a/n play this to set the mood or wtv...!! yall this my first time writing full on smut dont flame me
The argument had been building for days.
Not over anything real—not really. You'd been tired, short-tempered, snappish in ways you couldn't explain. He'd been patient at first, the way Aang always was, his calm voice and steady hands trying to soothe you. But even the Avatar has limits.
"You're not listening to me," you'd said, arms crossed, back turned. "I am listening. You're the one who keeps interrupting herself."
You'd spun around, fire in your eyes. "Don't get smart with me."
"I'm not getting smart. I'm stating a fact."
His jaw had tightened. That was when you knew you'd crossed a line—not because he looked angry, but because he went still. The way the air goes still before a storm.
there's silence.
"Y/N."
"You want to be factual? Fine. Fact: you've been gone for three weeks. Fact: you came back yesterday. Fact: you expect me to just—fall into your arms like nothing happened. Like I didn't spend twenty-one nights staring at the ceiling wondering if you were alive."
His expression had shifted. Something flickered behind his grey eyes—hurt, maybe, or guilt. But you were too angry to care.
"I can't do this right now," he'd said.
"Then don't." You'd grabbed your pillow. "Sleep on the couch."
You'd slammed the bedroom door behind you. Not locked it—you never locked it—but closed it hard enough to rattle the frame.
That was two minutes ago.
Now you're under him.
You'd fought him. Or at least tried to. For about half a second. Your hands had pushed at his chest, your teeth had nipped at his lower lip, your body had twisted in his grip. But he hadn't let go. He never let go.
Now you're on your stomach. Your hands are fisted in the sheets. Your back is arched—deep, obscene, the way he likes it. Your knees are spread wide on the mattress, and he's kneeling behind you, one hand on your hip, the other pressing your upper back down into the pillows.
His cock is at your entrance. Not inside yet, the head pressing against your slick folds, teasing.
"Look at you," he says. His voice is different now—lower, rougher, threaded with something that makes your thighs tremble. "All that fire two minutes ago. All that fight. And now you're arched for me like a good girl."
"Shut up."
He pushes in. Just the tip. You gasp.
"Mngh—"
"That's not shutting up."
He pushes deeper. You feel the stretch—the impossible, delicious stretch—and your fingers claw at the sheets.
"You're so tight," he murmurs. "Always so tight for me. Like your body knows what your mouth won't say."
"I hate you—ah—"
He thrusts. Hard. Bottoming out in one smooth motion, and you scream into the pillow.
"No, you don't."
"too big- s' too big-"
"come on...you've taken it before baby"
"s'different...you've been gone for so long.."
"I'm sorry," he says. His voice softens. Just a little. "I'm sorry I was gone so long. I'm sorry I didn't—"
"Don't—ngh—don't apologize while you're inside me—"
"Why not?"
"Because I can't—mmph—I can't be mad at you when you're—"
He pulls out. Almost all the way. Then slams back in.
"—when I'm what?"
You sob. "When you're fucking me like this—"
He does it again. Harder. The bed creaks. The headboard hits the wall. Your body jolts forward, and his hand presses down on your back, keeping you in place.
"Say it."
"I can't—ah—"
"Say it, Y/N."
You turn your head. Look at him over your shoulder. His grey eyes are dark, intense, fixed on your face. His arrow tattoos are faint against his skin—not glowing, not yet, but there's something simmering beneath the surface. Something that makes your stomach flip.
"I can't be mad at you when you're fucking me like you mean it."
He smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's cocky, a little mean, a little mocking—the kind of smile that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
"I always mean it."
"Prove it."
He does.
His hips snap against yours. Hard. Fast. Relentless. The sound of skin on skin fills the room—wet and obscene—and you bury your face in the pillow to muffle your screams.
"None of that." His hand tangles in your hair. Pulls. Your head lifts. "I want to hear you."
"Ngh… mmph… ah-"
He pulls out. Leaves you empty. You whine at the loss, your hips pushing back, searching for him
"mn..? aang—"
He pushes back in. One thrust. Deep. You cry out.
His hand reaches around. His palm cups your breast—full, round, soft—and he squeezes.
"So soft," he says. "So perfect. These tits are mine, aren't they?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"Yours—they're yours—"
He pinches your nipple. Rolls it between his fingers. You moan and push back against him, and he groans—low and guttural.
"You want more?"
"Please—"
"Please what."
"Please—harder—"
He gives you harder. His thrusts turn punishing. "I'm going to fill you up," he says. His voice is low, rough, almost a growl. "I'm going to fill you with my cum. With my babies. You want that?"
"Aang—"
"You want me to put a baby in you?"
"Yes—yes—please—"
"You want to be round with my child? Swollen and heavy and full?"
"I want it—I want it—"
"Tell me you're sorry."
"I'm sorry—"
"Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours—"
"Tell me you know who's fucking you right now."
"You—ah—Aang—"
"That's right."
You whine. High and desperate. "Ngh… Aang…"
"You wanted this." He pulls out almost all the way. Slams back in. "You ignored at me and yelled at me. You made me wait. You made me worry."
"I'm sorry—"
"You will be."
He fucks you. Hard. Deep. Ruthless. His hips slam against yours, and the bed creaks, and the headboard hits the wall, and you can't do anything but hold on and moan.
"Mmph! Ah… nnm… ngh…"
"Listen to you," he says. "So pathetic. So pretty. All those sounds you're making—"
"You're making me—ah—you're making me—"
"I'm here. I've got you baby."
He slows down. Pulls out almost all the way. Teases you with just the tip.
You sob.
"You're so mean—"
"You like it."
"I hate it—"
"You're dripping." His voice is low. Dark.
You are. You can feel it—the wetness sliding down your thighs, soaking the sheets, making everything slick and obscene.
"You're so—ah—so dirty—"
"You love it."
He fucks you. Hard. The way he fucks you when he's been gone too long and come home too late and found you waiting, angry and beautiful and so full of love you don't know what to do with it.
His hand leaves your hair. Slides down your spine. Grips your hip. His fingers dig into the soft flesh, hard enough to bruise, and you moan—loud and pathetic—and push back against him.
"So pretty like this," he murmurs. "Arched for me. Taking everything I give you. And you were so mad two minutes ago. So ready to fight."
"I'm still—ngh—still mad—"
"You don't feel mad."
"I am—ah—I am—"
He thrusts deeper. Angles his hips. Finds that spot inside you—the one that makes your vision go white, the one that steals your breath and your thoughts and your anger.
"Feel pretty fucking good for someone who's mad."
You can't answer. Your mouth is open, sounds spilling out—soft, desperate little noises that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any shame left.
"Ngh… mmph… ah…"
"I missed you," he says. His voice is softer now. The cockiness fading into something real. "I missed you every day. Every night. I thought about you—"
"Don't—"
"I thought about this. About coming home to you. About fucking you until you couldn't remember why you were mad."
"Jerk—"
"Mm. You love it."
He's not wrong.
He shifts your weight. Pulls you up, your back pressed to his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him, and his other hand finds your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, his fingers curled around the column of your neck.
"You feel that?" he asks. His voice is right in your ear. "Feel how deep I am?"
You nod. Can't speak. His cock is inside you at an angle now—deeper than before, hitting places that make your toes curl and your eyes roll back.
"Tell me."
"I—I can't—"
"Tell me, Y/N."
"How am I supposed—ngh—how am I supposed to-hic- talk when I'm stuffed with 9 inches of your dick?"
He laughs. Genuinely laughs. The sound vibrates through his chest and into your back, and you feel it everywhere. His hand slides down from your throat to your breast. "You're so soft," he murmurs. "So warm. I dream about this. About you."
"I dream about you too—"
"Yeah?"
"Every night—"
"What do you dream about?"
You turn your head. Look at him. His grey eyes are soft now, the darkness fading into something tender. His arrow tattoos are glowing—just faintly, just at the edges, the way they do when he's close.
"This," you whisper. "I dream about this."
He kisses you. Deep and slow and sweet. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste yourself on his lips, and you moan into his mouth.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too."
"I'm sorry I was gone."
"I know."
"I'm sorry I made you wait."
"I know."
"I'm close," he says. His hips stuttering.
"Me too—"
"Come with me."
"I—"
"Now."
You come apart.
Your body convulses. Your inner walls clamp down on him, squeezing, pulsing. You scream into the pillow—his name, just his name—and your vision goes white, and your ears ring, and you feel everything and nothing all at once.
He follows. His hips stutter. His grip tightens on your hip. And he tattoos glows for a hot second before he spills inside you.
"Aang—"
"Fuck—"
He groans. Low and rough. His head falls back. His body trembles against yours.
You've never heard him curse before. Not like that. Not with that raw, broken edge.
He collapses beside you. Pulls you into his arms. Your back presses to his chest, and his face buries in your hair, and his arms wrap around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
------------
i was writing this and accidentally deleted the best part of the fic n i cant remember it at all...END ME.
