Work Text:
Sometimes, Padmé doesn't want to wait.
Sometimes, Anakin doesn't notice.
Just kisses her on the cheek, mutters his hello, eyes glassy, mind somewhere else. Walks past her, into the kitchen, gets himself a drink. The same routine.
She remembers when he used to talk, the very second he was within speaking distance: I’ve missed you so much. They don’t understand. He underestimates me. Why can’t they see. You know, I think they’re scared of me…
Actually, he usually didn't notice then, either.
Of course, he would respond in seconds if she took the initiative. Pushed him against the wall, described in detail the fantasy that had disturbed her scant moments of private thought for most of the day. And she would do exactly that, if she were not distracted by the shadows under his eyes, and worried by the way he evades her gently-expressed concerns. Her instinct to fight her own helplessness is at fault, undoubtedly; given there is an obvious explanation; given his evasion is evidence of a growing maturity she should do nothing but respect.
But still, she worries.
This evening, to her great pleasure, Anakin is not alone.
“Hello, Obi-Wan. No, please, leave the door open, it’s a little warm in here.”
The Jedi Master kisses her other cheek and pauses just inside the doorway, hands clasped together while Padme calls after her husband, "tough day?"
A muffled grunt is the only response. The chiller door slams. And mine? Fine, thank you darling...
Obi-Wan's wry smile could be mistaken for mild amusement, mockery even, of this small domestic scene. But she knows him better, and besides, that single sweep of his eyes has just given it away.
Obi-Wan has noticed.
Obi-Wan always notices.
Is always too polite to act on it, even though he knows she wants him to. Is respectful enough of Anakin's territory to still be waiting by the kriffing door, as if he hadn't been here before. Hadn't fucked her on the couch, just over there.
This isn't helping.
The carpet is sensually thick beneath her bare feet. She reaches for the pile of datapads on the table and sits, pointedly ignoring him until he gets the message and makes himself at home. She would like him to feel at home here. A shift of cool air makes her shiver, and she curls her legs up, tucking her naked feet below her gown.
She admires the muted blues and pinks of the sunset for a few moments before reaching for the pile of datapads on the table and re-immersing herself in the world of bureaucracy and legislation.
The sunset is beautiful, the sky streaked with pink above the city lights. Anakin’s arms are around her, although his mind is still elsewhere.
"I'm going to take a bath," she says, against his tunic.
He runs his hand over her hair, tilts her chin. Kisses her forehead. Kisses her lips. "Okay, just... don't make too much noise."
She smiles, nods. “We won’t.” Raises a hand to his cheek. "Now get some sleep, you've had precious little over the past week." Reaches up to kiss him again. "You shouldn't worry so much about her, you know, although it's commendable that you do. She is learning just by being around you, Obi-Wan must have told you that."
Anakin nods, tracing his thumb along her jaw. Lets his hand fall, and then, as she turns to leave, reaches out to pull her back.
She looks up at him, hoping... "Would you like me to stay with you?"
But, after a pause, he shakes his head, and whispers in her ear, as if they were discussing this in her senatorial office, not a private bedchamber.
"Wake me later."
He perches on the edge of the tub, dips a hand into the water, and strokes a finger from her knee to her calf. Murmuring her approval, she lets her head fall back. Her eyes drift closed as he continues to caress her, slowly, far too slowly, almost painfully slowly given the state she is in. She considers grabbing his arm, as she would Anakin’s; one quick tug might topple him in. But she decides against it. Too romantic. He would most likely resist, and she wants no awkwardness tonight.
A smile sneaks across her lips.
Civil cordiality, Obi-Wan, isn't that what you once called it?
Tracing her hip bone now, his hand moves higher, across her stomach, emerging from the water as it follows the rise of her breast, slippery and fragranced by the yoioba and jasmine oils she added with reckless indulgence.
She flutters her eyes open, and smiles again. "You're getting your sleeve wet."
He watches her intently, waiting for the moan that escapes her when his thumb slides over her nipple.
"Am I?"
Impatient, she reaches across with the opposite arm and grabs his wrist, stilling him. Bites her lip before speaking. "I want to watch you later. The two of you."
He cocks an eyebrow, but it's just an act. She's learnt how to read him, and how to melt the ice he so carefully constructs around himself. At least in certain circumstances.
