FREYJA

The argument had started over something so small it was almost laughable.

Anakin had come back to your shared quarters on the Resolute after a thirty-six-hour patrol shift, eyes bloodshot, shoulders slumped, the kind of exhaustion that made even a Jedi Master look mortal.

You’d asked him—perfectly reasonably, in your opinion—to take off his boots before tracking half of Felucia’s mud across the floor you’d just scrubbed. He hadn’t even looked up from unlatching his vambrace. Just grunted something about “later” and kept walking.

You’d snapped.

He’d snapped back.

Twenty minutes later you were both shouting about boots, about consideration, about how he never listened anymore because he was “too kriffing important,” and you’d stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door so hard the overhead light flickered.

Now it was three hours later. He was sprawled on the couch in nothing but low-slung black sleep pants, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting on his bare stomach. The blue glow of the starfield beyond the viewport painted stripes across the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that crisscrossed his skin like a map of every war he’d survived.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, still angry—but mostly at yourself now. Because the longer you looked at him, the more you remembered how rarely he let anyone see him like this: unguarded, soft around the edges, beautiful in a way that made your throat ache.

You were wrong. You knew it. And you wanted him to forgive you.

So you changed tactics.

You let your hair down, shook it loose so it spilled over your shoulders the way he liked. You slipped out of the oversized shirt you’d stolen from his locker and into the thin black slip that barely reached mid-thigh, the one he’d once growled was “illegal in at least twelve systems.” Bare feet silent on the deck plating, you padded toward him.

Anakin didn’t move his head but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Thought you were done talking to me, princess.”

His voice was rough from fatigue and smoke, but still velvet. Still dangerous.

You stopped just out of reach. “I’m not talking.”

He looked up slowly. Blue eyes—still a little glassy from lack of sleep—dragged over you like a physical touch. From your bare legs, up the cling of silk to the dip of your waist, lingering on the way your nipples had already peaked against the fabric.

One dark brow arched.

“Changed your mind about the boots, then?”

You bit your lip, shifted your weight so the slip rode a little higher. “Maybe I just missed you.”

He snorted softly, sat up in one fluid motion that should have been impossible for someone so tired. Elbows on his knees, he looked up at you through his lashes—mocking, teasing, utterly in control even when he was half-dead on his feet.

“Missed me so much you screamed at me for ten minutes straight about footwear?”

Heat crawled up your neck. “It was… a valid point.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned back, spread his thighs wider, the outline of him already thickening behind the thin fabric. “Come here.”

You hesitated, just long enough for him to notice.

His grin turned sharp. “Don’t make me ask twice, baby.”

You stepped between his knees. He caught your hips immediately, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your hip bones, holding you still while he looked his fill.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Trying so hard to be subtle. You’re about as subtle as a star destroyer in hyperspace.”

“I’m not—”

“Shhh. You’re gonna ruin it if you talk.”

He tugged you forward until your knees bumped the couch. Then, with infuriating ease, he pulled you down to straddle one thick thigh. The slip rode up completely; only your panties separated you from the hard muscle of his leg.

You whimpered before you could stop it.

Anakin’s hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate. “There she is. My good girl’s back.” His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts through silk. “Thought I’d lost her to the boot argument.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He tilted his head, mock-sympathetic. “Are you?”

You nodded quickly.

“Say it properly.”

“I’m sorry, Anakin.”

He hummed, pleased. Then he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you? Walking around like this, trying to play me. Like I don’t already own every inch of you.”

Your breath hitched.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Cat got your tongue, huh?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

His grin was pure sin. “That’s what I thought.”

He kissed you then, slow at first, teasing, letting you chase his tongue until you were making soft, needy noises against his mouth. Then he deepened it, one hand sliding into your hair to hold you exactly where he wanted while the other slipped between your thighs, cupping you through soaked lace.

“So wet already,” he taunted against your lips. “All this just to say sorry? Pathetic.”

You moaned, hips rocking shamelessly against his palm.

He pulled his hand away. “Ah-ah. Not yet.”

He stood suddenly, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. He carried you to the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind him, and dropped you onto the mattress with just enough force to make you bounce.

“On your knees,” he ordered, voice gone low and dark.

You scrambled to obey, kneeling at the edge of the bed while he shoved his sleep pants down. His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip. The size of him never failed to make your mouth water and your core clench at the same time.