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you were not expecting yuji itadori to be so dirty, and it simultaneously shocked you and set your whole body on fire.
you’d crashed at his place after movie night ran way too late due too many beers, too much laughing, and you being too tired to make the walk home. he’d tossed you a spare hoodie and blanket like it was nothing, and kindly said “take the spare room down the hall, seriously, it’s more comfortable than the couch.” you’d thanked him, changed, and passed out in the guest bed.
you woke up around 3 a.m. thirsty as hell, throat dry from the popcorn eaten earlier and the AC blasting. you slipped out of bed barefoot, hoodie hanging loose over your panties, and padded quietly down the hallway toward the kitchen.
but his bedroom door was cracked open.
just enough for a thin stripe of blue moonlight to cut across the floor.
you should’ve kept walking. grabbed your water and gone back to the spare room.
instead you froze when you heard it.
soft, stifled grunts, barely audible, like he was biting them back. the quiet, wet schlick of skin on skin, so hushed it was almost reverent. heavy breathing through clenched teeth, every exhale controlled, careful, terrified of making too much noise.
your heart slammed against your ribs.
you edged closer, silent, pulse roaring in your ears and peeked through the gap.
yuji was on his back in the middle of the bed, sheets kicked down to his ankles, completely naked. moonlight spilled over his body. broad shoulders, carved abs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, the deep V of his hips leading straight to where his fist was wrapped around his cock.
and jesus christ, it was obscene.
thick as your wrist, veins bulging thick and angry all along the shaft, pulsing visibly with every heartbeat. the flushed head was swollen and glossy, slit weeping a constant stream of precum that dripped in slow, heavy strings down the length. a thick silver barbell piercing pierced straight through the head, glinting wickedly in the moonlight, catching every slick glide and making the whole thing look even more depraved. it was so big it looked almost violent, heavy and throbbing, the kind of cock that would split you open and leave you gaping. a cock that would ruin any other man for you.
his big hands were wrapped around it. thick fingers, corded with veins that stood out sharp against the tan skin, gripped the base tight while his other hand stroked in long, controlled pulls. every twist over the pierced head made the metal click softly against his knuckles, a tiny, filthy sound that sent fresh slick gushing between your thighs. those same hands that held yours , that high-fived everyone with easy warmth, were now choking his own massive dick like he was trying to strangle the pleasure out of it.
his muscles bulged everywhere. biceps flexed with every slow pump, forearms rippling with veins that matched the ones on his cock. thighs thick and powerful, trembling just slightly as he fought to keep his hips from snapping up too hard. abs contracted into hard ridges every time he hissed through his teeth, sweat beading and rolling down the grooves like he was carved from marble and set on fire.
his head was thrown back against the pillow, pink hair messy and damp, mouth open but teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut. every few strokes his hips twitched up into his fist. tiny, restrained bucks, like he was fighting his own body to stay quiet.
he paused mid-stroke, chest heaving silently. then he brought his hand to his mouth and spat once, thick, wet, right into his palm before wrapping it back around his pierced cock. the wet glide was louder for a second, obscene in the near-silence, but he immediately slowed it down, making the slick sounds softer, more controlled. the piercing clicked faintly against his knuckles with every pass, a tiny filthy sound that made your cunt clench.
“fuck… yeah, just like that,” he whispered, voice so low it was almost a growl, barely escaping his teeth. “take it deeper… choke on it… wanna see those pretty lips stretched around my cock till you’re drooling and gagging, till it hits the back of your throat and you’re crying for more.”
your thighs clenched so hard you nearly whimpered.
sweet yuji, the boy who always carried extra snacks in his bag just in case someone looked hungry, who blushed when you complimented his cooking, saying this. so filthy, so nasty, so quiet because he thought you were asleep in the spare room down the hall.
the contrast made your cunt throb violently. slick soaked through your panties in seconds, warm and sticky between your thick thighs. your heavy tits ached in the borrowed hoodie, nipples stiff and rubbing against the fabric with every shallow breath. your tummy fluttered, puffy clit pulsing in time with his careful strokes.
“gonna fuck that tight little pussy raw,” he breathed through gritted teeth, hips giving another tiny, restrained snap. “spread those thighs wide… slam in deep till you’re shaking… wanna feel you clench around my cock, milk me till I’m empty. gonna fill you up so much it leaks out. gonna watch my cum drip down your ass while I keep pounding that needy hole slow and deep, let my cock drag against your walls till you’re sobbing.”
his breathing hitched. a soft, needy whimper slipped out. high, desperate, almost pained. he immediately bit his lip hard, muffling it, but the sound was already in your head, searing. another whimper followed, quieter, broken. “shit… so good… feels too fucking good…”
he hissed through his teeth on the next stroke, jaw clenched tight, abs flexing hard as the pleasure hit him like a wave. “fuck. yes. right there. gonna cum so hard…”
his strokes turned a little sloppier, but still hushed. desperate, restrained. thighs trembling, balls drawing up tight. another soft, needy whimper escaped, raw and unguarded, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“gonna pump you so full… take it all. fuckkk.”
he arched off the bed with a choked, bitten-off groan. thick ropes of cum shot across his abs and chest in violent but silent spurts. some hitting his pecs, one landing on his collarbone, another streaking down toward his navel. he kept stroking through it, slow and careful, milking every pulse with low, shaky breaths and tiny, muffled curses as his pierced cock twitched and leaked the last drops over his fist.
he collapsed back, chest heaving quietly, hand still loosely wrapped around his softening length, cum pooling in the grooves of his abs.
“ohh baby… baby,” he whimpered, needy and wrecked, voice cracking on the words like he was pleading with someone who wasn’t there.
a/n: i think im gonna make this the slowest slow burn ever
GUYYS. AHHH I I was just working on one of my writing projects and it just hit me how much of a sad crying simp gojo would be after a break up , so I wrote thisss:)))
it’s easy at first, he tells himself. he doesn’t need you. doesn’t want anything to do with you. the breakup was your fault anyway (it wasn’t, he was drowning in extra missions from the higher ups, always gone, always promising that he’ll be there the “next time,” and you were done waiting)
he’d never been in a relationship before you. you were his first kiss, his first hand hold, his first everything. the only person he ever let see the real him, the only one he let himself be vulnerable with after suguru’s passing and he was all your first too.
it’s a saturday morning, two days after the breakup, when yuji blurts it out during their usual training. “so how’s your girlfriend, gojo sensei? haven’t heard you mention her since thursday. you’re usually always talking about her.”
gojo goes still after it and he notes in the far reaches of his mind that nobara smacks yuji on the back of the head and that megumi mutters out a, “they broke up, you idiot,” under his breath. gojo dismisses them without a word and heads straight back to his room.
that’s when the dam breaks. he doesn’t even realize he’s crying until a loud, ugly sob rips out of him. he startles at the sound, stumbles to the mirror to check if it really came from his own throat. it did. satoru gojo, who’s never cried for anything, stares at his blotchy reflection as hiccups punch out of him. then his legs give and he’s on the floor, clutching his chest where his heart feels like it’s being crushed. pain pain pain.
god, what the fuck was he thinking saying he didn’t need you? he does. he needs you like air, like sugar, like every stupid thing that keeps him going. more than all of it.
he’s never felt anything like this and it’s horrible, he cries and cries and cries until snot crusts on his lip and his back aches so bad from his crouched over position, he has to crawl onto his bed. he’s not sure how long he stays there, days maybe, lost in waves of crying so hard he can’t breathe.
nanami’s monotonous voice cuts through the door one day. “gojo. it’s been five days. how long are you going to do this?”
He doesn’t respond and he hears nanami footsteps fading away from his door. later that night maybe, or another day, (he’s not sure, he’s long since lost the ability of telling time just going in and out of fits of crying where he misses you so much he thinks he’ll die) voices murmur outside. nobara, megumi and yuji. “he’s been like this for days. please, you’re the only one who can fix him.”
the door opens quietly and the scent of cocoa butter and warmth floods the room.
“oh my gosh, satoru. how could you let yourself get like this?”
Satoru flies from under his comforter so fast he swears he almost breaks his neck and there you are, at the foot of his bed in your signature long skirt, curls tied up, eyes red and puffy, dark circles carved underneath.
“Yo-you” he can’t even finish his sentence before he’s crying again the big ball of pain in his throat making it almost unbearable for him to finish.
“how could you,” he sobs, voice cracking. “how could you break up with me? you broke my heart.” he pounds his chest weakly. “it hurts. it hurts so bad.”
his vision blurs completely, tears spilling over. “i love you so much- so fucking much- and you broke it.”
then soft hands cup his face. your thumbs wipe his cheeks, scraping gently over the scratch of his five-o’clock shadow, it takes him a sec before he realizes you’re crying too.
“you fool,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you broke my heart. you missed our anniversary again. you promised.”
his hands fly up to clutch yours against his face, shaking. “i know i know i’m sorry i’m so fucking sorry baby i got caught up i thought i could make it up later i always think later but later never comes and god i’m so stupid i’m the biggest idiot-”
you let out a shaky, half-sob laugh. “you are.”
he nods hard, snot bubbling again. “yeah. please don’t leave me. please. i’ll do anything. i’ll quit. i’ll tell the higher-ups to fuck off. i’ll stay home i’ll learn to cook i won’t burn the kitchen again i—”
“satoru.”
he freezes. eyes wide and glassy, locked on you like you’re the last star in the sky.
you ease onto the bed. he curls into you instantly his forehead moving to your shoulder and his arms wrapping your waist so tight. he’s trembling and you feel every ragged breath he releases.
“i missed you,” he mumbles into your neck, voice tiny. “every second, i couldn’t breathe i just kept reaching for you in my sleep and you weren’t there. i thought i was dying.”
your tears drip into his hair as you comb your fingers through it slow, the way you always did.
“i missed you too,” you admit softly. “couldn’t sleep. couldn’t eat. kept staring at my phone waiting for your dumb ‘i’m outside’ text with the heart eyes emoji. I even kept your hoodie under my pillow like a creep.”
he laughs, small and broken against your skin. “you’re allowed to be a creep. only i get to call you that.”
“shut up,” you murmur, but a tiny smile tugs your lips.
silence wraps around you both. just breathing, uneven and trying to remember how to share air again.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, at your puffy eyes, clumped lashes, blotchy cheeks.
