anakin skywalker x fem!reader ♡ warnings: sickness, some nudity, flirting and shyness, teasing, he's a mess ofc, ignore typos <3
The first thing you notice is how quiet he is. That, more than anything, tells you something is wrong.
Anakin is never quiet. Even in stillness there is always something restless about him. But tonight, when the door slides open and he steps into your quarters, there is no words...just a tired man trying very hard not to look as exhausted as he feels.
You’re already on your feet before he can say anything.
“Hi,” you say softly, like you’re greeting something fragile instead of someone who has faced entire armies. Your eyes flick over him quickly, taking in the slouch of his shoulders, the way his movements drag just a second too slow. “You look terrible.”
He huffs, a weak attempt at offense. “That’s a lovely thing to say to your boyfriend after a mission.”
You step closer, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair from his forehead. Your fingers pause there for half a second longer than necessary. His skin is warm.
“You’re burning up,” you murmur.
“I’m fine,” he insists automatically, the words coming out softer than usual, like even his stubbornness is tired.
You give him a look. It’s not harsh. It never is. But there’s something firm beneath your sweetness that he’s learned not to ignore.
“Anakin,” you say, gentler now, “you just walked in here looking like you fought a war and lost to a blanket. You’re not fine.”
“I didn’t lose,” he mutters, swaying slightly where he stands.
You don’t even argue the point. Instead, you slide an arm around his waist, steadying him before he can pretend he doesn’t need it. He exhales quietly at the contact, some of the tension leaving him without a fight.
“Sit,” you tell him, guiding him toward the bed.
“I know,” you reply, smiling faintly, “but you won’t. So I’m helping.”
There’s no bite in your tone, just a quiet certainty that makes him give in with a reluctant sigh. He sinks down onto the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, head dipping for a moment like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold up.
You disappear briefly, only to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. When you step back in front of him, he looks up at you through tired eyes, something softer flickering there.
“You don’t have to do all this,” he says.
“I know,” you answer easily. “I want to.”
That shuts him up more effectively than any argument ever could.
You gently press the cloth to his forehead, your movements careful, unhurried. He closes his eyes almost immediately, leaning into the touch without thinking. It makes your chest ache a little, how quickly he lets himself rest when he feels safe.
“You’re terrible at this,” you tease lightly, adjusting the cloth.
“Taking care of yourself.”
“I take care of plenty of things.”
“None of them are you,” you say, and there’s no accusation in it. Just truth.
He doesn’t argue this time. Instead, he reaches for your wrist, his fingers wrapping loosely around it, anchoring you there. His grip is warm, steady despite the fever.
“Stay,” he says quietly, eyes still closed.
You soften immediately. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”
You shift so you’re sitting beside him, letting him lean into you. Carefully, you guide him back until he’s lying down, his head resting against your lap. For a second, he tenses like he might protest, but it fades quickly. He’s too tired to fight something that feels this good.
Your fingers slip into his hair, brushing through it slowly. The rhythm is soft, repetitive. Comforting.
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s finally letting go of something he’s been holding onto since before he walked through the door.
“Don’t get used to this,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
You smile down at him. “Too late. I’m already planning to hold this over you.”
His lips twitch faintly. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would,” you say sweetly. “I’ll tell everyone the great Anakin Skywalker was defeated by a fever and needed to be tucked in.”
His eyes crack open just enough to look at you, something fond and exasperated mixing together. “You’re cruel.”
He studies you for a moment, really studies you, even in his half asleep state. There’s something vulnerable in his gaze, something he doesn’t show the rest of the galaxy.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
Your hand stills for just a second before you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He relaxes instantly, like the simple gesture settles something deep inside him.
“Get some rest,” you whisper.
His grip on your wrist loosens but doesn’t disappear entirely, like even in sleep he wants to make sure you’re still there. You don’t move. You stay exactly where you are, fingers returning to that gentle rhythm in his hair, watching as the tension slowly leaves his face.
The galaxy can have him later. Right now he’s just yours.
It takes a while before you even consider moving.
He’s warm beneath your hand, breathing slow and even, his face finally relaxed in a way you rarely get to see. You almost don’t want to disturb it. But the heat hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s settled deeper into him, leaving a faint flush along his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
“Anakin,” you whisper, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw. “Hey… I need to move you.”
He stirs, brows knitting slightly, clearly not pleased about being pulled from sleep. His hand tightens weakly around your wrist like he might drag you back into stillness.
“I’ll be right back,” you promise softly. “You’re still too warm.”
There’s a pause. Then reluctantly, he lets go.
You ease out from under him, guiding his head gently onto the pillow. For a second, he looks younger like this. Less like the Jedi everyone depends on, more like someone who just needs rest.
You move quickly after that, grabbing fresh water, another cloth, something cooler this time. When you turn back, he’s pushed himself up onto his elbows, clearly ignoring every reasonable instinct his body has.
“Anakin,” you say, a little sharper now, “what are you doing?”
“Helping,” he replies, though his voice is rough, and he sways slightly as he sits up.
“You can barely sit upright.”
