everything you've got (Anakin, OC, NC-17)
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. I'm sure he'd never do anything like this with it. Fortunately, there is fanfiction. I'm not getting paid, but I sure do love it.
Author's note: estora wanted Obi-Wan/Padmé, but sadly my muse was insistent that there be Rynakin Sex first. So what we have here is an outtake!fic, taking place immediately after Beautiful Scars (yay continuity! - wyncatastrophe.livejournal.com/145222.html) that includes a flashback to early in their marriage. Warning: one of the reasons this is an outtake!fic is that it includes a fairly explicit depiction of sex, so ... NSFW.
Everything You've Got
Ryn lies back in the tub after Anakin is gone and wonders how long it will take him to realize that he forgot to let her take off her underwear before getting in. It’s a little selfish and smug, but she can’t help grinning as she works the soggy, clingy fabric down her thighs and drops the scrap of sodden silk and lace over the side of the tub to deal with later -- because Anakin was really distracted, no mistake. He couldn’t have faked forgetting her underwear, there at the end. He probably couldn’t have faked that kiss, either, but Ryn is wary of passionate kisses. They too often make false promises that neither partner can keep.
But sometimes ...
She remembers one night in particular, when things actually went right for a change and she wasn’t too caught up in trying to keep the damn contract to enjoy things -- or maybe, Anakin’s tenderness was enough to drag her out of her guilty, selfish misery for a little while.
It starts with a kiss ...
. . .
Ryn slides into bed and grins as Anakin opens his arms for her. Whatever else you can say about him in bed, he is at least affectionate.
“Mmm,” he says, nuzzling her hair as she snuggles closer. “You smell good.”
Ryn laughs a little. “It’s not me, it’s the soap. And thank you -- for the bath kit, I mean.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, sounding sleepy. “Did you have a good birthday?”
She shifts against him, soaking up his warmth. (It’s like having her very own space heater, sleeping next to Anakin.) “Hmmm. Yeah.” And because she knows Anakin well enough by now to know that he wants more, that he’ll accept her answer but not really be satisfied by it, she makes herself say the words: “It was a good day. Thank you,” and is rewarded by his quick flush of pleasure at her praise, something the Jedi never managed to train out of him.
Then he turns slightly, and she thinks he’s going to put his arm around her the way he often does, but instead of pulling her back against his chest, he strokes the curve of her waist and then teases that sensitive area between her hipbones with the backs of his fingers. Leans into her, just a little, and breathes over the shell of her ear: “Is there anything else milady wants?”
The rush is so intense she clenches inside, just a little. Reality dampens her reaction: shall make no sexual demands ...
But if he’s offering ... surely, if he’s offering, it can’t be wrong. They can’t fault her for answering a question he asks her himself, can they?
But maybe that isn’t what he meant.
Torn, Ryn risks a quick glance at Anakin’s face, registers his growing uncertainty ... and turns toward him, fitting her body to his. Tries to speak, with her heart fluttering in her throat, and finally manages to whisper: “Why? Do you ... have something for me?”
It’s the closest she can make herself come to saying it, and at first she’s afraid it isn’t quite enough: a trace of disappointment shadows Anakin’s eyes. But he tugs her a little closer and says, “Maybe ... if you want it?”
Ryn swallows hard, her heart pounding, and meets his eyes. “I want everything you’ve got.”
Anakin closes the distance between them.
He takes her mouth fast at first, with a strangled little moan of appreciation, and then he slows down. A lot.
It’s good.
Ryn takes a minute to remember that she could be responding -- because, well, the part of her brain that would tell her what to do has pretty well shut down at this point, and all she feels is Anakin. But when it finally penetrates that she could be doing something, she draws in a shuddering breath and runs her hands over the hard muscles of his back. Feels him tremble, just a little, in response, and figures that must have been the right thing to do.
He kisses his way down her neck and Ryn wonders whether it’s possible to come just from his mouth on her flushing skin. “Anakin ...”
He pulls back a little. “Not like that?” he asks, and Ryn laughs deliriously.
“Saints, yes, like that.” She arches into him, feels him smile into the crook of her shoulder. “Anakin ...”
“What?” he murmurs, kissing her again, driving her crazy. “What do you want?” More kissing, this time with some nibbles thrown in for good measure. “Tell me.”