“can i kiss you?” he asks, wrecked and hopeful. “please. just once. if you say no i’ll respect it i swear but i—”
you don’t let him finish. you lean in and press your mouth to his in a soft, slow, kiss tasting salt and need and him. he makes a tiny wounded sound and kisses back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
when you part he stays close, forehead to yours, noses brushing.
“i’m not letting you go again,” he whispers. “never. i’ll superglue myself to you if i have to.”
you huff a watery laugh. “dramatic.”
“i’m serious.” his thumbs stroke your cheeks. “i’ll carry your purse double the amount of times I usually do. I’ll eat your burnt plantains if you try jamaican food again. anything. just stay. please stay.”
you look at him, really look. at the man who never begs, now begging for you with snot and tears and everything laid bare.
“only if you stop taking extra missions without telling me,” you say quietly. “and you come home for dinner. every night you’re in tokyo. no excuses.”
“deal,” he breathes. “cross my heart. you can stab me with a cursed tool if i break it.”
“i’ll hold you to that.”
he smiles, small, shaky and real. the first real one he’s produced in days
“can i hold you now?” he asks, already tugging you closer. “properly? i need to feel you’re here.”
you kick off your shoes, climb fully onto the bed, let him pull you down. he wraps around you like he’ll never let go, face buried in your curls, breathing in cocoa butter and home.
“i love you,” he mumbles against your scalp, over and over. “i love you i love you i love you.”
you press a kiss under his jaw. “i love you too, idiot.”
he laughs in a soft, wrecked way, finally relieved and he nuzzles deeper into your neck.
you let the quiet stretch a little longer, just feeling his heartbeat finally slow against your chest. then you wrinkle your nose playfully, voice dropping to that gentle but firm tone he knows means business.
“satoru?”
“hm?”
“you need to go take a bath.”
he freezes. pulls back just enough to blink at you, eyes still red-rimmed and confused.
“what?”
you poke his cheek. “you smell like days of tears, sweat, and despair. and your hair looks like it lost a fight with a chicken. go. now. i’ll wait right here.”
he pouts, dramaticand instant. “but i just got you back—”
“and you’re gonna keep me by not smelling like a gym sock. bath. hot water. soap. go.”
he groans but the corners of his mouth twitch up. “fine. but you have to promise you’ll still be here when i’m done.”
“promise.”
he reluctantly untangles himself, stealing one more quick kiss before he stumbles toward the bathroom, glancing back every two steps like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
you settle back against the pillows, smiling softly to yourself as you hear the water start running.
he’s still your idiot. and he’s finally coming home. god, you missed him so much.
he’s all sunshine and sweetness — wide shoulders, pink hair, the kind of boy who helps old ladies with their bags and says “bless you” when people sneeze.
and he has no idea that every time he hugs you (tight, arms low, cheek pressed to your temple), he’s giving you another reason to lose your mind when you’re alone.
because he’s big. he’s warm. and he doesn’t pull away when your thick thighs brush his or when your soft belly presses against his abs.
you try to be normal. polite. sweet.
but then there’s him, stretching beside you in a tank top, moaning about how sore his muscles are. tossing his hoodie off like it doesn’t drive you crazy. and laughing — always laughing — in that boyish, god-help-me way that makes you think about things you shouldn’t.
like riding his thigh.
or sitting on his face until you cry.
or letting him hold your wrists while he pushes his big, meaty cock into your weeping cunt.
“you okay?” he asks one day, blinking those honey eyes at you.
no. you’re not. you’re soaked and sinful and ruined just from looking at him.
but you smile.
you nod.
because you’re a good girl.
and good girls don’t beg to be split in two by their best friend.
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Anakin Skywalker x f!reader
summary: Anakin sees you for the first time after a decade
includes: SMUT, oral(f receiving), slight praise
Months turned into years-ones that seemed to last longer than they should, ones that stretched beyond time. He hadn't forgotten. No. He couldn't and he simply never will. That was something he made peace with long before it was over.
How could he? How does one forget something so pure, innocent and beautiful? How could he erase the happiest memories that could never be remade?
Every detail was crystal clear in his mind. Partially because he kept replaying various situations in his head every night, partially because he couldn't forget.
And even if he could, why would he? Why would he forget those eyes full of life? The laughter? The things he felt? No, he definitely didn't want to forget that.
Anakin Skywalker's life had been haunted by the past for the last 11 years. 11 years of melancholy, 11 years of longing, yearning...
So seeing you again was like a punch to the gut.
The small and rebellious Senator's daughter was no more. She was long gone, together with Anakin's memories. Instead she was replaced by something even more beautiful and dear.
You were the same age as him, yet so much more mature, more serious than him. He didn't want to acknowledge your beauty in fear of betraying what the Jedi had been teaching him for the last decade.
He never would've thought you'd be back but there you were, walking into the Jedi Temple with your father and a few guards on each side of you.
He was breathless, standing on one of the balconies as Snips talked his ear off.
"Ooo, who's that? She's pretty." She interrupts herself mid sentence, leaning against the railing and looks down at you.
"Yeah-I...I don't know." Anakin fumbled. "Let's go back to training."
"Whatever, you're so annoying." She rolls her eyes.
The next few hours are a blur-he was preoccupied but constantly thinking of you. His mind was a mess and he ended his lightsaber technique session with Ahsoka early.
The poor boy sat down in one of the many benches that filled the halls and leaned his head back against the cool tile walls. He takes a deep breath and relaxes further as the sun illuminates his face.
Seconds later, his peace is interrupted by a door opening and slamming shut. He cracks his eyes open, wincing slightly as they adjust to the sun.
His breath catches and he sits up straight because you come out the seemingly occupied room. His eyes widen in awe but you don't seem to notice him, not at first.
Just a few seconds later your eyes meet and he stands up before he could even think.
"Ani?" You whisper-shouted. "My goodness!" You smiled.
"Y/n.." He mumbled, smiling softly himself. "I missed you..."
The minute he's close to you, you hug him tight, burying your head in his shoulder as you practically knock the air out of his lungs.
"My, my..." He chuckles, hugging you back with a little less intensity, afraid he'll hurt you. "What're you here for?" He pulls away, keeping his shaky hands on your upper arms.
"My dad was called for some negotiations and decided to bring me along. Perfect opportunity to look at houses." You shrugged.
His eyebrows furrowed. "Sorry, houses?"
"We're probably gonna move back." You shrug happily.
His mouth drops open before he smiles so brightly and happily. "You're joking." Anakin shook his head. This was the moment he didn't even want to imagine in fear of waking up disappointed because it's not real.
"I'm serious!" You nudge him playfully. "I have to go now, but feel free to come by the guest rooms tonight if you wanna catch up."
And just like that you were pulling away like you did all those years ago, hurriedly walking off to wherever you were going.
"May the force be with you!" He called out to you.
"May the force be with you too!"
Anakin stood there stunned for a good minute before deciding to go back to his room and finish what he had left to do, all while grinning to himself like an idiot.
Each minute that passed until he could see you again felt like a minute closer to his prayers being answered. And in some ways, they were.
Because 4 hours after first seeing you, Anakin was kissing his way down your body. His hands grope your tits as he trails further south, kissing under your chest, your stomach, your hip and finally latching his mouth onto your center.
His hands find their way to your hips to keep you in place.
Slowly, he licks all the way up, nose is rubbing against your clit. Your hands immediately reach for his hair, gently wrapping your fingers around the soft curls.
"Anakin-" You breathe out, back arching. He gently lifts your thighs and carefully places them over his strong shoulders.
"Mmm..." He hums against you "You're doing so good baby..." He mumbles, the sound muffled.
Your hands tighten, pulling his hair in desperation for more.
"My favorite Senator.." He teased, chuckling against you and making you squirm.
"Ani.." You whined, pulling his head closer despite your protest seconds prior.
His hands are doing a great job at stimulating you further-rubbing your thighs and stomach. Gently, almost innocently, Anakin's thumb makes it's way to your clit-rubbing slow, yet firm circles in time with his tongue.
You squirm above him, walls clenching around his tongue. "A-ani..gonna cum.." You rasp out.
"Mhm.." He encouragess, tone pleased and pace not faltering for a second.
A moment later, your inner thighs are squeezing his head as you whimper repeatedly and desperately, coming undone on his tongue.
Anakin takes his sweet time in prolonging your pleasure, lazily suckling and kissing on you without a care in the world. And when he does pull away, he wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. Then, he throws himself on top of you and kisses you sensless before falling asleep cuddled up on your chest
A/N: May the fourth be with everyone reading this!!! I’ve decided to take a break until June first because i REALLY need to lock in and study I have a bazillion tests coming up😭😭. I’ll try my best to make time and post at least a few works but no promises.
As for when I do get back, I have a new series coming up..👀
Three times where Anakin’s jealousy was harmless, even fun, and one when it wasn't.
Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Reader/OFC.
Summary: Every time he sees her across the room and forgets to breathe, forgets that damn code that complicates his life. She knows exactly what she’s doing, she’s beauty, power, and temptation wrapped in one impossible woman, and everyone wants her, but she only burns for him. Every time he sees her with someone else, Anakin’s composure cracks a little more.
Word count: 7.141
Warnings: Anakin, a warning itself. A little bit of smut, not graphic, there, toxicity there, jealousy, a creep, violence and blood. (let me know if i miss something).
Author’s note: Hiii, two times in one day, count yourselves lucky. First time writting for our sweet beloved Ani.
This is inspired by hours and hours of clone wars and this tiktok. It goes without saying that all this is fictional, I don't want to upseat anyone, this is for fun.
