((Mun is 25 years old! MINORS DNI!!!!)) Welcome anyone whose stumbled onto my page! My name is Shiroyuki Okami, but I usually go by Yuk! This is a roleplay blog so don't hesitate to message and or ask for roleplay!
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𐔌 cw: mostly low honor arthur, possessiveness, some corruption with innocence kink, dacryphilia, tummy bulge and breeding, perhaps dubcon traces .ᐟ
made for lovely @dolliecowboys that can't stop feeding my imagination, four thousand words in and perhaps my biggest fic that shouldn't have to be that long.
there wasn't a square inch in the merciless wild west where he was not known, recognized by that sharp, calculating squint, the broken line his freckled nose had gone as, and the hard, cutting contours shaping his jaw. everything that made up his notorious portrait beneath the bounty offered for his head, for no one intended to bring him in alive, not after all he's done.
there also was no hiding from this legacy, neither in the tall prairie grass nor in the narrowest foxhole, when a man crosses a threshold with a bold gait and a scarred knuckle hooked over a trigger, people don't forget, they go around and talk until hoarse or shot dead.
his name was traded in frightened whispers through narrow alleys and around the circular tables filling crowded saloons, or read from newspapers held by pompous gentlemen who read about his exploits with arrogant, high tilted chins while sipping imported coffee in the sunlit cafés of saint denis bright avenues, entirely confident in their own safety.
outlaws were like coyotes, always hunted as rabid vermin, and coyotes had always been considered nothing more than annoying pests, despite the creature’s grace in adaptation and clever ingenuity. no one ever looked closely at a beast that slipped into territories on the sly, clicking its sharp teeth at whatever caught its fancy, even if circumstances demanded it.
the law’s only oversight was that no one would ever think to look for a man like arthur where the wild grass mingled with sweetly blooming flowers and a gently flowing river, in a cottage where the threshold was swept clean and the slightest speck of dust was wiped from every surface, even though the biggest stain of all always came and went exactly as it pleased.
arthur had rarely been interested in love affairs or the attention of women, if only because most of those he encountered were the corporate sort, women who would say any word and do any deed for a meager sum, even enduring bloody beatings while preferring to keep quiet rather than cause a public stir.
with the only woman who had truly captured his heart, the one who, perhaps unknowingly, still carried a piece of it in her pocket, he had botched with entirely. she was too good, too focused on a respectable life to ever belong to a man out such dangerous caliber, a man whose only dowry was nothing but constant peril and a lingering sense left only by paranoid fear that kept him forever scanning the treeline and crowds.
she possessed an unyielding spine that could not be crushed, one that had frequently made him hesitate and turn weak with an affection that simply did not suit him. back then, it had felt unnerving to notice how his tongue would tie into stutters around her, and how his carefully constructed reputation began to fracture.
raising questions, jokes, and mocking squints from the gang as he tried to become a man who could always be there, even though such a life proved impossible. that was his youth, a time when his features were more delicate, chin clean shaven, and a crimson blush could still find his cheeks, a period remembered by lingering glances from young ladies who giggled behind the thinnest palms.
now, those same respectable women looked at him with nothing but disdain, clicking their heels in a desperate haste to escape his shadowing company. yet, there is an exception to every rule. arthur knew it deep down by the sudden, heavy wrench beneath his ribs and the way his swaying stride slowed abruptly until his spurs jingled in the dusty air.
his aquamarine irises weren't merely tracking the refined line sloping your fit corset or the delicate ruffles at a flawless blouse dancing in the wind, he was staring because you had reawakened something starved inside him, snaring his attention at the lowest, most primal animal level, belly hollowing out.
coyotes are known to have a sweet tooth, and you, whether out innocent ignorance or stubborn avoidance, proved sweet enough to clog his fangs, prompting him to stalk the trail where your footprints still lingered in the dirt and dust before finally approaching, tilting his head like a hound playing at being tame, and wagging his tail.
he could evoke the most delicate delight in you, drawing out ringing laughter as you batted your lashes, bright smile rounding your heated up cheeks whenever he allowed himself to tip his worn out hat with a brusque compliment. arthur's mouth would pull back into a crooked smirk, spiky teeth bared, hooded stare dropping down to watch your chest heave against your collar from breath caught abrupt in the throat, cheeping a response.
he’d sunk his claws into you now, and he wasn't about to loosen his grip, swallowing greedy saliva, keeping a trained eye on you, a frequent visitor to a town that had no desire to see his face. through dense woodlands where grizzly bears and majestic elk roamed beneath looming tall trees, all the way to the serene clearing of manzanita post, the curious local dogs would peek out from their rest on the cushiony grass, lazily watching the trail and waiting for a kind hand.
when a carnivore wanders into a place it shouldn't, an isolated mountain settlement where everyone knows their neighbor's business and recognize every trespasser, the townsfolk typically lock themselves inside their wooden cabins until it leaves, or send armed men to deal with the threat. but arthur morgan wasn't the kind of beast you hunted with a rifle, no sane man in the territory would cross his path with steel out.
so the town chose cowardice, leaving you out in the open, a lamb offered for sacrifice while the folks kept silent, avoiding any mention about the dark truths they knew about him. they let you greet him with a wave and a toothy smile, completely oblivious to the paw closing around you, blind to any suspicion regarding how frequently he had begun to appear here, or how at ease he behaved, as though he truly belonged, owning the place.
leaving his horse tied to the hitching rail, arthur stepped close, landing a heavy hand against your back, mapping your spine until his palm rested flat just above your skirted buttocks. ducking his head, he greeted you with twinkling eyes etched with deep crow's feet that creased when he grinned a lazy smirk.