“You,” Ryn gasps, twisting in his hands. “I want you.”
Anakin laughs, his breath warm on her skin “You have that.”
“More,” Ryn whispers, and slides down the bed so she can shove him onto his back and start licking her way down his chest.
It isn’t often she’s bold enough to touch him uninvited. Every time she reaches for him, aching with eagerness, she hears her own voice: I, Areth’ryn Orun, do hereby swear ... and the memory of her oath scourges her back into line more surely than a whip ever could. But this time, she figures well, he did ask, after all. And it’s not like he seems to mind; the noises he’s making aren’t exactly unhappy. She is even daring enough, just this once, to make a quick detour to tongue one tan nipple.
When Anakin jerks under her and curses in Huttese, Ryn pulls back, possibly more embarrassed than she’s ever been. “Sorry!” she yelps. “I didn’t mean -- I shouldn’t have -- I just thought --”
Anakin threads his fingers in her hair and pulls her mouth back to his chest. “Please.”
Ryn blinks in surprise, but she swirls her tongue over the taut little nub again and feels him buck against her.
“Aaaahhhhh ...”
Ryn can feel the smile of discovery spreading across her face; she shifts to straddle his hips and licks her way across to the other nipple.
“Ryyynnnn ...”
He’s shaking now, but he wraps his hands around her shoulders and hauls her up to exchange a lazy kiss before rolling to pin her beneath him. “Force, you’re good,” he whispers, and then he ducks and starts leaving love bruises all over the tender skin of her neck. Ryn clutches him tighter and cries out, over and over again, shaking so hard she feels like she might come apart in his hands, but it’s good, it’s so good, “Anakin don’t stop please Anakin ...”
He doesn’t stop, but he does distract her: pushing the nightgown she has taken to wearing in deference to his Outsider customs out of the way, running one hand under the thin fabric to caress her bare skin. Ryn twists against him and breaks free to help him pull the gown over her hair; they fall together in a tangle of limbs and Anakin laughs and trails wet kisses down the shallow valley between her breasts. “Love you,” he murmurs, and slips his fingers under the edge of her underwear. “Ready?”
She’s so ready she could break with it. I don’t want it to be over yet, but that wasn’t what he asked, so she nods jerkily and he yanks the stretchy black undies -- practical rather than feminine, but Anakin has always seemed to like them -- over her hips and down her thighs in one swift motion. She kicks them off her ankles and parts her knees for him, but when Anakin kneels between her thighs he starts kissing her belly instead, slow sweet kisses that cherish every hollow and curve. He kisses all the way down to her pelvis, and then nibbles his way across from hipbone to hipbone; she can’t remember when he figured out that light touches there drove her crazy, but he’s made good use of the knowledge since. It isn’t until he bends lower, to nuzzle the inside of her thigh, that Ryn realizes he’s doing something different, this time. “Anakin, what --”
“Sh,” he whispers into her skin, and kisses up into the join and then kisses her again, slowly, right ... there.
Ryn jerks and tries to sit up. “No! Anakin, stop ...”
He pulls back and meets her eyes, his own a little dazed. “Why?” he asks her softly.
Ryn fidgets, the warmth of his touch receding. “It’s ... you shouldn’t have to do that.”
He laughs. “I don’t have to, I want to. Can’t I touch my wife?”
Oh, right. The contract echoes in her ears again: nor deny ...
She nods quickly and lies back down. “Sorry.”
But Anakin doesn’t start kissing her again. Instead he leans over her, bracing himself with one hand against the mattress. “Ryn?”
Ryn meets his eyes cautiously. “Yeah?” It doesn’t come out quite right; she’s still a little breathless from the heights of arousal.
Anakin’s eyes are troubled; his I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t know what it is look. “Ryn, sweetheart, if you don’t want me to do that, I won’t.” He reaches out to caress her with his free hand, suddenly as awkward as a boy again. “I just thought ... you might like it.”
Ryn thinks she probably won’t. It seems too intimate, too embarrassing: too utterly vulnerable. But on the other hand, the anxiety written all over Anakin’s face is proof enough that he really wants to try.
It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose.
She grins shyly and wraps her legs around his waist. “I guess we won’t know until you try,” she suggests, and Anakin gives her an uncertain smile in return.
“Are you sure?” he asks her, sliding his hand down her belly again.