“I can do more than sit,” he insists, already reaching for the hem of his tunic.
He pulls it over his head in one slow motion, like it takes more effort than he wants to admit. The fabric catches briefly before he tosses it aside, leaving him in nothing but the low light and the heat of the room.
What the hell is happening? You nearly panic...
It’s not like you haven’t seen him like this before. You have. But there’s something about it now. The way his skin is flushed from the fever, the faint sheen of warmth across his shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest just a little heavier than usual. His hair is messier too, falling into his eyes in a way that makes him look softer, less put together.
You’re staring....you know you are.
Even like this, half sick and barely standing, there’s still that familiar flicker of something in his expression. Something sharp. Something amused.
“See something you like?” he asks, voice low, edged with tired teasing.
Your eyes snap up to his face, but it’s too late. The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly, like he’s caught you in something he fully intends to enjoy.
“You’re sick,” you say, trying for composure and only managing half of it. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just sitting here,” he replies innocently, though there’s nothing innocent about the way he says it.
“You took your shirt off.”
You narrow your eyes at him, stepping closer anyway. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re staring again.”
“You are,” he says, softer this time, watching you in a way that feels far too focused for someone with a fever.
Your breath catches just a little, but you don’t step back. Instead, you lift the cloth and press it gently against his chest, right over his collarbone.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
He inhales sharply at the contact. Not because it hurts. Because it’s cold.
Your hand lingers longer than necessary, adjusting the cloth slowly...your fingers brushing against warm skin. You can feel the heat of him, the steady beat of his pulse just beneath your touch. It’s grounding and distracting all at once.
“You’re getting distracted,” he says quietly.
You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Not teasing now. Not entirely. There’s something heavier in his gaze, something that settles between the two of you like a held breath.
“I’m taking care of you,” you reply, softer than before.
His hand lifts, slower this time, and finds your wrist again. Not to stop you. Just to feel that you’re there.
For a second, neither of you move...
The room feels warmer than it should. Or maybe that’s just him. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you.
You swallow lightly, forcing yourself to focus. “Sit down before you fall over.”
He almost smiles. “You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough,” you counter.
This time, he doesn’t argue.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be taking care of me.”
You pause, looking at him, your expression soft but steady.
And somehow, it still feels like you’re both losing focus anyway. You only mean to step away for a second.
Just long enough to get fresh water, something cooler, something that might actually bring his fever down instead of just easing it. You even say it out loud, half to reassure him, half to keep yourself focused.
“Stay here,” you murmur, already turning. “I’m getting—”
His hand closes around your wrist. It’s not rough. Definitely not urgent. But it’s firm enough that you don’t make it another step.
“Anakin,” you start, glancing back at him, “I just need—”
It’s slow, and a little unsteady, like even this much effort takes something out of him, but it’s deliberate. You lose your balance for half a second, and that’s all it takes. The next thing you know, you’re caught, your hands instinctively bracing against his shoulders as he guides you down into his lap.
It comes out more flustered than you mean it to.
He exhales softly, like the effort of pulling you closer was worth it, his arms settling loosely around you, just enough to keep you there. You can feel the heat of him immediately, stronger this close, seeping through every point of contact.
“There,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough. “Better.”
You stare at him, wide eyed. “No, not better. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“In your defense,” you say, trying to shift, “this is not what resting looks like.”
His hold tightens just slightly. Not enough to trap you. Just enough to stop you.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
There’s something in his tone that makes you pause. Not command...something softer. But still unyielding.
“You’re burning up,” you insist, even as your voice drops a little. “I need to get the water.”
“You’re cool,” he replies, like that settles it.
You blink at him. “That’s not how medicine works.”
You can’t help it. A small, disbelieving laugh slips out. “You’re delusional.”
“Probably,” he agrees easily, though his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “Fever and all.”
“And yet,” he adds, tilting his head just slightly, “this seems to be helping.”
It’s the way he says it. Not teasing...not entirely. There’s something quieter underneath, something that makes your chest feel just a little too tight.
You try again to get up, shifting your weight carefully. “Anakin, seriously—”
His hand slides from your wrist to your waist, steadying you before you can fully pull away. His thumb brushes lightly against your side, absentminded, but it’s enough to make you falter.
You look at him, really look at him this time. His hair is still a mess, his skin still warm with fever, but his eyes are clearer now....watching you in a way that makes it very hard to think straight.
“You’re impossible,” you whisper.
“And you’re still here,” he counters softly.
“That’s because someone has to keep you alive.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “You’re doing a very good job.”
Your hands are still resting against his shoulders. You hadn’t noticed that you never moved them. Your fingers curl slightly against his skin, grounding yourself.
“You need actual medicine,” you say, though there’s less conviction in it now.
“You can't just decide that I’m your cure.”
“I didn’t decide,” he says, quieter now. “I noticed.”
Your heart stumbles over itself a little at that.
You shake your head, trying to gather what little composure you have left. “You’re definitely delirious.”
“Maybe,” he murmurs again.
But he doesn’t let go. And the worst part is, you’re not trying nearly as hard to leave anymore...