"Then tell me, Senator. Whatever am I to do with you in the meantime?" His voice is a husky whisper against her ear, and she smiles and offers him her hand.
She dries herself carefully, slowly, and he stands back and watches, letting his eyes linger on her, knowing she likes it. One towel dispensed with, another wrapped around her, she decides to tease him further and reaches for scented oil she likes to apply to her skin after bathing, but he must have seen her mouth quirk up at the corner, because the next second he’s flipped her around and it pressing her against the cool, expensive ceramic of the vanity unit.
“Enough,” he says, gruffly.
She smiles some more, having got what she wanted, then turns to reach up and press a small kiss to his lips. “Sorry.”
He reacts by ridding her of the towel with a flourish. The mirror is steamed up so she can only see the blurry outline of him slowly, symmetrically, respectfully, tracing her neck, shoulders, arms. Carefully, he places her hands apart. Curls her fingers to grip the countertop. Drifts fingertips over her hands as he lets go.
The tenderness in that final touch takes her completely by surprise.
“Obi-Wan,” she murmurs, leaning back into his covered body, arching her neck, turning to find his lips again. And then he kisses her, in that disarming way he has: the way that acknowledges both the trust she speaks of freely, and the love he still cannot.
Will not.
Love doesn’t weaken us, Anakin had said. I wish we could show him. He’s very alone.
And so they had.
Obi-Wan pulls away from the kiss, and his hands leave her too as he discards his clothing. It had been because of this, though: the two of them, this connection that makes them far more than two separate parts of a different whole - a connection that Obi-Wan’s instinct is to resist, even if it is condoned, encouraged, even instigated by Anakin - only through this has she come to understand that they never really needed to show him at all.
How surprised she had been, to discover that the inscrutable Jedi Master (now grappling with a tangle of leggings and boots, then smiling against her shoulder when she murmurs for him to just leave the damn things on) had held, locked in his heart, the very same extraordinary, joyful, vibrant, wrenching emotion he had once instructed, demanded, even pleaded for her to abandon. Had drawn on that emotion for the strength to survive when the Force had abandoned him. Continues to hold back from her now, not because of his training, not because of a lack of desire, trust, or affection, but because of his pure, stubborn devotion to her husband.
Padmé tenses in anticipation as Obi-Wan’s hands grip her hips, slipping, then digging into her bath-softened skin. And so, mmm, it had emerged, she thinks, as his lips attack her neck and he positions her, nudging her legs apart with his knee, that all they really needed – and still need - to show Obi-Wan, is how to let himself go, and accept their love in ret-
Ohhhhh.
Her thoughts are shattered as he enters her in a single, long, exquisite thrust.
And yesssss.
She cries out, and nearly loses her grip on the vanity, because this is what she needed, exactly this, and the anticipation has made it almost unbearably good.
She wakes to the silhouette of her husband at the window: one hand against the glass, face turned towards the artificial glitter of Coruscant's night. As she shifts to prop her head on her hand, he turns, catching both her smile and the approving rake of her eyes down his body. His face relaxes, at least some of that familiar youthful mischief returning.
Better? she mouths.
He nods, and crosses back to the bed, kneeling on it and reaching over Obi-Wan’s sleeping form to kiss her. Then he sits back on his heels and turns his eyes to the man asleep between them. Padmé snuggles contentedly into her pillow. Anakin slips between the silky sheets, places a possessive hand on Obi-Wan’s cheek, and proceeds to use lips, tongue and teeth to tease the other man awake.
“Mmmhhhuhh,” Obi-Wan, groans, and flops a hand to the back of a curl-touselled head as Anakin's tongue invades his mouth. Anakin’s mechanical hand, meanwhile, skates from Obi-Wan's neck to his shoulder, skimming away the covers to expose the older man's body down to his waist.
"Wake-up-Master," Anakin croons, nuzzling Obi-Wan's neck before licking a line along his collarbone. Mischievous blue eyes fix on Padmé as the metal hand moves further downward, below the sheet, continuing its ministrations out of sight.
Damnable tease.
And damn herself too, for confiding that particular fantasy: the one that takes place in the sleeping quarters of her starship, in which a blanket might be sufficient to hide what they are doing from everyone else, but not from her.