“was just passin' by, but aah saw ya havin' a hard time with that load” he crooned, his raspy voice carrying a smoky reek as his head tilted aside, nudging toward the heavy, stacked wicker basket slipping from your hands and the brown paper sack crumpled under your armpit, balanced traitorously “ain’t en mah nature to watch a pretty thin' struggle”
it was also far from his nature to follow a pretty thing all the way to her home, a tidied cabin with a welcome rug at the entrance and clusters of flowers that demanded daily attention. there was no dust in sight, only pretty dresses and thin chemises hanging to dry, and it was entirely too easy for a man like him to picture you in nothing but that thin linen, laid out on the sagging mattress with plush thighs wide and crumpling the cotton sheets in your tight fists.
inside, the air smelled like mouthwatering buttery baking and clean laundry, the floorboards groaning heavily beneath his weight and the filthy riding boots he didn't even bother to tug off. he wanted the house to remember he had been there, bringing in the dirt trapped under his fingernails and the clothes that had thoroughly drenched themselves in road grime and pungent sweat.
you were hellbent on showing your gratitude, though the walk from the general store had lasted barely a couple of minutes, accompanied by paranoid gazes drilling relentless holes into his brawny back, the locals wondering how soon the big, bad beast would finally tear into the naive lamb.
yet you merely fluttered your guileless eyes up at him, your sugary lips parting around a chippery inquiry “i’ve got a pie fresh out of the oven, would you care for a slice, mister morgan?” addressing him with total politeness, using his last name even though he’d given you his first the very day he’d taken a liking to you.
a broad smile cut across his rugged face as he nodded, agreeing right away before you could even finish your sentence, stepping past the door you held open for him in such an inviting, attentive manner. the pie was not small at all, it was a classic fruit pastry with a buttery, flaky crust stuffed with sweetly tart cherries.
the bright crimson filling smeared across his chapped lips and lingered on his nicked fingers as a few stray berries escaped, and as he licked his mouth clean, deep voice rumbling “that’s about the best damn pie i’ve ever had” he grinned, thoroughly satisfied to see you bow your head and giggle in tiny, shy gratitude.
arthur had no business stalling at the threshold on his way out, fixing you with that tight, calculating squint. he was playing dumb, eager to see what you would do upon noticing his sudden reluctance to leave. his gaze did not wander to the neat interior behind you, the plush armchair or the lace doilies covering surfaces, but remained pinned strictly to your teeth teased lips.
you took a cautious step, then another, stopping an uneven breath away from his stocky chest before stretching up on your tiptoes. your hands found purchase upon his bunched, muscular shoulders, feeling the flannel shirt beneath, neck angling so you could press a fleeting butterfly kiss to his scratchy, bearded cheek.
he let out a deep, granular grunt that vibrated in his throat, attempting to sound entirely unbothered, until his massive palms, shamelessly greedy, suddenly pawed at your ass. hands clamped over the pert curve, his blunt nails digging into your flesh as he hauled your skirt high enough to leave you nearly exposed, air sneaking underneath.
holding you flush against his weight, and even when an uncontrollable, embarrassed whimper “o—oh!” escaped your throat, you didn't try to jerk out his bounding hold. your limbs went wax and mellow as he planted a wet, smudgy kiss against your jawbone, and only then did he abruptly let you go.
catching his belt loops with his fingers, casting a lazy, arrogant smirk over his shoulder while you stood there like a cornered deer, shivering, your clothes wrinkled, completely paralyzed by the rough, purring tone to his voice “see ya around, sweethear'” then the door clicked shut, leaving you alone to stare at the timber panels and the clumpy mud staining the floor you’d spent all morning wiping bare.
down the trail, the amber sun turned his carob hair into liquid syrup, arthur's fingers gripping his hat and tugging it down against the glare, letting the cool wind wash over his sweat dampened neck as he kept a steady pace down the dirt road, a single calloused fingertip tracing the seam of his own mouth idly, still branded with the memory of how your delicate skin had felt.
arthur did not go to people when he was hurt, it simply was not in his nature. even in camp, if anyone started asking questions about his health, they’d get nothing but a scowl and a curse. to you, he ridden hard through the timber with a white hot ache in his side, bleeding wet from where a lead bullet had grazed too closely beneath his ribs, tearing through both his new shirt and sun baked skin.
he held a palm clamped against the ruby leak when he knocked on your door, letting out pained grunts that were much louder than what he actually felt, playing it up a bit, making it sound worse than it was, he’d survived more than this and had patched up his own entry wounds more times than he could count.
the look on your face was exactly what he’d been starving to see, that pure, terrified panic as you yelped out “gods, arthur, you’re bleeding!” the second the latch clicked. he shoved his way inside, and you caught him in your arms, barely able to support his massive weight, but desperately trying to do so, dainty shoulders buckling under his weight as you hauled him over the threshold.
you ushered him past the tiny living room and into your bedroom, lowering him onto the bed with its straightened sheets, neatly gathered pillows, and blooming floral patterns. leaving him there with breathless, soothing whispers to rummage frantically for bandages, water, and a clean cloth.
the injury did not require a stitch, he wouldn't have come to you if it had been a gut shot, but it took a steady hand to scrub the grime out and roll the bandages tight. fingers trembling and your eyebrows pinched inward as you asked how he felt every few minutes, pursing your lips whenever he hissed “ain’t nothin' but a scratch, missy, don’t fret” but you fretted nonetheless, urging him to lie down while you cleared away the blood stained rags, his square jaw flexing.
never hearing him get up, he crept up behind you like while you were busy putting the medicine back in the drawer, a sharp reprimand nearly left your lips in a wobbly tone, caught as a lump, but his hefty weight slammed you flush against the wooden table, pelvis ground hard into your backside.
you shivered, clutching at at the corded, scarred muscles of his forearm as he nuzzled his chin into your exposed shoulder, thick chest vibrating against your shoulder blade with a deep, territorial purr “ya're too damn good to meh, sweetie. . 'n aah reckon aah haven't paid mah debts fo wah it yet, have aah?”
it was effortlessly easy for him to swoon you. reaching out, he placed his roughened fingers beneath your chin, tipping your head in his direction and grasping your jaw between his thumb and forefinger firmly. his eyes remained riveted to the way your lips parted as he leaned in, sealing his mouth over yours. you accepted him, welcoming all he had to give as the tender, teasing kiss quickly spiraled into a rapacious devouring.
feeling his lips curl into a smile when you let out a breathy whimper into the embrace, your lower lip caught behind his crooked teeth and dragged downward, denting raw divots. arthur swallowed a heavy grunt, chapped lips brushing against the corner of your mouth until his tongue slipped past, forcing your lips further apart so he could curl in your wet, warm mouth, against your teeth.
slumping helplessly against him, chasing the way he cornered you against the table with an insistent pressure, giving a shallow hump to your ass. he scooped you up effortlessly into his muscular arms, carrying you over to the bed to lay you down flat, your cheek smushed into the sheets so he could reach the complex laces on your patterned corset.
watching with narrowed eyes as your spine bowed toward him in surrender, his pupils expanding like pooling ink stains while a few wavy strands of hair fell messily across his wrinkled forehead. sinking his knee into the mattress, the bed groaned under his weight but grew quiet as he leaned closer, the stays of your corset finally giving out and loosening enough for him to tug the fabric away.