With that being said, enjoy, hope you like it. Lots of love, ME.
(gif credits to the owner)
The air was thick with expensive perfume, velvet words and politics. Senators with fabricated smiles moved like currents through golden light, their laughter overlapping with the soft strings of the Nabooian quartet tucked into one corner of the ballroom. Glasses clinked. Conversations sparkled.
Anakin felt her before she even entered the hall properly. The soft tug in his chest told him she was close, and when she stepped into view, adorned in metallic green robes that kissed the floor, hugged her curves and shimmered as she moved, he nearly forgot to breathe.
And so did everyone else.
She looked like a whispered sin.
Men turned. Women glanced. Senators whispered. Generals approached her. Every damn set of eyes in that room followed her. Of course they did because she looked like the brightest star of them all.
Anakin could feel them, sense their intentions as they approached her with too-wide smiles like the itch of static across his skin. Their attention wasn’t polite, it was hungry.
His eyes saw her having polite smiles, he heard her laughter, rare but dazzling, curved through the air like sunlight on water, and it struck him, standing across the room in ceremonial Jedi robes, how damn bright she was.
And how many men wanted to bask in her glow.
She was the kind of woman people gravitated toward. A quiet sun in the middle of a storm. A cathedral in a world of shacks, commanding awe.
He stood across the ballroom, robed in Jedi formality, a guest and a ghost. His hands stayed folded behind his back, his expression neutral. But inside, he was seething as yet another advisor leaned just a little too close, whispering something into her ear that made her smile, and his fingers curled into a fist.
For hours, she moved like light across the floor, drawn into every orbit. People hoarded her attention, called her name, asked for things, fed off her warmth. She smiled, laughed, and even joked. All while never looking at him. Not even once.
Then it happened, some Republic attaché leaned in to say something, too close, and she turned her head to hear him better, her shoulder brushing his chest. His hand hovered just behind her waist. Not touching, not quite.
But Anakin felt it, felt the heat surge like a detonation in his chest. A sharp, hot pang hit low in his gut.
He hadn’t touched her in weeks, some mission in some Outer Rim dustbowl, he couldn’t even remember the name now. All he could think about in that moment was the ghost of her skin under his callus fingers, soft, smooth, velvet-warm and seared into his memory like a brand.
And now others were close enough to smell her perfume.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, willing the fire down, but it simmered. Oh, it simmered. Another man stepped up to her side, clearly emboldened. Flirting again. Anakin’s knuckles whitened behind his back.
She plucked the flower the man offered her, twirled it between her fingers, and, finally, looked up. Across the room, past every other face. Right at him and her smile changed. Slow. Private. Not for anyone else. She knew what she was doing and she loved it. He could feel the pulse of her amusement, soft and golden behind her ribcage, glowing just for him.
And that was enough to cool the burn. For now.
She excused herself a few moments later, slipping away with the tail of her gown floating behind her, weaving through polished diplomats and oblivious senators. He waited precisely ten seconds before following, every step practiced restraint.
The cool night air of Coruscant swept over the balcony, a quiet haven away from the noise and glitter of the gala. The hum of air traffic and muffled music were distant, irrelevant things. All Anakin saw, all he ever saw, even in his dreams, was her.
She leaned against the railing like she owned the city, like the stars were her playthings. The wind caught her hair just enough to make him ache.
“You looked cozy in there,” he said, voice low, sharp at the edges. “Your... fan club seemed enthusiastic tonight.”
She didn’t turn. Just let the silence stretch, knowing it’d get to him. It always did.
“Fan club?” she echoed at last, tone light, teasing. “Sounds like jealousy, Skywalker.”
Anakin scoffed and folded his arms. “Interesting choice of company tonight. You always did like the dramatic types.”
She turned, one brow lifted. “You mean politicians?”
“I mean men who seem to forget that you are clearly out of their league.” He stepped closer, boots nearly silent, heat radiating off him in waves.
“You know,” she continued, tilting her head slightly to the side, “if I do have a fan club, I’m pretty sure you started it. That whole brooding stare-from-across-the-room thing? Very compelling.”
His jaw ticked. “Right. I’ll remember to blink next time I watch you let half the Senate fall in love with you.”
Her eyes glittered as she turned to face him. “You were watching.”
“You knew I was.”
“Practically vibrating,” she teased. “If you glared any harder, you’d have ignited the Chancellor’s carpet.”
The Force crackled faintly between them, quiet, intimate, like the brush of fingers on bare skin. He didn’t have to reach for her emotions; they poured into him like sunlight and wildfire. She was amused. Charged. Testing him.
She took a step closer. Barely there, but it was enough. “Maker, you’re jealous,” she murmured, delighted at how much tension it was in his jaw and arms. “That’s adorable.”
That did it.
In one smooth, sudden motion, Anakin pressed her back into the shadows of the balcony, out of sight. Her breath caught as the cold stone met part of her spine and his body followed, flush against hers, every line of him pressed with unrelenting intent, the warmth of his palm burning the small of her back. His metallic hand caught her jaw, tilting her face up, not rough, but firm.
His eyes burned gold in the dark as the shadows wrapped them in silence, covering their secret.
“Do you know how hard it is not to touch you when they do?” he hissed, breath hot against her cheek. “Not to shout that you’re mine?”
She smiled slowly, challenging. “You don’t need to shout.”
He growled softly, teeth clenched. “Right, because you’re the one who loves to be loud.”
She didn’t deny it. “I love to shout your name,” she purred as her fingers found his belt, tugging him even closer.
Their mouths crashed together in a kiss that had no business being soft. It was hot, messy, desperate, brutal in its restraint. Tongues sliding, biting, fighting for dominance, hands gripping wherever they could, pulling the other deeper, like the weeks apart hadn’t worn their restraint down to shreds.
He groaned into her mouth when she bit his lip, and she gasped when he pressed his big leg slid between hers with sinful precision, and Anakin swallowed the sound greedily.
The world outside didn’t exist. There was only this, this fire, this want, this ache they weren’t allowed to name. And the Force around them swirled, tight and humming, their shared emotions tangling like limbs in the dark. Possession. Desire. Frustration. Love, blistering and untouchable.
They kissed like they were starving. Like they might not get the chance again. Like it wasn’t enough to be his in secret, she wanted to be his in blood, in breath, in everything.
When they finally pulled apart, panting, her lipstick smudged, his hair a mess, and her dress rumpled, he still didn’t move.
He leaned his forehead to hers, eyes closed, hand on her cheek now, softer. But the tremble in his chest hadn’t gone.
“You are mine,” Anakin whispered.
Somewhere inside, he knew this was dangerous.
But her hand running in his hair, tugging softly, her lips swollen and smirking beneath his, and the feeling of her emotions bleeding into his own, her heart thudding against his. “Always.”
It all made him reckless.
Made him Anakin.
The halls of the Jedi Temple bathed in a golden wash of sunlight that stretched through high windows. It was a sanctuary, quiet and disciplined, above any kind of distraction.
Anakin stood with his arms crossed, flanked by a line of teen knights finishing saber drills under his supervision. The hum and clash of practice blades echoed through the open-air courtyard, mid morning sun painting golden light across the pale stone floors.
He was focused, they all were. Until he wasn’t anymore.
A tug. It started like a subtle itch in his chest. That familiar flutter of energy in the Force that only she caused. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Then came the whispers. The laughter. The telltale shift in attention that shouldn’t be happening in a Temple.
Anakin turned and there she was. She had always made a mockery of Jedi rules just by simply existing.
She moved through the courtyard like a comet, bright, elegant, entirely out of place and somehow right there. The sun kissed her skin and made her glow. Hair swept back, face glowing, wearing that rich blue gown that fitted her like a globe and stole breaths left and right.
Poor young Jedis, they barely stood a chance.
He watched, arms still crossed, as they began to trip over themselves for her, far too eagerly.
A taller knight stumbled forward, lightsaber already off, bowing too low. “Senator, would you care for a demonstration?”
Another, younger, grinned, straightening his robes with unnecessary flair, puffed up his chest and opened his mouth to talk, but was cut short by a third that stepped in beside her, charming and overly familiar. “Senator,” he said, smirking, offering his arm. “Perhaps I could escort you to the Grand Hall? The Temple’s layout can be disorienting, after all.”
“Actually,” another interrupted, “I was just about to take my morning walk, can I show you the gardens?”
Anakin narrowed his eyes. The younger knights, barely past their trials, surrounded her like moths to flame. Soon, he was sure the entire practice floor was about to break in spontaneous combat displays.
They were all smiles and flushed cheeks, tripping over each other for a chance to impress her but all she did was smile politely, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.
Anakin moved, dangerously calm, all coiled control and silent warning. The kind of movement that sliced through space like a saber unsheathed, needing no sound to be final. He stepped into view like a storm rolling over a bright sky. Shadows clung to his silhouette, jaw set, blue eyes hard. He towered over the young knights who were still mid-stammer and mid-swoon.
Her eyes found his instantly and a smile, bright, amused, knowing exactly what this was, appeared on her tempting lips. “General Skywalker,” she greeted, honey-smooth and just this side of smug.
“Senator,” he said, voice all clipped politeness, but there was a glint in his eye only she could read. “You’re expected elsewhere. Please—come with me.”
It wasn’t a request. Not really.
She tilted her head, clearly entertained, and followed without protest. Behind her, the poor knights stood shell-shocked and heartbroken.
Anakin took her the long way, through narrow passages and shadow-laced halls that only he would know. Hidden corridors carved into the Temple’s bones, tucked from sight and sound. No one followed. No one dared. No one ever did when he didn’t want them to.