He wrapped a hand around the base, gave himself one slow stroke. “Open.”

You did.

He fed himself into your mouth inch by inch, letting you adjust, letting you taste the salt and heat of him. When you hollowed your cheeks and swirled your tongue he groaned, long and rough.

“Good girl. Just like that.”

You took him deeper, eyes watering, until your nose brushed at his groin. He held you there for a heartbeat—two—then pulled back only to push forward again, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Look at me,” he growled.

Your eyes flicked up. His were blazing, pupils blown, staring down at you like you were the only thing in the galaxy.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at those pretty eyes. So innocent even when your mouth’s full of me.”

He slid deeper. You gagged softly; he didn’t stop. Instead he wrapped his hand in your hair, and pushed—slowly, inexorably—until your lips stretched wide around him and your throat fluttered.

“Breathe through your nose, baby,” he cooed, mocking and tender all at once. “You can take it."

Tears slipped down your cheeks. You moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk.

“That’s it. Cry for me. Let me see how sorry you really are.”

He fucked your mouth steadily after that, deep, controlled thrusts that had drool slipping down your chin and your thighs shaking. Every time you started to pull back for air he pushed you down again, holding you until your lungs burned and your head spun.

When he finally pulled out you gasped, coughing, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock.

He thumbed the tears from your cheeks almost gently. “So pretty when you’re dumb for me.”

Then he was hauling you up the bed, flipping you onto your back, ripping your panties off in one impatient yank. He settled between your thighs, notched himself at your entrance, and paused—just long enough to make you whine.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered.

You locked gazes with him.

He pushed in in one long, relentless stroke.

Your back arched off the mattress, mouth falling open on a silent scream. He was so big—always too big at first, stretching you open until it bordered on pain, until the pleasure crashed in behind it like a wave.

He bottomed out, hips flush to yours, and stayed there. Let you feel every thick inch splitting you apart.

“Look how well you take me,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Even when you’re being a brat, this little cunt still opens up for me like it’s begging.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He started moving, slow at first, dragging out every thrust so you felt the drag of him against every sensitive spot inside you. Then faster. Harder. The bed creaked under the force of it.

One hand slid up to wrap around your throat—not tight, just enough to feel your pulse hammering against his palm. Enough to remind you who you belonged to.

He squeezed, just enough to make your vision sparkle at the edges. Your body clenched around him in response; he cursed under his breath.

“Fuck, you love that, don’t you? Love when I choke you while I ruin this pussy.”

You could only nod, tears slipping free again, eyes never leaving his.

He leaned down, lips brushing yours, voice a rough whisper. “You don’t know what you do to me. Driving me insane. Making me want to keep you spread out and stuffed full of me until you forget your own name.”

His thrusts turned brutal, deep, punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. The hand on your throat tightened again, thumb pressing just under your jaw, forcing your head back so you couldn’t look away even if you wanted to.

“Come for me,” he commanded. “Come on my cock like the good girl you’re pretending to be.”

You shattered.

The orgasm hit like a supernova, white-hot, consuming, your whole body locking up around him as you sobbed his name. He fucked you through it, relentless, drawing it out until you were shaking, oversensitive, pleading.

Only then did he let himself go.

He buried himself to the hilt, groaned your name like a prayer, and came hard—spilling deep inside you, hips jerking with every pulse. His hand stayed on your throat the whole time, grounding you, owning you, while his eyes never left yours.

When it was over he didn’t pull out right away. He stayed seated inside you, softening slowly, thumb stroking the column of your throat almost tenderly now.

You were both panting, sweat-slick, wrecked.

He leaned down, kissed you slow and filthy, tasting himself on your tongue.

“Still mad about the boots?” he murmured against your lips.

You laughed—breathless, dazed. “What boots?”

His grin was pure smug satisfaction.

“That’s my girl.”

He finally slipped out, rolled to the side, and pulled you against his chest—your back to his front, his arm banded around your waist, cybernetic hand splayed possessively over your stomach.

“Sleep,” he ordered softly, lips brushing your shoulder. “And next time you want my attention, just wear the slip. Saves us both a lot of yelling.”

You smiled into the dark, already drifting.

“Noted."

He chuckled, low and warm.