warm candlelight glow spilling across your bare skin, and his gaze traced the delicate lines of your body, his ears straining to catch the shaky way you stuttered his name “a—arthur. .” in response, his thewy arm snaked around your waist, hoisting you upward only to whirl you around, your own hands flying to his clothes, fumbling and tugging at the fabric in equal impatience.
arthur shrugged his striped shirt down his hulking shoulders, the fabric leaving a burgundy smudge against your pristine sheets. as your dainty fingers tripped over his belt bucking and trousers, he reached down to help you, enveloping your hands within his own calloused palms. showing you how to strip him properly, the leather belt, the worn buttons at his pants, until his scarred, weathered skin was completely bared for you to gaze upon.
your hand swept down his rippling stomach, tracing the pudgy, slightly thick layer where a brunet trail of hair ran through, down toward his coarse groin. it was there that he stilled your eager touch, gently tugging your hand away to pin it beside your head, his fingers entwining with yours as he pinned you to the linens.
undergarments had already been discarded onto the floor by the bedpost, your combinations soaked through with tacky arousal, and he drank in the glossy sight of just how aroused you were. his heavy palm encouraging your legs to part wider so he could bend over, pressing a trail of burning kisses across your jumpy stomach and heaving ribs, his wiry beard chafing your warm skin and making your pelvis arch in needy squirm.
though your eyes were drawn anxiously to his bandaged side, all distraction melted away the moment his teeth clamped firmly onto your hipbone, the biting kiss quickly soothed with a slow, wet stroke of his tongue, voice dropping into a hoarse, heavy rumble “so damn beautiful. . 'n all fo wah meh”
you hiccup when he studies your pussy too close, a humid breath away with his crooked nose hovering above, ring finger curling to probe at the drooling hole, calloused pad getting sucked in slow, coated by dampening slick. arthur soothes with a coo when his finger slides in fully, stretching you open enough to make you keen, clawing nails into his hand.
the other digging into the pillows above, pussy adjusting slowly, and he chooses a couple shallow strokes, his lips pulling into a slight smirk when you grind back into the press, spasming walls quivering around the intrusion, until there's another digit prodding beside, working you up.
as responsive as arthur expected, keening so loud it rings in the candlelit room, almost sobbing when his swollen cockhead spreads your puffy folds, notching at your gaping hole. his hand leaving yours so he could grasp your legs instead, hiking them up gently, almost to their very limit, before settling separately over his broad shoulders.
he rubbed up and down your calves in a slow, soothing rhythm, folding your body beautifully beneath his weight as he leaned in, his hips jutting forward. heat sticky between your thighs, ankles nearly hooking together across the broad expanse of his shoulder blades, gorged cock splitting you wide, having your tight pussy take more to swallow around the veins and ridges.
eyes drooping, clouded with tears that bead on your waterline, pussy making wet, sloppy noise as he lodged deeper, your kiss swollen lips parting around a soundless moan when plump his tip knocked up, reaching and rubbing that round spot inside you, tapping the gummy curve. arthur’s grip dimpled your thigh as it hung suspended in the air, fingers digging deep nail indents into supple skin.
his sweat slicked pelvis thrusting forward, the thicket of hair at the base of his rudy cock rubbing over your fattened pearl, having no need to stroke you with his thumb right then. instead, he pressed his heavy palm flat against the soft curve of your lower belly, feeling the slight bulge that formed beneath your skin when he bullied in, bottoming out with a satisfied rumble.
the fresh linen around his ribs leaked a dark, blooming crimson, the bloody stain spreading wider with each shift of his weight. his brawny muscles locked tight, shifting under his skin as he dragged himself backward until only his blunt cockhead rested inside, then pushing back in, punching ragged, sobbing hitches, making your cunt spasm in response, more wetness gushing around and dripping down to the crease where your ass met thighs.
heart leaping, hammering violently against your ribcage, despite the heavy heat still coiling thick behind your navel, a dull, thrumming ache that pulled and pulled at your nerves, you reached a frantic, scrabbling hand toward arthur's torso. voice slipping out as a hoarse whimper, thick and molassed with a heavy worry “a—arthur, your wound!” that distracted him instantly, pounding thrusts faltering and cock twitching within your velvety inner walls.
he grunts, reddish chest heaving and sweat catching glittery on the hairs dusted there, some slicking his temples and cutting down his high cheekbone, hand at your tummy retreating away, lidded eyes lingering on still prominent bulge, especially as his cock jerks, skin stretching over.
“reckon aah told ya not to worry, but ya just won’t listen, will ya?” he wasn’t angry, he couldn’t be, not while he had his hands all over you. yet, his fingers reached behind him, blindly shuffling through the tangled sheets until he got a firm grip on a piece of discarded cloth, his long worn, threadbare, and frayed bandana.
it carried the raw filth of the entire west, steeped in his musky sweat, stained with tobacco, and grasped by dirty hands too many times to count without ever being properly washed. he knuckled the fabric into his fist once, then twice, and brought it directly to your mouth, which was already hanging slack from the breathless cries he was wrenching out of you. shoving the grime stained cloth past your wet lips and teeth, he watched closely as your jaw worked around the makeshift gag.
brows troubled into a tight, panicked knot as your mouth instinctively fought the gag, eyes wide and glazed as a muffled, questioning hum escaped your throat. arthur only grinned, turbulent stare glinting with a look of pure satiety, as his deep thrusts suddenly resumed, breaking into a rhythm far rougher than before. hips arching in an exquisite curve beneath him, feeling pleasantly numb as your legs, long since gone limp over his broad shoulders, needed his sturdy support.
his fingers wrapped tightly around your shins to keep them up, toes curling in tight, helpless tremors each time he slammed forward, body jolting beneath his pressing weight. eyes close to become crossed, thin whimpers and moans punched out in muffledly hiccuping “hn—mnn—” every time his hips slapped wet, angled to wedge his leaky cock beneath the plug of your cervix, tears burning in your eyes, walls contracting and slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
arthur had too ill manneredly forgotten about the lush swell of your breasts, which were practically begging for his undivided attention with every tantalizing movement of your body. sliding his heavy frame upwards, hands finally releasing your legs, feeling your limbs remain comfortably heavy and suspended in their place over his shoulders, before he bent his head down.
closing his mouth hungrily around your breast, his tongue swirled in slow, demanding circles around your perking, hardened nipple, breathtaking tears breaking through and sliding down your cheeks as you felt devastatingly overstimulated.
arms shaky when you lifted them to wind around his flush dusted, scalding neck, your palms desperate for purchase on his nape. he drank in the rough, choked back whimpers and warbled sobs vibrating against his ears, watching the gloss of saliva leak from your parted teeth only to stain and dissolve into the grime of the black cloth wedged behind your jaw.