Even less sufficient is a thin layer of light blue silk, beneath which Anakin’s devoted attentions are evidently insistent, well-honed, and… impatient. And it would appear that Obi-Wan, eyes still closed; mouth open; head tipped back; one hand plunged into his own hair as Anakin bites his neck, is just seconds away from flipping his former Padawan over and teaching him the meaning of that particular word.
Which is exactly when Anakin stops.
Kneeling again, he bites his lip, flashing her a lazy smile before turning to reach and fumble in the drawer of the bedside table.
When Padmé returns her gaze to the bed, her breath hitches. Obi-Wan is studying her, his eyes dark with arousal. She edges forward to press a single, soft kiss, to his lips.
“Mmmm,” he murmurs, and raises a hand to catch her chin as she pulls away. His eyes lock with hers, and he drifts a thumb over her lower lip, dipping into her mouth, then circling outward, moistening her lips with deliberate, obvious intent.
She’s surprised, and she feels her own heartbeat quicken at the prospect. He smiles roguishly when he recognises her comprehension.
Anakin’s return is heralded by a dramatic sweep and slither of sheets to the floor. Obi-Wan, now gloriously naked and fully, erm , awake, shifts on to his side, facing, but not touching her. She can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Anakin, Obi-Wan wants me to-"
"I know. He told me."
Anakin pours oil into his hand, places the bottle back on the table and then reaches down, out of her line of sight, to apply the honey and almond-scented lubricant to himself.
Of course he did. It's probably the only reason he's going to let you do this...
Padme watches intently as Anakin's hand closes around Obi-Wan's erection. He strokes once, then twice, and Obi-Wan's eyes drift shut, but immediately Anakin’s grip is loosened and the hand retreats back over Obi-Wan's hip. Anakin rests his forehead on the other man's upper arm, curls falling forward to hide a frown of concentration as his fingers begin to work out of sight. Obi-Wan lets out a low, soft moan, tilts his face into the pillow, and shifts his legs apart.
The routine is familiar: the roles much less so. For the next few minutes, then, the sight, and sound of Obi-Wan being prepared, entered and quite deliciously fucked by her husband is so intoxicating Padmé can barely breathe.
It is not long before Obi-Wan’s eyes open, and he reaches for her.
Padmé glances to Anakin as she wriggles down the bed. She is rewarded by adoration and lust in equal measure, and that, coupled with the vision of him thrusting slowly, languidly, against Obi-Wan, is something she quickly files away for those long, lonely, worrisome nights when the two of them are half a galaxy away .
Then, settling into position, she reaches forward and strokes her hand along Anakin’s hip. The second he stills his movements, guides Obi-Wan’s oil-sweetened and very hard cock into her mouth.
The two men moan together.
Obi-Wan bucks against her, and she instinctively steadies her hand against his body, guarding her position while she slides her lips up the length then back down again, her other hand pulling Anakin’s hip to encourage a rhythm that will do the work for her.
Anakin starts moving slowly, deliberately, at first. Obi-Wan moves with him, and, as she applies her tongue diligently in the way Obi-Wan likes, Padmé is well aware that both men are adjusting their movements so their eyes can remain fixed on her mouth.
This is probably what Obi-Wan envisioned, she reasons: this slow, lazy movement, gently working towards his release between the two of them. But this situation is potentially far more interesting. And she wants to give him more.
Far, far more.
An encouraging rake of her nails along her husband's backside communicates something of her intentions to Anakin. He hesitates at first, but then starts to thrust more deeply: trying to hit the spot that will make Obi-Wan moan in that raspy, debauched way they both love. But with the angle, perhaps, this position - it's not enough.
Harder, Anakin, she wills him. Harder.
Anakin's hand reaches to touch her cheek. She lifts it, squeezes it briefly, then places it firmly and decisively back on Obi-Wan's thigh.
And he must have got the message because Anakin lets his motions speed up, only the self-control of the man between them preventing the full impact being transmitted to her.
The self-control that they so badly want him to lose.
"Anakin, nnngh , what the f- uhh , slow down, for uuhhhh... "
Obi-Wan's resistance is steadfastly ignored.