The tension thrummed between them. Unspoken. Electric. She could feel it through the thread they never dared name. That quiet, intimate current that pulsed like a live wire between their hearts. It made her skin prickle and her mouth curl.
“You’re brooding,” she said lightly, brushing his hand with hers.
“They were drooling,” he replied, jaw clenched, walking too fast.
She laughed softly. “You’re a menace.” Force humming quietly between them in familiar warmth.
He didn’t deny it. Just opened the door to his quarters and tilted his head towards the inside. His eyes burned hotter than the twin suns. “They were idiots.”
“They were children,” she said, shrugging off her shawl. “It was flattering, sure. But harmless.”
She stepped into his space and reached for his tunic, smoothing invisible wrinkles just for the excuse to touch him.
His hands found her waist like magnets, urgent, desperate. Like his world only started spinning when she was close. Like he’d been starving for the feel of her. “You’re mine,” he muttered, voice rough, low.
The second she pressed against him, the tension snapped. His shoulders dropped and his breath hitched. She always did this to him, only she ever could.
The smile she gave him lit up every star in his chest.
“Possessive much?” she teased, lifting her gaze beneath her lashes. Her hand rested against his chest, gentle pressure just over his heart. “You’re lucky that’s sexy.”
“They don’t even see you,” he growled, lips brushing the edge of her jaw as he inhaled her. “Not really. Not like I do.”
Her fingers slid into his hair, threading through the waves of his hair, soft and slow. His anger began to dissolve under her touch.
“I know that,” she whispered, grounding him. “You don’t have to prove anything, Ani.” Her lips brushed his, featherlight. “I only have eyes for one Jedi Knight,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
A sharp breath left his lungs, forehead pressed to hers. He didn’t speak. Just stood there and felt her. Let her presence, her truth, her kiss soften all the edges. As it always did.
“You’re the only one,” she said, voice softer now, brushing her lips against his. “The only one who gets to take me home.”
He said nothing. He just clenched his jaw and looked at her like she was the entire galaxy, beautiful, untouchable, and he didn’t know how to protect her from it without claiming her. But he was ready to go to the end of time to keep her safe, even if it meant destroying himself in the process.
She kissed him, soft and slow, with reverence, her thumb brushed along his jaw and his hands finally moved. One slid around her lower back, the other tangled in her hair, cradling her like something both sacred and dangerous.
“You were planning to come early,” he said, voice rasping low. “Just to see me.”
She smiled against his lips. “Took you long enough to figure it out, my love.”
He kissed her, deeper, hungrier. Less about proving, more about having. Reverence disguised as hunger. Possession disguised as devotion.
They didn’t speak again for a while. Not when she tugged him toward his bed. Not when his hands ran down her back like he was mapping out the constellations of her skin. Not when his mouth marked her skin like scripture. Not when she gasped his name like it anchored her. Not when he murmured her name like a prayer. And definitely not when the Force pulsed around them, holding the world at bay.
She had come early and now, thanks to him, she’d come more than once… And would definitely be late to her meeting, with love bites and traces of him in places only he could see later in the night.
But that had always been the danger, with her, time bent, it didn’t really matter. The world waited. Only she existed.
And if anyone asked, well, he was General Skywalker. And no one dared question him.
She was trying to work. Key word, trying. Because trying didn’t stand a chance when Anakin Skywalker was in the room. Her focus kept going to him.
He wasn’t even doing anything, not really. Just existing, sprawled across the soft seating like it was his throne, golden and smug. His presence filled the space like a storm fills the horizon, vast and crackling, impossible to ignore. She could feel him under her skin, behind her ribs, humming through her bloodstream even with five feet and a desk between them.
And he knew it, of course he did, he could feel the effect he had on her.
“You know,” he said casually, leaning back and resting the back of his head in his intertwined fingers, “we should go away.”
She didn’t look up from her datapad. “Go away?”
“A vacation.” He was already picturing it, voice wrapped in sunlight. “Just the two of us. There’s a place, far, far from here, remote, beautiful, where no one would recognize us.” He looked at her. “I will be like we are an actual couple instead of Senator and Jedi.”
Her fingers paused above the screen, the weight of the idea pressing into her chest like warmth. She could see it too, for a moment. Feel it like a dream she wanted to believe in.
“I would love nothing more,” she said honestly. “But I can’t, Ani.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” he sat up, affronted, like she’d personally insulted the sun. “It’s two weeks. The Senate can survive without you. Miraculously, I know.”
She sighed, still not looking at him. “I’m sure it can. But I have propositions to review, bills to finalize, votes to prepare. Important meetings—”
He stepped around her desk and popped a dramatic hip like the galaxy's most petulant god. “More important than me?”
She narrowed her eyes, slow and sharp. “You know exactly what you mean to me.”
“Do I?” he said dramatically, crossing his arms and turning around like a tragic holo actor. “Because right now it feels like my heart is being shoved to the bottom of your schedule.”
She let out a breath and leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach as she studied him.
“Our love is everything to me,” she said carefully. “But my work matters too. It matters for people who don’t have the luxury of sneaking away. Our work matters, Anakin. What we do matters.”
“To me there’s nothing more important than you,” he said standing there with his back to her, arms crossed like a storm cloud, radiating disappointment in dramatic waves.
She stared at his back, lips twitching. “That better not be a pout.”
“No,” he grumbled, “it’s… noble heartbreak.”
She laughed softly, Maker help her, she adored this ridiculous man. “You’re such a menace.”
“And yet here you are,” he said, not turning around. “Still not on vacation with me.”
She stood, walked towards him and slid her hands around his waist, resting her chin between his shoulder blades. “What can I do to prove to you that you matter the most to me?”
“The damage is already done,” he said with great theatrical flair.
A laugh almost escaped her lips, but she pushed it back, and in a swift motion she stood in front of him. Her fingers found his jaw, warm, strong, and tilted his face down to hers.
“My sweet sweet Ani,” she whispered, her lips slow, hot, reverent, against his, making him melt, just a little. “If you want proof,” she murmured, “then let me show you what you mean to me.”
She kissed him, soft and deep, hands threading through his hair possessively, it silenced every protest he thought about making.
The kiss was heated, frantic, like they’d been starving for each other and finally allowed to feast. It was instant combustion. No slow burn, no delicate teasing. Just raw need, all fire and ache and knowing. He exhaled into her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair, then moved down to her waist, clutching like gravity itself had shifted and he was grounding himself.
When her mouth grazed his neck, what was left of his composure unraveled like silk. She tasted like stars and defiance. He kissed her like she was air and flame all at once. The fire she lit inside him was hers alone to command.
He walked them back, blindly, not breaking the kiss, not once, her mouth still pressed to his, until she hit the bookshelf. He pinned her there, one hand cradling her head so she wouldn’t knock into the shelves. Books toppled behind them like falling stars as his mouth found her throat, her collarbone, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he’d been dying to say.
She gasped, breathless and burning, and he kissed her harder, like he needed to brand himself into her soul.
Then he moved again, his hands were already back on her, mapping the lines of her body like sacred territory. He knew every curve, every reaction, how she’d shiver when he kissed just below her jaw, how her breath caught when his fingers traced her spine. They collided again, lips bruising, hands insistent.
But it wasn’t just need, it was knowing. The kind of knowing that came from worship and war, from battles fought side by side and promises whispered in the dark.
When the desk hit the backs of her thighs, he lifted her onto the desk, the other shooting out to sweep everything off the surface in one violent motion, datapads, files, a stylus, a small potted plant, all crashing to the floor as if the whole galaxy could wait while his was mouth still on hers, and she pulled him in like gravity had given up and left only them. They moved together in a rhythm as old as time, sharp gasps, soft moans, whispered names, a symphony of want and devotion echoing off polished wood and walls that had seen too much and still not enough.
Her legs wrapped around his hips, her heels locking at the small of his back, pulling him into her, into this, and he thrust into her, the sound she made shattered him. Her head fell back, exposing her throat, and he kissed it reverently, like a knight bent before a goddess.
She was wrapped around him, tangled in his body like ivy on stone. Her hands were in his hair, his tunic, her voice in his ear, guiding him, worshipping him. His mouth dragged over her neck, her chest, every place that made her tremble.
His hands moved over her body like he knew every inch of her in his bones, because he did. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t guess. He knew her like he knew the hilt of his saber, like breath, like instinct. He knew what would make her gasp, what would make her moan, what would unravel her completely. And she gave herself to it, to him, because she knew him just the same.
When the desk groaned in protest, he lifted her into his arms, and she laughed breathlessly against his mouth as he carried her to the little velvet sofa, limbs tangled, breathing ragged. He continued to worship her there, whispering her name like it was a secret spell that bound the universe together. She pulled him in with her eyes, with her hands, with the soft, broken sound she only ever made for him.
Every movement, every sound, every glance between them was instinct, history, devotion. They didn’t have to speak. They knew.
And when they finally collapsed on the floor, sweaty, undone, breathless and wrecked and more whole than ever, he hovered over her, brushing damp hair from her face, his heart pounding against hers.
“You are everything to me,” she whispered, cupping his cheek.
His lips curved into a crooked smile as he pressed his forehead to hers. “No,” he murmured. “We’re everything.”
The gala was crowded, loud, and glittering with too much fake gold and not enough sincerity. She floated through it like she always did, charming, gracious, intelligent. Every word laced with purpose and diplomacy. She was dazzling, magnetic. Untouchable.
Anakin had been watching her from across the room, he always is, with admiration, with love blossoming in his chest, but tonight his jaw was clenched so tightly it could shatter in any moment.