“yeah, hold on meh, gonna cum soon aah bet, aren't ya, hon'?” he whispers raggedly, his own stomach churning, cock twitching from where it sits deep and demanding, his lips finally leaving your swollen nipple, littering a trail of open mouthed kisses up to your collarbone, before his teeth nipped hard into the giving flesh of your throat.
you gave a weak, dazed nod, your head lolling back over the pillows, though your clenching, drooling hole spoke enough. you fought to cry out his name over and over, fingernails biting deep into the scruff of his neck, but the sound escaped your throat as nothing more than a rattling, strung wail, a fine, helpless tremor starting out across your thighs.
pussy walls snug around him, tightening and tightening with rapid clenches, sucking him even deeper, and then erupting, liquid pooling in your belly and out your gaping hole, triggering him, balls drawn up and twitching. it makes you roll your hips, pussy fluttering again, shifting the jolting head of his cock inside, deep thrusts molding to rutting, muscles locking taut, and he knows the exact moment tension releases from the pit of your belly by how your shiny eyes roll back into their sockets.
his freckled nose pressing to the shell of your ear, howling loud and letting the sound slink down your spine, humping shallowly into you. sloppy thrust after sloppy thrust into your oozing, wall tight cunt, pulsing cockhead catching against the bump at the front, as his cum spurted out in milky, hot ropes inside. his shuddering body curled heavily over yours, strength spent as he couldn't hold himself up.
heat bloomed beneath your heart and ribs, dewy hole foaming in slick, milky rings around his thick length, yet, his hips continued to move in a slow circles, drawing obscene, filthy squelches from your joined bodies, plugging you with his seed. it took him a breath, perhaps more, before his spine stretched slowly, tired joints popping and large palms returning to your body, hands smoothing downward from your sensitive breasts to still twitching hips.
you had stopped making any sound at all, nostrils flaring with ragged breaths and eyes hardly open, requiring him to gently tap your blistering cheek just to see them focus back on. his hand hovered over your mouth for a lingering second before he finally freed you, pulling his damp bandana out from past your teeth with stretching strings of saliva.
your jaw flexed and ached as you tried to slur his name, but he gently shushed you, knowing you would let out a incoherent mewl the exact moment he pulled his hips back, his softened length slowly slipping from your pussy. immediately, a frothing, pearlescent white mixture of your shared release pooled out, oozing lazily onto the crumpled sheets beneath. chilling too quickly against your sticky thighs, making you reach down in discomfort.
arthur, however, was quicker, gently pushing your hand away, turning back and letting it fall limp at your side while he murmured, breathing turning less labored “easy, love, deep breaths. . i’ll do it myself” and he did, using that very same filthy bandana. reaching down, gently dabbing it against your sore pussy, mindful of the way you hissed and winced, allowing the wet mixture of your blended cum to seep into the fabric until nothing shimmered on your skin.
he didn't discard the rag onto the floor or fling it toward a dark corner of the wall. instead, he brought the wet cloth up to his face, pressing it directly against his nose to cover his mouth and jaw, thick chest rumbling with a deep, territorial sound as he took a filling whiff with the smell and taste of you.
your lips wobbled at the sheer intensity of the sight, achy hole giving a helpless, pulsing flutter that oozed fresh slick. it was a display that bordered on the utterly deranged, but you could only twist your head away, hiding your burning face deep into the pillow, which drew a thundering, satisfied laugh from his lungs.
“i—it’s disgusting” you had managed to burble, peering up at him as he already crawled back over you. his limp length dragged purposefully through the slick warmth of your folds, a lazy friction that drew a soft breath from your lips. his mouth found yours in a slow, lingering kiss, no longer trying to devour you, but seeking only to soothe, turquoise irises captivatingly serene.
laying nose to nose, forehead to forehead, as his wavy strands fell softly into your eyes. you let your wispy eyelashes flutter shut, tender hands framing the rugged lines of his jawbone, rubbing up and down to let his coarse beard scrape your skin pleasantly. offering no resistance, completely silent in response to his low, telling whisper “yeah. . 'n so am aah”
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Not through space...not like a pilot...but something slower. Like the Force itself was letting him drop, just to see if he’d break when he hit.
Anakin wakes with a sharp inhale, like he’s been drowning.
His body jerks upright before his mind catches up, breath tearing out of his chest in uneven gasps. The room is dark, quiet, and for a split second he doesn’t recognize where he is. His skin is damp, clinging to the sheets, curls stuck to his forehead. His heart is racing so fast it almost hurts.
No. No, no, no—
His hand shoots out blindly, desperate, searching...
...and then he feels you.
You’re still there.
His fingers grip your arm, almost too tight, like if he loosens his hold you might slip away between seconds. He leans over you slightly, eyes scanning your face in the dim light, searching for any sign, any sign that the nightmare followed him here.
But you’re breathing. His chest stutters. He doesn’t realize how loud his breathing is until it starts to wake you.
You shift beside him, brow furrowing, pulled from sleep by the tension radiating off him. Your eyes open slowly, still hazy, but they sharpen the moment you see him, sitting upright, shaking, eyes wide like he’s still somewhere else entirely.
“Anakin…?” your voice is quiet, careful. Not startled, just…gentle.
That almost breaks him more.
For a moment, he can’t answer. His throat feels tight, like the words would come out wrong if he tried. His hand is still gripping you, and when he notices, he loosens it slightly, but doesn’t pull away.
“I—” he swallows hard, dragging a hand down his face. “I thought...”
He stops. He can’t say it. Saying it makes it real. It makes him feel sick.
You push yourself up slowly, giving him space to breathe, but staying close enough that he can feel you. You don’t crowd him and you don’t demand. You just stay.
“Hey… it’s okay,” you murmur softly, reaching for his wrist...not pulling, just resting your hand there, grounding. “You’re here. I’m here.”
His eyes flick back to yours, searching, like he’s trying to anchor himself in something real, something that won’t vanish when he blinks.
“It felt real,” he admits, voice rough, almost hoarse. “So real.”
You nod slightly, not interrupting, not pushing him to explain. Just letting him know you’re listening.
His gaze drops to your joined hands.
“I saw you,” he says finally, quieter now. “I couldn’t—” his jaw tightens. “I couldn’t stop it.”