“Yeah,” Ryn says, because it’s Anakin and she trusts him.
“I’ll stop if you don’t like it,” he promises, and kneels to taste her again.
This time when he kisses her there, he murmurs sweet and entirely unexpected nothings into her wetness: “So beautiful,” he whispers, and tongues her entrance. “Ooohh, you taste so good. So good, sweetheart. Mmmm ...” He takes his time, working his way from feather-light brushes of his lips against her swollen flesh to gentle, probing licks, and then to a slow suckling motion over her clit that won’t let her lie still.
“Shhhh,” Anakin murmurs, when she jerks sharply enough to break contact. “Did I hurt you?”
She shakes her head. “N-no. A-anakin, please ...”
He pulls back to kiss her some more, and tug gently at her clit with his lips between softly voiced words of praise, and then without warning he slips a finger inside.
It’s like fireworks lighting up her nerve endings. Ryn arches off the bed with a cry and twists her fingers in his hair; she feels his breath of laughter against her sensitive flesh even as he sucks harder and teases her with the finger again, an insistent come-hither motion that makes her breath come in sharp, desperate pants. “Anakin, ohhhhh ...”
He doesn’t stop until she’s shaking wildly, inexplicable waves tugging at her inside like some sort of internal undertow, and he’s panting like he’s run a mile.
“Ryn -- Ryn, sweetheart, are you -- can you -- are you ready for me?”
Ryn nods fervently, reaching back for him, not even caring if this makes her a needy woman. “So ready,” she whispers, and he kneels between her thighs and parts her with shaking fingers.
When he drives home it’s like electricity, and Ryn jerks with the shock and then cries out at how good it feels. Then he starts to move, slowly at first and then gradually faster, lifting her hips with his hands to find that perfect angle that brings them both shuddering to the edge with every thrust. It’s the best thing in the universe, but apparently Anakin thinks it can be better, because he shakes his head and eases her back onto the bed until he can look in her eyes and whisper, “I love you.”
Ryn clutches at him, deep inside. Whispers: “Harder.”
His next thrust hits something so good that for a second she’s drowning. “I love you.”
Shaking: “Harder.”
This time he practically lifts her hips off the bed; Ryn bites down on her lip and tastes blood. “I love you.”
Harder she starts to say, but she can’t, because she can’t remember how to speak. She clutches again, again, again -- and then she just loses her mind.
. . .
Sitting in a bathtub all by herself, Ryn remembers, and frowns at the bubble bath. Because if the man who could do all that is sleeping just down the hill ... why is she here alone?
Author's note: estora wanted Obi-Wan/Padmé, but sadly my muse was insistent that there be Rynakin Sex first. So what we have here is an outtake!fic, taking place immediately after Beautiful Scars (yay continuity! - wyncatastrophe.livejournal.com/145222.html) that includes a flashback to early in their marriage. Warning: one of the reasons this is an outtake!fic is that it includes a fairly explicit depiction of sex, so ... NSFW.
Everything You've Got
Ryn lies back in the tub after Anakin is gone and wonders how long it will take him to realize that he forgot to let her take off her underwear before getting in. It’s a little selfish and smug, but she can’t help grinning as she works the soggy, clingy fabric down her thighs and drops the scrap of sodden silk and lace over the side of the tub to deal with later -- because Anakin was really distracted, no mistake. He couldn’t have faked forgetting her underwear, there at the end. He probably couldn’t have faked that kiss, either, but Ryn is wary of passionate kisses. They too often make false promises that neither partner can keep.
But sometimes ...
She remembers one night in particular, when things actually went right for a change and she wasn’t too caught up in trying to keep the damn contract to enjoy things -- or maybe, Anakin’s tenderness was enough to drag her out of her guilty, selfish misery for a little while.
It starts with a kiss ...
. . .
Ryn slides into bed and grins as Anakin opens his arms for her. Whatever else you can say about him in bed, he is at least affectionate.
“Mmm,” he says, nuzzling her hair as she snuggles closer. “You smell good.”
Ryn laughs a little. “It’s not me, it’s the soap. And thank you -- for the bath kit, I mean.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, sounding sleepy. “Did you have a good birthday?”