“Master… Obi-Wan… mmm , so good…”
Anakin thrusts erratically, and Obi-Wan, trapped between insistent hardness and vulnerable softness, is close to losing it too, judging by the sounds he's making, the pulsing against her tongue, the hardness of his thigh muscles under her fingers and the fisting of his hand in her hair.
Surrender , Obi-Wan. Padmé refuses to be intimidated, refuses to gag, refuses to pull away...
Surrender.
“Can’t…” Obi-Wan grinds out, suddenly jerking forwards, once, twice, “can’t help… can’t stop…”
Neither of these two men are capable of hurting her, she knows that, and the thrill of being so close to their near-abandonment is intense. Yet there is fear now, too, rippling along her spine. Fear of their strength. They will sense it, one of them, soon, and stop...
Surrender.
Her lips are swollen and sore, her mouth beyond aching, her arms numb; but still she does not pull away, determined to experience this to the end of both men’s satisfaction.
A familiar, deep, strangled groan, tells her that Anakin has found it.
Surrender, Obi-Wan. Please...
And then he does. He even shouts as he comes, loudly enough that she's glad her apartment is so expansive. Hot liquid erupts into the back of her throat and he's holding her head firmly now, bucking against her so hard that she has no choice but to swallow.
Obi-Wan's fingers loosen as his climax ebbs, and finally his whole body slumps too.
When she's recovered enough to move, Padmé pushes herself away and flops onto her back. There, still half-tangled in Obi-Wan’s legs, she breathes, listens to their breathing, and stares, exhausted, but content, at the ceiling.
Well, not quite content. Not quite… satiated . But tired enough that she could easily sleep now, right here.
“Come here, baby.” Anakin’s strong arms reach for her, helping her up the bed, pulling her to his chest. Padmé smiles softly up at him, and pushes damp curls back from his face, relishing his sated, feline expression.
“ Haja , Padmé, are you all right?” Behind her, Obi-Wan sounds as weary as she feels, and yet his voice is edged with something. Concern, possibly. Or irritation.
“Fine, thank you darling," she says, as sweetly as she can manage. "How are you?”
No reply.
“I think we broke him, Padmé." Anakin kisses her nose, a gleam of victory in his eyes. "You'll have to be more gentle next time."
Obi-Wan makes a small, ill-tempered harrumph noise. The mattress shifts as he retrieves a sheet from the floor and covers them all with it.
Padmé turns, cautiously, in Anakin's arms, wrapping herself in him, not quite sure what to expect. Obi-Wan is still silent. She recalls something Anakin said to her once.
When he's really annoyed with me, he just refuses to say anything at all.
She finds Obi-Wan stretched out on his back, strands of hair attractively stuck down to his flushed forehead. And he's smiling: a charmingly confused, exhausted smile.
Noticing her appraisal and mistaking it for something else, Obi-Wan's smile fades and he raises a hand to her cheek. “Did I hurt you?”
“Shhh, no,” she interrupts, taking his hand and kissing the back of his fingers before tugging on them. “Just... come here.”
And this time, for the first time, Obi-Wan does not hesitate.
Padmé rests her head on his chest, his warmth matching the heat of Anakin at her back, and smiles when he kisses the top of her head. Beneath the sheet, his arm slips across her hip, just below her husband’s.
She's never told Anakin that this is how her starship fantasy ends. Well eventually, of course, after both men have shown her their combined gratitude for keeping quiet in that dimly-lit, claustrophobic compartment. But they’re both satisfied and sleepy now, and she’s achy, numb, and tired too.
And she's safe. In fact there is probably no safer place in the galaxy than right here: between the two of them.
Padmé relaxes, letting herself float towards sleep, mind wandering to how much she is going to hurt in the morning, and that, how unfortunate, she has a two hour meeting with Palpatine, she must not forget to tell Dormé to triple-check all her notes, and she'll get Threepio to contact the decorators again, ask them to use a different compound of paint this time...
And she’s so caught up in these fragmented thoughts, that she’s only half-conscious of the gentle kisses pressed to her shoulder, her cheek, her forehead, the back of her neck.
And the drift of calloused hands across her hip, her belly, her breast, her thigh…
Ah, boys.
Boys, boys, boys...