There’s a pause. The kind that aches.
You shift closer, carefully, giving him time to pull away if he needs, but he doesn’t. If anything, he leans into you without realizing it.
“I’m okay,” you whisper, your thumb brushing lightly over his wrist. “Look at me.”
He does. You offer him the smallest, softest smile...sleepy, a little worried, but real.
“I’m right here.”
For a second, he just stares at you. Memorizing. Reassuring himself.
Then his shoulders drop, just a fraction. He exhales shakily, like his body is finally remembering how.
Without thinking, he reaches for you again...this time slower, more deliberate, and pulls you against him. Not forceful. Just…needing.
Your arms wrap around him, one hand sliding up his back, the other resting against his shoulder. You can feel how tense he still is, how his breathing hasn’t fully settled.
“It’s just a dream,” you murmur softly against him. “You don’t have to fight it right now.”
His grip tightens slightly at that...like the idea of not fighting feels wrong. That’s so him.
You don’t argue. You just adjust, pressing your cheek lightly against his temple.
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” you add gently. “Not if you don’t want to.”
That earns a quiet, almost relieved exhale from him. For a while, neither of you speak.
The silence isn’t empty, though. It’s full of small things...your breathing syncing slowly with his, your hand moving in soft, absent patterns against his back, the way his grip gradually loosens as reality settles back into place.
Eventually, his voice comes again, low and uncertain.
“I thought I lost you.”
Your chest tightens, but your voice stays soft.
“You didn’t.”
Another pause. Then, quieter...
“I don’t know what I’d do if I did.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hand coming up to rest against his cheek. His skin is still warm and still flushed from the nightmare.
“You won’t have to find out tonight,” you say gently. “Okay?”
His eyes search yours again. Then, slowly, he nods. You guide him back down, easing him onto the pillow. This time he doesn’t resist.
When you lie back beside him, he turns toward you immediately and instinctively...like he needs to keep you within reach. His arm drapes over you, not possessive… just anchoring.
Your hand finds his again under the covers.
“Try to sleep,” you whisper.
He hesitates.
“…Stay?” he asks, barely audible.
You squeeze his hand softly.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s what finally does it. His eyes close, but not peacefully, not completely...
And this time, when sleep comes, it doesn’t take you from him. They settle back into the dark like nothing ever happened.
But it’s different now. The air feels heavier. Thicker. Like something unseen is sitting between breaths.
You’re tucked against him, your head beneath his chin, his arm wrapped around you in a way that’s almost too tight to be called relaxed. His hand rests against your back, fingers splayed like he needs to feel every rise and fall of your breathing to believe it’s real.
For a while, it’s quiet again.
You think...maybe he’ll fall back asleep.
Maybe this will pass.
Then...
“I used to have dreams like this before.”
His voice cuts through the dark, low and distant. Not quite shaky… but not steady either.
You don’t move and you don’t interrupt. You just let him speak.
His thumb starts tracing absent, uneven patterns against your side.
“Before my mother died,” he adds.
That makes your chest tighten. You tilt your head slightly, just enough to hear him better, but you still don’t push. He needs control over this.
“They felt the same,” he continues. “Not like normal dreams. Not… random.” A quiet, strained exhale. “Like I was being shown something.”
His grip on you tightens just a fraction.
“I saw her suffering before I found her. Every night. Over and over.” His jaw shifts, like he’s forcing the words out past something lodged deep in his throat. “I thought it was just fear.”
...
“It wasn’t.”
You can feel the shift in him now. It's subtle, but there. The way his body tenses, like he’s bracing for something even while lying still.
“I don’t want to…” he starts, then stops.
His fingers press slightly into your back.
“I don’t want to say all of it.”
Your hand moves gently against his chest, grounding. “You don’t have to,” you whisper.
Another pause.
Then, his voice drops to something more... fearful.
“…but this one was different.”
Something in his tone makes your stomach drop. Your breath catches, but you stay still.
“I was there,” he continues, his voice lowering further, like even saying it too loudly might make it real again. “I could feel everything. The heat, the… the weight of it...like my body wasn’t mine.”
His arm around you tightens again, almost unconsciously.
“And I knew something was wrong,” he says. “I knew it. But it was like moving through fog. Like trying to fight through water.”
His breathing starts to pick up again, just slightly.
“I couldn’t think clearly. Couldn’t stop—”
He cuts himself off.
Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
“You don’t have to...” you start softly.
“I hurt you.”
The words land sharp. Final. Your heart stutters. In the dark, you can feel the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now.
“I-” his voice falters, and for a moment he sounds younger. “I don’t know why. I couldn’t understand it. I didn’t want to, but it was like… something else was moving me.”
A shaky breath leaves him.
“It wasn’t clear. It was all… blurred. Hazy. But I could feel it.”
His hand grips you tighter, like he’s anchoring himself to the version of you that’s still here.
“Your voice…” he mutters. “You were saying something, but I couldn’t hear it properly. And I-”
He stops again, harsher this time.
There’s a long silence.
When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“I killed you.”
The words feel colder than the room. For a second, everything just… stills. You can feel how rigid he’s gone. Like even admitting it out loud has locked something in place inside him.
“I don’t know why,” he repeats, more urgently now, like he needs you to believe that part. “I don’t know why I would—”
His breath breaks slightly.
“I would never—”
“I know.”
You say it immediately. Firm, but still soft.
Not rushed...
That seems to stop him more than anything else.
“I know,” you repeat, your hand moving slowly up his chest until it rests over his heart. “That wasn’t you.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
You shift just enough to look up at him, even though it’s dark. Even though you can barely see more than the outline of his face.
“That wasn’t you,” you say again, quieter this time.
His breathing is still uneven.
“It felt like me,” he admits.
Your chest aches at that.
“I believe that,” you say gently. “But that doesn’t make it real.”
He exhales shakily, like he wants to believe you, but something inside him is resisting.
“I had dreams about my mother,” he murmurs. “And they came true.”
There it is...the fear underneath everything.
You move closer...if that’s even possible, pressing your forehead lightly against his jaw.
“And you couldn’t stop what happened to her,” you say softly. “That doesn’t mean you caused it.”
...his grip on you loosens… just slightly.
“...I don’t want to see that again,” he admits, voice cracking just enough to hear it. “I don’t want to see you like that.”
“You won’t,” you whisper.
He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” you agree gently. “But I can promise this.”
Your fingers lace with his, squeezing lightly.
“I’m here right now.”