She shifts against him, soaking up his warmth. (It’s like having her very own space heater, sleeping next to Anakin.) “Hmmm. Yeah.” And because she knows Anakin well enough by now to know that he wants more, that he’ll accept her answer but not really be satisfied by it, she makes herself say the words: “It was a good day. Thank you,” and is rewarded by his quick flush of pleasure at her praise, something the Jedi never managed to train out of him.
Then he turns slightly, and she thinks he’s going to put his arm around her the way he often does, but instead of pulling her back against his chest, he strokes the curve of her waist and then teases that sensitive area between her hipbones with the backs of his fingers. Leans into her, just a little, and breathes over the shell of her ear: “Is there anything else milady wants?”
The rush is so intense she clenches inside, just a little. Reality dampens her reaction: shall make no sexual demands ...
But if he’s offering ... surely, if he’s offering, it can’t be wrong. They can’t fault her for answering a question he asks her himself, can they?
But maybe that isn’t what he meant.
Torn, Ryn risks a quick glance at Anakin’s face, registers his growing uncertainty ... and turns toward him, fitting her body to his. Tries to speak, with her heart fluttering in her throat, and finally manages to whisper: “Why? Do you ... have something for me?”
It’s the closest she can make herself come to saying it, and at first she’s afraid it isn’t quite enough: a trace of disappointment shadows Anakin’s eyes. But he tugs her a little closer and says, “Maybe ... if you want it?”
Ryn swallows hard, her heart pounding, and meets his eyes. “I want everything you’ve got.”
Anakin closes the distance between them.
He takes her mouth fast at first, with a strangled little moan of appreciation, and then he slows down. A lot.
It’s good.
Ryn takes a minute to remember that she could be responding -- because, well, the part of her brain that would tell her what to do has pretty well shut down at this point, and all she feels is Anakin. But when it finally penetrates that she could be doing something, she draws in a shuddering breath and runs her hands over the hard muscles of his back. Feels him tremble, just a little, in response, and figures that must have been the right thing to do.
He kisses his way down her neck and Ryn wonders whether it’s possible to come just from his mouth on her flushing skin. “Anakin ...”
He pulls back a little. “Not like that?” he asks, and Ryn laughs deliriously.
“Saints, yes, like that.” She arches into him, feels him smile into the crook of her shoulder. “Anakin ...”
“What?” he murmurs, kissing her again, driving her crazy. “What do you want?” More kissing, this time with some nibbles thrown in for good measure. “Tell me.”
“You,” Ryn gasps, twisting in his hands. “I want you.”
Anakin laughs, his breath warm on her skin “You have that.”
“More,” Ryn whispers, and slides down the bed so she can shove him onto his back and start licking her way down his chest.
It isn’t often she’s bold enough to touch him uninvited. Every time she reaches for him, aching with eagerness, she hears her own voice: I, Areth’ryn Orun, do hereby swear ... and the memory of her oath scourges her back into line more surely than a whip ever could. But this time, she figures well, he did ask, after all. And it’s not like he seems to mind; the noises he’s making aren’t exactly unhappy. She is even daring enough, just this once, to make a quick detour to tongue one tan nipple.
When Anakin jerks under her and curses in Huttese, Ryn pulls back, possibly more embarrassed than she’s ever been. “Sorry!” she yelps. “I didn’t mean -- I shouldn’t have -- I just thought --”
Anakin threads his fingers in her hair and pulls her mouth back to his chest. “Please.”
Ryn blinks in surprise, but she swirls her tongue over the taut little nub again and feels him buck against her.
“Aaaahhhhh ...”
Ryn can feel the smile of discovery spreading across her face; she shifts to straddle his hips and licks her way across to the other nipple.
“Ryyynnnn ...”
He’s shaking now, but he wraps his hands around her shoulders and hauls her up to exchange a lazy kiss before rolling to pin her beneath him. “Force, you’re good,” he whispers, and then he ducks and starts leaving love bruises all over the tender skin of her neck. Ryn clutches him tighter and cries out, over and over again, shaking so hard she feels like she might come apart in his hands, but it’s good, it’s so good, “Anakin don’t stop please Anakin ...”
He doesn’t stop, but he does distract her: pushing the nightgown she has taken to wearing in deference to his Outsider customs out of the way, running one hand under the thin fabric to caress her bare skin. Ryn twists against him and breaks free to help him pull the gown over her hair; they fall together in a tangle of limbs and Anakin laughs and trails wet kisses down the shallow valley between her breasts. “Love you,” he murmurs, and slips his fingers under the edge of her underwear. “Ready?”