Senator Vanto of Andosha was practically glued to her side, as he had seemed to be lately. He had been circling for weeks like a blood-slicked nexu. It started with a look across the Senate, followed by sugar-drenched pleasantries echoing in marble halls and smiles that lasted a second too long, then a fleeting compliment with a lingering hand on her back. Then he started to get more bold, a too-close whisper over a datapad, every time she laughed the man leaned in closer, taking every possible opportunity to have a hand on her, his eyes devouring her like a predator savoring the kill.
Anakin had seen it all, every touch, every glance from the Senator over the last few weeks, and it burned through him like acid, each and every single time, and she didn’t see it. Or worse, she refused to.
Now, in that glittering cage, every time he even breathed close to her, every time she flashed that too-perfect public smile, Anakin’s vision blurred at the edges. And when the senator started parading around with a hand on the small of her back, his filthy hand on her smooth velvety skin, fingers grazing the open back of her gown like he had the right, like he could, Anakin’s blood boiled.
And she, she laughed, not her real laugh, the one she gave him in quiet moments beneath tangled sheets, but the polite one she wore in public. It didn’t matter. It burned all the same.
Without a word, he turned on his heel, strides clipped and purposeful. He didn’t care who saw. Let the whole damn Senate speculate. Let them whisper. He didn’t care. He launched his fighter and left.
By the time she got home, the apartment was dark. Cold. But not silent. Anakin was there, pacing like a caged animal, shoulders tight with barely restrained fury.
She didn’t even get her shoes off before the storm hit. “Something wrong Ani?” she asked, the door barely clicking shut behind her.
He turned, the heat in his eyes sparking like wildfire. “You really have to ask?”
She blinked at him, confused, tension curling at the edge of her spine. “I don’t understand.” She frowned, “If you’re upset about something, say it. Don’t just, brood,” she said, unwinding the earrings from her lobes.
“I’m not brooding,” he snapped. “I’m trying very hard not to explode.”
She scoffed. “Well, you’re doing a terrible job.”
“Just like you were at keeping Senator Vanto’s filthy hands off you,” he said, sarcasm dripping like venom.
Her breath caught. “Are you really going to start again?” she snapped, looking at him through the mirror in the room, pulling the pins from her hair, letting it tumble over her back. “I’ve told you, he’s a colleague. That’s all.”
Anakin stood dead center in the room, arms stiff at his sides, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. “A colleague who practically breathes down your neck every time you’re in the same room. And you let him!”
Her laugh was cold, sharp. “Let him? You think I let him?”
“I don’t think,” he said, voice jagged. “I saw you with my own eyes!”
“I was doing my job!” she said loudly, turning towards him. “Talking, negotiating, building rapport, which is what I’ve always done. What do you want me to do, Anakin? Be rude? Push him away in front of the entire Senate chamber just to make you feel better? Throw a drink in his face and declare I belong to you?”
“I’m asking you to see it,” he bit out. “He touches you like he owns you.”
“I don’t belong to anyone!” she yelled, sharply and coldly.
“I thought you said you were mine,” he said, lower now, his voice breaking at the edges.
“I’m not a possession, Anakin.”
“No,” he said, quieter, rawer. “But you are mine, just as I’m yours, because we chose each other. Because what we have is real. And he’s trying to take you from me,” he said, touching his chest.
Her laugh then wasn’t cold, it was shattered. “You sound insane.”
He stepped closer, too close. “And you sound blind.”
The room froze.
Her face hardened, voice tightening like she was holding back something sharp. “Do you hear yourself right now? He’s not the problem here, Anakin. You are.”
That cracked something in him, clean through the middle, cracking his chest open.
“No,” he said, voice rising. “I’m the one who’s stuck waiting while he gets to stand beside you, hover over you, touch you. Me, the man that has loved you since the first time he saw you, who would burn the galaxy down just to keep you safe, gets crumbs behind closed doors! So excuse me if I’m sick of pretending this doesn’t bother me!”
Her heart stung like it had been slapped. “You think this is easy for me? Hiding, lying, splitting myself in two just to make this work—”
“Then maybe it’s not worth it,” he snapped.
She flinched, like he’d hit her. Her mouth opened, then closed, her voice caught behind the pressure building in her chest.
The silence that followed was instant and total. The air turned to glass between them, fragile, sharp, suffocating, waiting to shatter.
Her voice dropped to just a whisper. “Is that really how you feel?”
He faltered. He didn’t mean it. But pride, stupid, stubborn pride, held his tongue hostage and wouldn’t let him soften. “Maybe it is.”
Her breath hitched, then turned away from him, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “Then go,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, holding herself together with the last thread of her control she had before shattering.
Anakin didn’t move, said nothing. His jaw ticked, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He stared at her back for a long moment, at the way her shoulders rose and fell like she was holding it together, barely.
He wanted to take it back. Maker, he wanted to. He wanted to cross the galaxy that appeared between them and fix it, he wanted to hold her and not go.
But he didn’t, and instead turned on his heel and walked out, again. Jumping on his fighter and going away, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of their home.
The silence echoed through the apartment like a thunderclap as she stood there, still in her gown, her earrings in her hand, hair loose caressing her back, and shaking. The lights hummed softly above her. The room felt cavernous without him in it.
And all she could do was stand there, alone, tears pulling in her eyes, surrounded by the wreckage of what they’d built, and wonder, maybe this time, they’d broken something they couldn’t fix.
A full day passed.
She hadn’t moved much, buried under blankets, curtains drawn to shut out the light that mocked her with its warmth. Her datapad buzzed every few hours with messages and alerts, unanswered. The Senate could wait. The galaxy could wait. For the first time in years, she let herself unravel. The senator, the leader, the unshakable voice of reason, reduced to someone wrapped in silence and tears. There was the steady hum of sorrow beneath her skin and the raw ache of something lost, sobs coming and going in waves, breaking through moments of numb silence. She tried to hate him. Tried to hate herself. Neither feeling stuck. Only grief for what might already be gone did.
By late afternoon, the tears had run dry, replaced by something hollow. She pulled herself out of bed, her muscles aching like she had fought a war in her sleep. The shower steamed the mirror, the water was hot, steady, cleansing, grounding her just enough to feel like maybe she could start over.
Maybe.
But she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.
She was wrapping her robe around her when the knock came. She frowned, confused. No one was supposed to visit. The few people who might, had the good sense not to.
When she opened the door, Senator Vanto stood there.
Concern painted across his features like a poor artist’s attempt at sincerity. “You weren’t at the Senate today,” he said, stepping inside uninvited. “People were asking. I was worried that you perhaps were ill.”
She blinked, unsettled. “I... wasn’t feeling well.”
He smiled, taking a slow, familiar step toward her. “I figured as much. I thought maybe I could help. Maybe you needed someone to talk to.” His eyes dragged over her, landing on her exposed collarbone where the robe dipped. “Or just someone.”
A chill slid down her spine and she tightening the piece of clothing around her.
She moved toward the sitting area, creating distance, hoping he’d take the hint. “Thank you for your concern, but really, I’m fine.”
“I know,” he said smoothly, following her, “but maybe it’s time you stop pretending you don’t need anyone.”
He looked her over, the flush skin, her bare legs, her wet hair. “You need someone who can take care of you,” He reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.
She stepped back, discomfort. Her skin prickled, but not the way it did when Anakin touched her. There was no warmth here, no tenderness. Just a creeping, nauseating wrongness.
“I said I’m fine.” Again, she rounded the sitting area and tried to put as much distance between them as she could.
But he followed, again, too closely, too comfortably. With every inch she gave, he took more.
“You’ve always kept yourself surrounded by politics, war, rules, men who are never really there for you. Jedi who disappear when it matters most.” He said it with meaning, with venom. “But not me,” he sat and pushed her to sit with him. “I wouldn’t leave you alone, not even for a second.”
Her knees hit the cushions before her mind registered what had happened. Her stomach turned. “Vanto—”
“I mean it.” His voice dropped. “You need a man who’s strong enough to handle you. Someone who knows what to do with a woman like you.” His eyes drifted down. “Someone who knows how to touch you.” His hand landed on her thigh, firm, possessive.
Her blood froze. The hand was not delicate, not gentle. It burned. Her skin crawled under it.
“I can give you what he never could.” His voice slithered around her. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”
She tensed, tried to inch away, but his hand gripped tighter. “Let go of me,” she pushed his hand away. “It’s time for you to go,” she said, standing sharply.
He stood too, moving in close, cornering her. “Come on, darling,” he said with a twisted smirk on his lips.
She backed up. Her robe slipped slightly off one shoulder, she yanked it up with trembling fingers.
“You can stop pretending now. No one’s watching.” His hand caught her arm.
She yanked back. “Don’t touch me.”
But he didn’t stop and his grip tightened. “I’ve seen the way you look at me—”
“There’s no way I look at you,” she snapped, breath catching. “Let go of me.”
“No more playing game,” he smirked again.
“Stop it—” she twisted, trying to break free.
“No more hiding.” His other hand gripped her side, fingers digging through the thin robe like claws.
She gasped. “Please, no.”
The fear started creeping up her throat like acid.
Her skin was on fire where he touched her, not in the way Anakin lit her nerves with heat and reverence, but like poison seeping into her bones.
“You’ve got no one here but me.”
She whimpered, voice cracking. “I said no—please don’t—”
He leaned in, tried to kiss her.
She twisted, shoved against him, her voice shaking, heart in her throat. “I said no—!”
And then—The door burst open with a crash.
A wind tore through the room as if the stars themselves had followed him in.