He stills.
“You’re not in that dream anymore,” you continue. “You’re here. With me.”
His thumb shifts against your hand, like he’s testing the reality of it.
“…I hate how real it felt,” he mutters.
“I know.”
“I could feel it.”
“Ani. It's okay.”
His forehead drops lightly against yours.
For a moment, he just stays there, breathing you in, like he’s trying to overwrite the memory with something less terrifying.
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.
That makes your brows furrow. “For what?”
“For even—” he exhales sharply. “For seeing that. For telling you.”
Your hand tightens around his.
“Don’t apologize for something you couldn’t control,” you say, a little more firmly now.
He goes quiet again.
“…stay awake with me?”
You nod, even though he might not see it.
“I will.”
And you do. You stay tangled together in the dark, his breathing slowly evening out beneath your hand, his grip no longer desperate, but still there.
He's still holding on. Like he’s afraid if he lets go, the dream might come back and take everything with it. The aftermath of the nightmares gave him this unshakable feeling only you could ease.
The silence lingers, but it’s no longer in that agonizing way.
You feel it first in the way his grip isn’t as tight anymore. Still there…but not like he’s bracing for something.
Just holding you.
You shift gently in his arms, slow and careful, giving him time to react...time to stop you if he needs to.
He doesn’t. Instead, his hands loosen just enough to let you move, his gaze following you in the dim dark as you lift yourself slightly and settle over him. The blankets shift with you, pooling around your legs, the air cooler against your skin, but he’s warm beneath you.
“Hey…” you whisper softly.
His hands find your waist almost instinctively, like they belong there. Not gripping this time. Just resting. He runs his hands along your hips and lower back...
There’s still a trace of something lingering in his eyes...something tired, something haunted, but it flickers when you lean down, brushing your lips gently against his cheek.
It’s soft. Nothing like the panic from before.
“I’m right here,” you murmur against his skin.
Another kiss, this time at his temple, slow and lingering. His breath steadies beneath you. You press your forehead lightly to his, your fingers brushing his hair back, smoothing it away from his face with quiet care.
“I love you,” you whisper.
The words aren’t rushed. They’re not said to fix anything. They just… exist in a way that puts him at ease.
You let them sit there between you. Then you lean down again, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
“I trust you.”
That one lands deeper. You can feel it in the way his hands tighten just slightly at your hips, not out of fear, but something softer. Something almost disbelieving.
Your lips brush his again, closer this time. The corner of his mouth. Then finally, gently, his lips. It’s not urgent and not desperate.
A quiet kind of reassurance that he never knew he needed tonight. For a moment, he doesn’t move, like he’s still catching up...still pulling himself out of everything he just told you.
Then he exhales softly against your lips and kisses you back.
His hand slides up your back, fingertips warm against your skin as he grounds himself in the same way you’re grounding him.
When you pull back just slightly, your nose brushes his.
“You’re okay,” you murmur.
His eyes search yours again, but this time, there’s less fear in them.
“…how are you not afraid of me?” he asks quietly.
You smile, just a little.
“Because I know you.”
Your thumb brushes along his cheek.
“That wasn’t you.”
He studies your face like he’s trying to memorize every detail of it, every bit of certainty you’re offering him.
Then, softer...
“I don’t deserve you.”
You shake your head gently, leaning down to press another kiss to his lips, a little more sure this time.
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you whisper against him.
That earns the faintest huff of breath from him, almost a laugh.
His forehead tilts to rest against yours again, his eyes closing this time. Not in exhaustion, nor in fear.
His hands slide up your back, holding you there, steady and warm.
“I love you,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You smile against him, brushing one last soft kiss over his lips.
“I know.”
You don’t rush to move away. You stay there for a moment longer, just feeling him breathe, feeling the calm settle back into his body little by little.
When you finally shift, it’s slow...easing down on top of him. His arms wrap around you again, pulling you close, tucking you into him like before...
Your head rests against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It's not racing anymore...it's not panicked.
His fingers trace slow, absent patterns along your back and hips... And this time, when the quiet returns it feels gentle.
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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 it, 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 Anakin 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. “It 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.
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.
When her mouth grazed his neck, what was left of his composure unraveled like silk and his lips met hers again. 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 it, his free hand 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 again, 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.
Vergil stood in the hallway outside Nero’s room, arms crossed, posture straight, expression carved from stone. Yamato rested at his side like it always did, more out of habit than necessity, though you’d once caught Nero trying to “practice” with it using a pool noodle.
Vergil didn’t speak.
He simply stared at the door.
You walked up beside him, adjusting the strap of Nero’s small backpack in your hands. It was black with little blue flames stitched into the fabric. Nero had insisted on the flames.
Because of course he had.
You cleared your throat. “You’ve been standing there for five minutes.”
Vergil’s eyes didn’t move. “I am aware.”
You leaned slightly toward him. “Are you… nervous?”
Vergil’s gaze flicked to you. “No.”
The answer was immediate. Too immediate.
You raised an eyebrow. “Vergil.”
His jaw tightened. “This is a routine activity.”
“You mean sending our half demon son into a building full of loud children, fragile furniture, and underpaid adults who have no idea he can summon demonic energy when he gets emotional?”
Vergil stared at you for a long moment.
Then he said flatly, “Dante and I did not attend school, Nero does not need to go...”
You bit back a laugh. “Nero is not you, or Dante. Our son is going to school.”
Vergil’s expression sharpened.
You looked at him for a moment then you sighed and reached for the doorknob. “Okay, buddy, it’s time to get up. First day of kindergarten.”
The door swung open.
Nero was sprawled across his bed like a fallen warrior. His white hair was a mess, sticking up in spikes. His pajama shirt was twisted, one sock was missing, and his blanket was wrapped around him like a cape.
He looked like he’d fought demons in his sleep and lost.
He blinked at you with bleary eyes.
Then his gaze slid to Vergil.
And the second Nero saw him, his face lit up.
“Dad!”
Vergil’s posture softened so subtly you might’ve imagined it.
“Yes,” Vergil replied, voice controlled.
Nero sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Do I gotta go?”
You nodded gently. “Yep.”
Nero frowned. “But I’m sleepy.”
Vergil’s voice was calm but final. “You will go.”
Nero’s lips pursed. “What if I don’t.”
Vergil stared at him with quiet intensity. “Then I will carry you.”
Nero’s eyes narrowed, considering this threat.
Then, with the dramatic sigh of someone enduring great injustice, Nero flopped back onto the bed.
