentally—checking, calculating. “I tried to be gentle,” he murmurs. “It’s… hard. Sometimes I forget it’s not like my other hand.”
You take it in both of yours.
His breath catches.
You guide the metallic fingers to your lips and kiss the cold knuckles—one by one. “You didn’t forget. Not once.”
He swallows thickly, the tension in his shoulders softening like melting ice. He doesn’t say thank you—but the way he closes his eyes as you cradle the prosthetic says everything.
Silence settles between you again. Not heavy this time, but tender.
He lays down beside you, pulling you into his chest. The sheets are barely tugged over your hips. His skin is warm against yours, his heartbeat fast but steady beneath your ear.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” he whispers eventually. But he’s still holding you.
“I know.”
“Jedi aren’t supposed to love. Not like this.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. “Do you?”
He hesitates.
Then—his thumb brushes your cheek, gentle as a breeze. “I think I always have.”
Your chest tightens.
You reach up and touch his face, your fingers tracing the scar beneath his eye, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.
“Then let’s not pretend it didn’t happen.”
He nods—slowly. “Okay.”
You lay together like that for a long time, limbs entangled, breath synchronizing, bodies soft and sore and utterly spent. His nose brushes the curve of your shoulder as his hand—his metal one—moves to stroke your side in slow, featherlight lines.
Not passion now. Not hunger. Just presence.
His voice is rough with sleep when he says, “I don’t want this to be the only time.”
You smile, lips brushing his. “It won’t be.”
He kisses you then—slow and sweet, like there’s no war to return to, no council to defy, no fate hanging over his head like a blade. Just you. Just this.
When you finally fall asleep, wrapped in him, the galaxy fades into nothing.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Anakin Skywalker dreams of peace.