Anakin stood there, eyes burning, jaw locked, the fury of a thousand suns radiating off of him. His voice was low, guttural, animalistic.
“Get. Away. From her.”
Vanto startled, letting go just long enough for her to stumble back. She shoved him hard, scrambling to the other side of the room.
And before she could even breathe, Anakin crossed the room in three strides. The Force lifted Vanto off the ground like he weighed nothing, like a ragdoll, choking him mid-air. His feet kicked helplessly as Anakin stalked forward.
“You dare to touch her,” Anakin growled, his voice was cold. Controlled, but barely.
He threw him against a wall and with his free hand, took his lightsaber and ignited with a snap-hiss of blue death. “You hurt her.” His face was carved in stone, his rage blistering, terrifying, as he pointed with his saber at him.
“Try fighting like a man,” Vanto stood up, coughing. “Without your Jedi tricks.”
Anakin’s lips twitched. A slow, dangerous smile, not at all kind. “Oh, it would be my pleasure.”
The saber shut off with a snap, and he launched forward.
The fight was brutal. No rules, no honor, just raw and animalistic fury unleashed in the flicker of a heartbeat.
She stood frozen, robe clenched tightly around her trembling frame, breath caught in her chest as she watched the man she loved, her sweet Ani, unravel.
Anakin was a storm, all fire and anguish and vengeance, striking with the kind of force that only came from years of buried grief, unspoken heartbreak and possessive love in every strike. Metal met flesh with a sickening precision. Blood splattered. Vanto swung wildly and desperate, landing a few hits, but they barely registered.
Anakin was relentless, built for combat. Designed for it. He wasn’t born like that, for war, but he was made into it. War had carved him into a weapon, he was honed by pain, but underneath the fury still lived the boy who once only wanted to protect the people he loved. And now, seeing her hurt, that boy was screaming and the man he had become answered with rage.
“Anakin, stop!” she cried, breathless, panic bleeding into every syllable. “Don’t—please, he’s not worth it!”
In the chaos, as she tried to break them apart, to stop the devastation, Vanto’s fist swung. It wasn’t meant for her. But it found her anyway. It hit her, colliding with her cheek, sharp and brutal.
The sound, sickening, wrong, echoed through the room like a thunderclap. She gasped, stumbled, a cry of pain tearing from her throat as she crashed into the side table and fell. The thud of her body hitting the floor split the air.
Everything stopped. He punched her. She was on the ground, pain flashing in her glassy eyes, blood on her hand and a cut in her porcelain skin.
The sound she made, that wounded sound, more raw than war, more real than anything he’d ever heard, broke something in him so violently that his breath left him in a single, strangled gasp.
The world narrowed and all he saw was her, his word had fallen hurt and all his anger turned to something worse.
She was hurt. Because he hadn’t stopped it. Because he hadn’t been fast enough. Because he had left and was almost too late, again.
That was it, he snapped.
Anakin tackled Vanto with everything he had, not as a Jedi, but as a man who had seen the only thing that kept him sane, the source of his happiness, hurt and afraid. There was no humanity left as he charged. The punches came fast, the anger white-hot. He didn’t hear Vanto’s protests, and didn't care because all he saw was a danger to her. He threw him across the room, pinned him again, and hit him harder.
All he felt was heartbreak made flesh, striking out at the thing that dared hurt what mattered most to him.
Every hit said: You don’t touch her. Every hit said: You don’t get to make her afraid. Every hit said: She is mine to protect.
Only when Vanto was unmoving, groaning, bleeding, broken on the floor, did Anakin stop.
He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, fists trembling with fury. His eyes were wild, dark with something primal, something unbearable. A small whimper reached his ears and he turned around. She was still on the floor, broken and shaken.
The door opened again. Security. Too late.
Anakin rushed to her side, kneeling, hands shaking as he cupped her face. “Are you okay?” His voice cracked, desperate. “Look at me. Tell me you’re okay, please.”
He touched her cheek, gently, like she was made of light and grief and might vanish or shatter if he pressed too hard, and she whimpered at the contact. It wasn’t fear this time, nor pain. But because something in her had broken open, and he was the only one who could hold it together.
“This is all on me,” he breathed, horror and panic folding into his voice. His eyes burned, rimmed red. “Maker, forgive me—” His breath stuttered. “I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve—”
Her wide, tear-glossed eyes met his. “You came back,” she whispered, voice so small it broke him. Her trembling fingers touched his cheek, catching a tear as it slid down his face. “You came back right when I needed you.”
His face twisted with emotion, grief, relief, love that nearly broke him in two. “Of course I did,” he choked out. “I’ll always come back.”
Her lip quivered. “Don’t leave me again,” she pleaded. Her voice was broken, raw, but somehow softer.
He closed his eyes, forehead resting against hers, as if that could fuse them together and keep the world from breaking them again.
“Never,” he whispered, voice raw and aching. “My love, never.”
Behind them, security restrained Vanto’s broken, barely-conscious body. There was shouting. Movement. But none of it touched her. None of it touched him. But none of it mattered.
She leaned into Anakin’s touch, into the only thing that felt real, like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. And maybe it was.
“Just hold me,” she whispered. “Hold me like only our love matters in this world. Hold me like only you know how to.”
Even if the fire of his rage still clung to him like a second skin, he was hers, and she was his. He was the safest place she had known.
He was home.
Without a word, Anakin gathered her into his arms, carefully, reverently, as if she were made of sacred things. He held her like she was the only truth he’d ever known, the only fight that ever mattered.
And in that moment, with her curled against his chest, with her tears soaking his tunic and his heartbeat steady against her ear…
The galaxy could’ve ended, and neither of them would have noticed.
Step-brother!Anakin, who's just so mean for no reason. Ever since the wedding, he's had it out for you for some reason, and you have no idea why.
constant jabs and comments at anything and everything for no apparent reason. You give it as good as he does, you're both constantly at each other's throats until one day something seems to snap.
You come down stairs ready to go meet some boy in your english class wearing that same damn skirt that drives him insane. It barely covers your ass and he's moving before he can stop himself.
"Your not going out like that," he snaps, hands pressing you against the kitchen counter - the house empty for once - "Lookin like some cheap whore-" His words sting but also set your stomach burning, the shame curling in your gut mixing with something else.
"You can't tell me what to do."
"Like hell, I can't. You think I'm gonna let you prance around looking like that!" He knows what boys your age are like; he's a boy your age, and he'd be damned if anyone else was getting their hands on you.
Fuck james or whatever his name was.
"Walking around like you're asking for it." He snarled, his fingers pushing up under the flimsy material as your fingers dug into his shoulder, nails leaving crest-shaped marks.
"Ani-" You gasped, your head falling back as his fingers brushed over the lace, a cruel laugh leaving his throat. "Oh, you like this?" He taunted, his lips pulling into a grin you wanted to punch away as he pushed the lace aside.
"All this for James or for me, hm?" He teased, two things pushing through your folds, gathering the wetness pooled their before rubbing quick circles into your clit which had you gasping and clinging to the counter.
"Who's it for, angel?" He pressed, his breath leaving goosebumps where it ghosted over your jaw. "You." Your mouth felt thick as you arched into his touch. "F'you — fuck Anakin please,"
Satisfaction only curled in his stomach at the whiny tone you cried his name, whatever plans you had forgotten as he sank two fingers inside. "Course it's f'me." He grinned, boasting almost like his playground taunting had worked, and it had.
"'Cause you're mine—say it."
"Your's" You cried your eyes squeezing shut as his fingers attacked that spony spot that had you seeing stars, "—all yours!"
“Stay still,” Anakin cries, his large hands pinning your hips down. “Please— Please don’t move. Fuck— I’m so close,” He grinds his pelvis against yours, rolling his hips faster, harder, seeking the culmination of his pleasure.
He looks and sounds desperate, urging his body to keep pushing, to drive in and seek more. His need seeps out every pore, it’s raw and deep, and it has reached its breaking point. A crave that has been brewing for months— no, years, finally exploded. Anakin’s braid brushes against your face as he leans down, brushing his lips against your hot cheek. Finally, he can have this moment with you; he can finally demand this intimacy he’s been yearning for.
“I love you. I love you. I love you,” He repeats, punctuated by thrusts, deep and sharp. “Please don’t turn me down. Please. You know I love you, right? I’d do anything for you.”
It’s almost… scary.
You throw your head back, whimpering. Your hands wrap around his biceps, nails digging into his tan skin. You can’t fight it, his obsession is contagious— his love is suffocating. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this was just a mission, not even a complicated one for that matter— but everything went downhill as soon as he got you alone in your room. Anakin couldn’t take it anymore, he has seen how other people ogle you, how they admire something that belongs to him. It makes his blood boil, it even hurts. Between his brain screaming to just confess his love and his body to just burn his passion between your arms, he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Anakin— Don’t… we— we shouldn’t,” You choke, your thighs squeezing his hips. There’s a juxtaposition between your words and your body, andu it’s true, you can’t decide whether you should follow your oath or your heart. “This isn’t right—”
“Don’t,” He cuts you, his lips hovering over yours, tears rolling down his cheeks, sliding down your jaw. “Don’t reject me. I can’t take it. Can’t you see how much I need you? How much I love you. You can’t say no… I won’t let you leave me.”
warnings: 18+ minors DNI, implied smut, discussion of sex
“Baby…”
You don’t look up from your book as you hum, “Hm?”
“You’re being mean,” he pouts from the end of the couch.
You purse your lips. “If I am, you deserve it.”
His head lulls backwards pathetically, “I don’t deserve this. No one deserves this.”
You ignore him, scanning over the words littering the page with little thought.