When the final bell rang, the classroom doors burst open like a prison release, and a wave of children poured out into the hallway laughing, yelling, crying, and dragging backpacks that looked twice their size.
Vergil stood perfectly still near the entrance, arms crossed, looking wildly out of place among the bright paper decorations and cartoon posters. He looked like he was waiting to interrogate someone.
You stood beside him, scanning the crowd.
And then you saw it.
A flash of white hair.
Nero came barreling out of the classroom like a fired cannonball.
“MAMA! DAD! YOU CAME BACK!”
Vergil barely had time to react before Nero launched himself straight into his legs. Vergil caught him automatically, steadying him with a hand on his back.
“I told you I would,” Vergil said, voice calm though the tension in his shoulders eased immediately.
Nero clung to him like he’d been gone for a year instead of a few hours.
Then Nero pulled back, eyes wide, face flushed with excitement.
“I DID IT!”
You smiled. “You did. I’m so proud of you.”
Nero puffed out his chest. “I was brave. I didn’t even cry.”
Vergil nodded once. “Good.”
Nero’s gaze darted around the hallway like he was searching for something, then he leaned closer to you both like he was about to reveal a sacred secret.
“I made a friend.”
You blinked. “You did?”
Vergil’s eyes narrowed slightly, the way they always did when Nero mentioned other people. “A friend.”
Nero nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Her name is Nicoletta Goldstein. But she told me she doesn't like Nicoletta because it's too long. She said she just likes Nico.”
You blinked again. “Nico?”
Vergil’s stare sharpened. “Goldstein.”
Nero nodded proudly, like the name carried weight.
You crouched a little to be closer to his level. “That’s awesome, Nero. What did you guys do?”
Nero made a face like the answer was obvious.
“We played dinosaurs vs. robots.”
Vergil hummed. “Acceptable.”
Nero continued, voice even more excited. “She has this weird lunch box that she said her daddy made for her. It opens all by itself! And she even shared her snack with me. She had the little crackers shaped like fish.”
You laughed. “Goldfish crackers?”
Nero nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Fish soldiers.”
Vergil’s mouth tightened like he was fighting the urge to correct him.
Then Nero leaned in again, lowering his voice dramatically.
“And she said something.”
You waited. “What did she say?”
Nero’s face scrunched up as he tried to remember the exact words, then he brightened and announced proudly:
“She said my hair looks like a cloud.”
You froze.
Vergil froze.
For a split second, you didn’t know whether to laugh or melt into the floor.
Nero kept going, completely sincere.
“A big fluffy cloud. And she wanted to touch it, but I said no because-” Nero glanced up at Vergil, “-Dad says people don’t touch without asking.”
Vergil’s eyes softened, just barely.
“…Correct,” Vergil said.
Nero smiled wide. “So, she asked and I let her touch it a little.”
“That was really good,” you said softly. “I’m proud of you for setting boundaries.”
Nero beamed like that was the best praise he’d ever gotten.
Vergil cleared his throat, gaze shifting away like he didn’t want anyone to see the expression on his face.
“A cloud,” Vergil repeated quietly, as if testing the word.
Nero nodded firmly. “Yeah. A cool cloud.”
Vergil huffed, something almost like amusement.
“Then,” Vergil said, adjusting Nero’s backpack strap with careful hands, “you will have to ensure you remain… presentable.”
“I gotta stay fluffy!”
You laughed.
Vergil didn’t correct him.
He simply held Nero a little closer as you all walked out together, Nero chattering about fish soldiers and dinosaur games and clouds, like the world hadn’t almost terrified him this morning.
hii i dont know if you take requests but i saw a line from an arabic poem right, its translation is something along the lines of "if the devil was to see you, he'll kiss your forehead and repent," and i just think it'll make a super cute AU for vergil!!
OKAY WAIT I LOVE THIS IDEA ACTUALLY
“If the Devil Saw You”
Vergil x Reader
warnings: religious symbolism (Vergil calls you holy), slight AU, Vergil is so down horrendous for you that he's ooc
The sky split open hours ago.
The air still trembled from it.
Fragments of demonic energy clung to the ruins like smoke that refused to disperse. The ground beneath Vergil’s boots was carved and shattered stone cut so cleanly it gleamed like glass.
He stood at the center of it all, Yamato resting against his shoulder, coat torn slightly at the hem.
He looked like untouchable.
Unreachable.
And then you walked into the wreckage.
You stepped over broken concrete and scorched earth as if it were merely uneven pavement.
No armor.
No weapon.
Just you alone.
Vergil felt you before he saw you. The shift in the air, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat cutting through the chaos, the sharp sound of your boots thumping against the ground as you made your way towards him.
He turned. Silver eyes locked onto your form.
“You should not be here,” he said immediately.
It wasn't cold, nor distant.
Urgent.
You didn’t answer at first. You only looked at him.
And something in his chest, something that had survived hell itself, tightened.
He had stood before armies without flinching.
He was enslaved by Mundus for decades.
He had faced his own divided soul without doubt.
But your gaze?
It undid him.
“You’re bleeding,” you said softly.
He glanced down as if the concept were irrelevant. A thin line of crimson trailed from beneath his collar, soaking into dark fabric.
“It is insignificant.”
You walked closer. He didn’t move.
He should have told you to stop.
Should have stepped back.
Should have maintained distance, authority, and superiority.
Instead, he felt something dangerously close to anticipation.
You reached him.
Close enough that the faint aura of his power curled around you. It cold, electric, lethal.
It recoiled when it touched your skin.
Like even it knew better.
Your fingers lifted slowly. Vergil did not breathe.
You brushed the blood from his jaw with your thumb. Such a gentle motion, such a devastating one.
His demonic aura surged violently behind him, spectral wings unfurling in an instinctive display, horns of blue light curving from shadow. The air warped, distorting around his form.
He was terrible like this.
Beautiful and monstrous and untouchable.
You didn’t pull away.
Your hand remained steady against his face.
His control fractured, and he returned to himself.
If any devil in existence were to witness this moment, you standing before him without fear, touching him as if he were not destruction incarnate-
It would bow.
It would fall to its knees.
It would press its mouth to your forehead in repentance before it kneels in shame for ever believing darkness was sovereign.
The thought struck him hard and for once, he did not reject it.
His hand came up.
It slid around your wrist, then up your arm, then to your waist to pull you closer.
The movement was almost desperate.
You stumbled slightly against his chest.
He exhaled sharply.
“You do not comprehend,” he murmured, voice lower than the storm overhead, “what I would do for you.”