He takes your lack of response as an invitation to climb up the couch a bit, just close enough that he can nibble kisses at your neck.
“Come on, I’ll make it up to you,” he promises.
You roll your eyes, flipping to the next page in your book as his hands feel up your waist. He’s apologized a few times already, but you’re not ready to let it go. He’d bailed last minute on your date nights one too many times and you’ve had enough. So if no sex is the only thing that seems to get his attention, no sex it is. You’re not mad, not really, but if you can give him a taste of the neglect you’ve been feeling, well…
He continues despite the lack of acknowledgement, pestering on. “This is deprivation of nourishment.”
All in all, he’s really not putting up his best argument. He could be doing better work, much better work, and you’re certainly not going to let him off so easily.
“I don’t care.” You move the book you’re not really reading up higher, removing him from your line of sight.
Sensing the challenge, he takes the book from your hands, tossing it blindly out of reach. It lands with an unflattering thump on the hardwood. You gawk at him, but he doesn’t notice, too busy minding his own motivating force.
He pulls you further down the couch, so he’s face level with your stomach. The top of his hair tickles you as he kisses below your navel, hands holding you in place firmly by your waist.
“Baby,” he murmurs against your skin, dragging his lips over. “Please, please let me eat you out.”
You cross your arms over your chest, glaring at the wall.
He rests his chin gently over your stomach, peering up at you with puppy dog eyes. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
This pushes him to borderline pouting, huffing, “Come on, you’re not having any fun like this either.”
Yeah, but it’s more torturous for him than it is for you.
His lips edge at the seam of your underwear, and his fingers hook under the elastic as he looks up at you expectantly.
You take a deep breath upon the sight, steeling yourself.
“No.”
He lets out an honest to God groan and drops his forehead against your stomach, whining.
You push him off of you, though he does most of the work of shifting his weight for you. You stand up from the couch and retrieve your book from its place on the floor, flipping through it to refind your page as you move for the bedroom door.
“You’re gonna leave me like this?” he calls out at you, watching you leave.
You shrug, “Take care of it yourself.”
“Myself?” He gapes, like he’s shocked at the audacity of the suggestion.
He stands up quickly, scrambling after you into your room.
He watches as you plop down onto the bed, pretending like you’ve got the concentration to keep on reading.
He pouts in the doorway, both surprised and annoyed with your commitment to making him suffer.
At this point he can take care of you better than he can take care of himself, and God knows he prefers to. So it’s bordering on inconceivable that you could have gotten so mad at him as to take away his privileges to do his very favorite thing in the world.
So he snatches your book straight from your hands again—just as you’d found the right page, too—and holds it up high.
“Dick Grayson!”
You swat at him and try to grab it back, but he’s too quick and too tall.
You kneel on the bed, reaching up in a fruitless effort before you drop your arm at your side, glaring.
He raises his chin, silently imploring you.
“Talk to me.”
You roll your eyes, “I am talking to you. I’m not sleeping with you—”
He shakes his head, “No, you’re still mad.”
“And you think this is what’s gonna help?”
He throws his head back. “You’re killing me,” he whines.
“Good.”
“What’s the plan here? Neither of us get to come ever again?”
You all but throw your head back, “I think it’s pretty fucking bold of you to assume that I rely exclusively on you to come.”
He levels you with a look.
“You do though.”
You gape at him. He says it with such self-assurance, so matter-of-fact that it’s not even a joke. And you know what? Yeah, he’s right you do, but you are nowhere near ready to give him the satisfaction.
So, you did something that you knew would piss him off.
“I—” you pause. “Fine.”
You dip your hand underneath your waistband, prepared to prove your fucking point.
“Don’t—” he bats your hand away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He gawks at you, keeping an arm between your hand and your body. “That’s my job.”
You push his arm, with minimal real effort. “It’s my body!”
“You really don’t want me to touch you? Really?”
He levels you with that look he knows you can’t rebound from, giving you no room to squirm away.
Your chin lowers out of pure habit and your mouth shuts. He takes the opportunity to drop the book on the bed, scooping up both your wrists in one go. He pulls them up above your head and holds you against the bedroom wall.
“What can I do?” he asks lowly, face only inches from yours.
You glare at him, not trying to escape his hold.
“You can fuck off.”
“I’m serious,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
You raise your eyebrows as to say, ‘yeah, I am too, buddy.’
“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me have my girl.”
You tug your hands out of his grasp, and he lets you without complaint.
You huff, looking at him.
“You have to take me out on a date tom—a real date—tomorrow night, the whole night, flowers and everything.”
He’s nodding along with your words eagerly, terms he couldn’t be happier to agree to.
“Even if some vigilante shit comes up—”
“Of course, of course.”
“…and do what you said before,” you say, quieter.
“What did I say before?” he asks, like he truly can’t remember.
“Dick,” you warn.
He smiles, perfectly content to let you off easy.
He leans forward, kissing you deeply but with an air of sweetness.
“I’m sorry I missed our date, pretty girl. I’m so sorry.”
Your shoulders noticeably relax and you take a deep breath, nodding.
“Yeah,” he says as he kneels down on the ground. He grins up at you as he hooks your leg over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of my baby, of course I will.”
☀️ i’m worried the sun will go out soon if you don’t start reblogging fics ☀️
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Ok absolutely sick of people not to talk about this scene because it hits so hard like Cyrus oh my god man!!!
HIS FEELINGS FOR HER ARE SO INTENSE, HE LITERALLY IS SO IN LOVE WITH ALIZEH THAT HE DIDN'T EVEN NEED TO SPEAK TO GET THE NOSTA TO CONFIRM IT WAS THE TRUTH!!😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
"I am going to find out the truth about about you, and when I do, I promise you this: I'll ruin him. I'll make the devil regret the day he was born." Ma'am????? Excuse me????? WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THIS OH MY GOD???? CYRUS MY BELOVED!
The fact that Cyrus knows it's a dream. Knows every fucking time that it's all in his head. And, despite that, he falls for it. He lets himself be engulfed into these dreams because they are the only thing closest to what it feels to be loved, what it feels for someone to care about you. After being neglected his whole life, being shunned away, rendered unlovable, these dreams are his only safe place, the centre of his torment and his soothing and his hatred of himself.
Note: All these headcannons are mature aka SPICY HEADCANNONS ✨Mentions of drinking! Afab reader! Step-Sister reader!
Nick Leister who… doesn’t really care that other people are around. He doesn’t mind being public with you, but it’s you who gets anxious. ‘What if someone sees us?’ ‘What if someone hears us?’ He doesn’t care. He does whatever he wants because he can. At social events, while everyone’s mingling about with their drinks and fake smiles, he’s face deep into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent and drilling himself into you like no tomorrow. Backed up against a wall legs wrapped around his hips. He’s drinking up every sound you make, certain on easing your worries about getting caught while hitting that spot that has you seeing stars. He knows people will question him, ask him where he’s been and what he was doing. He wants to answer you, but he smiles and says he just needed a breath of fresh air.
Nick Leister who… waits for your mother and hid father to leave for the weekend, going on a business trip and ignoring their ‘Be careful! Be nice to each other!’ And oh is he nice, so nice because he takes his time kissing you through the kitchen, caging you against the countertop with his arms and hips, heated kiss so deep you don’t notice his hands shaking as they rest on your waist, just under the hem of your shirt. He’s so nice, letting you run your fingers through his hair, and groaning when you pull just right to make his head spin, nails raking against his scalp and he lives for it.
Nick Leister who… catches you trying on his clothes, a large shirt covering your frame. He watches from the doorway, watches you spin around in his shirt, a tie of his loosely around your neck. He grins when he realizes he likes the sight of you in his clothes more than he’d realized. He especially likes taking them off you. ‘They’re not yours, it’s only right I help you take it off. Don’t you think?’ He’ll lift the shirt off you, leaving you in a tie as he takes his time with you, showing you why you don’t go snooping (though for what it’s worth, you definitely don’t regret it after having his face between your thighs) He’ll get on his knees, looking up at you after asking where you need him most.
Nick Leister who… does whatever you ask of him. It starts with little things at first. ‘Can you pick me up from..?’ Or an occasional, ‘Can you pick up some coffee for me?’ Simple favors. Something only a good ‘house-mate’ would do. But he loves when you ask for help on other things. Like when you tip-toe into his room late at night once your parents have gone off to bed, large sleep shirt draped over you as you shyly knock on his door. He’ll let you in, buying the fake excuse that you ‘had a bad dream’ and let you stay in his bed. And he’ll help you all the same when you ask him to get you off, ripping off your panties faster than you can finish your question. He’s between your legs in an instant, eyes rolling to the back of his head when you pull him closer, grinding onto his face because his tongue is ‘oh-so-good’ and he grinds into the bed beneath him at your moans.
Nick Leister who… loves seeing you in that pretty bathing suit. Watching you run into the water, hair tied back and not a care in the world, running into the waves and letting the water roll off your skin when you call for him to join you. And he does, painfully and running as fast as he can as to avoid the questions about the growing tent in his pants. He’ll throw you under water, splash and grab you, but all he can think about is how much better you’d look when he takes it off you. And he does, finally after so many torturing hours of watching you run around in that little bikini. He’ll skip his fingers under the fabric, fingers working their way through your folds to get to where you need him most. He’ll kiss down your chest, nipping and biting at the skin like if his life depends on it, leaving little hickies and bite marks over the swell of your breast. He isn’t going to hide it. Doesn’t want too. He’ll push the fabric to the side, lowering his swim trunks just enough to get inside you, and fighting the urge to finish right then and there.
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