You tilted your head, completely unaware of the inferno you were standing inside. What you were tiptoeing the lines of.
“Then tell me.”
That was your mistake.
Because Vergil did not hesitate.
He lowered Yamato.
It slipped from his grasp and embedded itself upright into the fractured ground beside him.
Power, his greatest obsession, his constant companion, abandoned without thought.
His hand slid from your waist.
Down.
Lower.
He knelt.
Not slowly. His knee hit the ground hard like gravity itself demanded it.
Stone cracked beneath the impact.
The demonic aura around him flared wildly confused, and unstable as if it did not understand this choice.
He did not care.
Your breath caught.
“Vergil-”
His hands came to rest at your hips, not possessive, grounding.
His forehead pressed gently against your stomach, just beneath your ribs.
If kneeling made him weak, then weakness was divine.
If lowering himself meant surrender, then he surrendered willingly.
He would let heaven split again, he would let the abyss open wide, and he would still choose to kneel in the dirt at your feet.
He had sought power his entire life.
But this...
This felt greater.
“You stand before a creature forged in ruin,” he said, voice muffled against you, “and you touch me as if I am worthy of that touch.”
His grip tightened slightly.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to anchor himself.
“I would sever heaven and hell alike if they so much as cast a shadow upon you.”
There was no arrogance in it. He meant every word he has ever spoken to you.
Your fingers slid into his hair.
Slow and careful.
And he almost broke once more.
And yet here he was kneeling.
Because you deserved something holy.
Because you were something holy.
He tilted his head back just enough to look up at you and there was no pride left in his gaze. Only devotion so raw it bordered on something frightening.
“If the abyss itself demanded I crawl,” he continued quietly, “I would.”
Your hand trembled slightly in his hair.
“Vergil…”
His hand slid from your hip to take yours.
He lifted it carefully.
As though it were fragile crystal.
And he pressed his lips to your palm.
Not a brush. Not a fleeting gesture. A deliberate kiss.
The kind sworn in temples.
The kind that makes monsters reconsider their nature.
His eyes closed as he did it.
And for a moment the devil in him did not resist.
It did not sneer. It did not demand dominance.
It knelt with him.
When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.
With hunger and certainty.
“I do not care,” he mumbled into your palm softly, still on his knees before you, “if the world sees this as weakness.”
His thumb traced the inside of your wrist.
“You are the only thing I will ever willingly bow to.”
The storm approaching overhead finally broke.
Rain began to fall slow and steady.
It dampened his hair, soaked into his coat.
He did not move.
He did not rise.
Not until you cupped his face with both hands and whispered his name like it was something sacred.
And when he stood again, he did not stand above you.
He stepped into you.
Forehead resting against yours.
To Vergil, you are not defined by shape or color or form.
You are the presence capable of making a devil kneel.
vergil sparda x wife!reader. wc: reader wears skirts covered in pink from head to toe, vergil is such a softie with reader, reader meets dante and nero for the first time, all what nero and dante do is to be shocked. requested.
Vergil told you to meet him at the Devil May Cry office for the first time since you both met. He finally wants you to meet his family. So, you were eager to meet them that you arrived at the office early.
You opened the door to the office slowly. Vergil had told you that it'd be empty since they were all on a mission and would be back later, but you were met with shouts coming from two men. All look like Vergil.
"I told you!—" a shout from a younger looking man towards the older startled you. Now you get why Vergil didn't want you to meet his family until he finally became a bit closer to them.
"Uhm... hi?" Your soft voice and the clicking of your heels shut them up. Their heads turned towards you quickly, making them forget why they were fighting in the first place.
"Hey, how can we help you?" the older man spoke to you first, his elbow kicking the man beside him. "You—"
"Is Vergil here?" you asked, fixing your pink skirt under their confused stares. They both look dumbfounded, staring at each other with shock completely taking over their faces. Did you just say Vergil? How does someone as girly as you even know him?! “Uh, he might be here any moment now.” The younger man spoke while rubbing the back of his neck.
“Oh," you fidgeted with your fingers with nervousness as the younger man continued. "You can stay here and wait if you want—"
He got cut by the door swinging again, a tall, broad man entered the office. Your man.
"Love!" Your eyes lit up, a smile reaching your face. You walked as fast as you could with your heels and wrapped your arms around him. What the hell?
The men behind you froze, should they pull you away from him before he kills you? —No, it's too late. They won't be fast enough to prevent your death. The audacity you must have to hug the Vergil Sparda is- "hello, beloved."
Vergil's soft voice cut their thoughts. Vergil prepped his Yamato on the surface net to him before hugging you back, smelling your hair as he kissed the top of your head. "I see you've already met them."
You hummed in response with those goo-goo eyes Vergil can't resist, bringing your hand to his perfectly slicked back hair and messing up his hair —a habit you're used to doing whenever you see him. —, making it fall and some strands covering his sight. Yet, he didn't complain at all. Instead, there was a slight smile on his face. Vergil. Smiling. With a woman who's doing things people would get killed if they did it to him.
"Uhm... care to explain, brother?" the older man spoke up —which you assume is Dante and the younger one is his son, Nero—, reminding you that he and Nero are still in the same room.
Vergil’s smile dropped almost immediately, pulling away from you as he slicked his hair back. Vergil wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to his side before speaking. "I'd like to introduce you to my wife, ___."
"What?!" they both yelled at the same time, making Vergil's grip around you tighten. They dropped all their questions to you all at once. How did you meet? How long have you been married? When did you get married? How the heck did you pull Vergil's heart? Looking at Vergil, all board and cold and heartless, being with a pink covering from head to toe, soft and a girly girl woman? This can't even happen in dreams.
"Enough. You're annoying both me and my wife," Vergil said sharply. "You don’t have the right to interfere in our business."
"You— the Vergil sparda that doesn't have a single empathy in his heart.— literally came to my office with a gorgeous woman by your side, who is your wife and you didn't even mention her ever to us, and you expect us not ask questions?!" Dante ranted, gesturing widely with his arms. You couldn't help but chuckle at what's happening in front of you right now. Vergil doesn’t really like his brother and son.
Vergil turned his gaze to you, softening as soon as it landed on you. And oh god, they noticed it immediately.
Dante can't help but smile. Even though he can't believe what just happened in front of his eyes, he's happy that Vergil found someone who cares for him and loves him deeply. Yet, he can't stand one more time entering the office and finds you both all lovey-dovey. He's still not used to his brother like that.
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