She’s so ready she could break with it. I don’t want it to be over yet, but that wasn’t what he asked, so she nods jerkily and he yanks the stretchy black undies -- practical rather than feminine, but Anakin has always seemed to like them -- over her hips and down her thighs in one swift motion. She kicks them off her ankles and parts her knees for him, but when Anakin kneels between her thighs he starts kissing her belly instead, slow sweet kisses that cherish every hollow and curve. He kisses all the way down to her pelvis, and then nibbles his way across from hipbone to hipbone; she can’t remember when he figured out that light touches there drove her crazy, but he’s made good use of the knowledge since. It isn’t until he bends lower, to nuzzle the inside of her thigh, that Ryn realizes he’s doing something different, this time. “Anakin, what --”
“Sh,” he whispers into her skin, and kisses up into the join and then kisses her again, slowly, right ... there.
Ryn jerks and tries to sit up. “No! Anakin, stop ...”
He pulls back and meets her eyes, his own a little dazed. “Why?” he asks her softly.
Ryn fidgets, the warmth of his touch receding. “It’s ... you shouldn’t have to do that.”
He laughs. “I don’t have to, I want to. Can’t I touch my wife?”
Oh, right. The contract echoes in her ears again: nor deny ...
She nods quickly and lies back down. “Sorry.”
But Anakin doesn’t start kissing her again. Instead he leans over her, bracing himself with one hand against the mattress. “Ryn?”
Ryn meets his eyes cautiously. “Yeah?” It doesn’t come out quite right; she’s still a little breathless from the heights of arousal.
Anakin’s eyes are troubled; his I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t know what it is look. “Ryn, sweetheart, if you don’t want me to do that, I won’t.” He reaches out to caress her with his free hand, suddenly as awkward as a boy again. “I just thought ... you might like it.”
Ryn thinks she probably won’t. It seems too intimate, too embarrassing: too utterly vulnerable. But on the other hand, the anxiety written all over Anakin’s face is proof enough that he really wants to try.
It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose.
She grins shyly and wraps her legs around his waist. “I guess we won’t know until you try,” she suggests, and Anakin gives her an uncertain smile in return.
“Are you sure?” he asks her, sliding his hand down her belly again.
“Yeah,” Ryn says, because it’s Anakin and she trusts him.
“I’ll stop if you don’t like it,” he promises, and kneels to taste her again.
This time when he kisses her there, he murmurs sweet and entirely unexpected nothings into her wetness: “So beautiful,” he whispers, and tongues her entrance. “Ooohh, you taste so good. So good, sweetheart. Mmmm ...” He takes his time, working his way from feather-light brushes of his lips against her swollen flesh to gentle, probing licks, and then to a slow suckling motion over her clit that won’t let her lie still.
“Shhhh,” Anakin murmurs, when she jerks sharply enough to break contact. “Did I hurt you?”
She shakes her head. “N-no. A-anakin, please ...”
He pulls back to kiss her some more, and tug gently at her clit with his lips between softly voiced words of praise, and then without warning he slips a finger inside.
It’s like fireworks lighting up her nerve endings. Ryn arches off the bed with a cry and twists her fingers in his hair; she feels his breath of laughter against her sensitive flesh even as he sucks harder and teases her with the finger again, an insistent come-hither motion that makes her breath come in sharp, desperate pants. “Anakin, ohhhhh ...”
He doesn’t stop until she’s shaking wildly, inexplicable waves tugging at her inside like some sort of internal undertow, and he’s panting like he’s run a mile.
“Ryn -- Ryn, sweetheart, are you -- can you -- are you ready for me?”
Ryn nods fervently, reaching back for him, not even caring if this makes her a needy woman. “So ready,” she whispers, and he kneels between her thighs and parts her with shaking fingers.
When he drives home it’s like electricity, and Ryn jerks with the shock and then cries out at how good it feels. Then he starts to move, slowly at first and then gradually faster, lifting her hips with his hands to find that perfect angle that brings them both shuddering to the edge with every thrust. It’s the best thing in the universe, but apparently Anakin thinks it can be better, because he shakes his head and eases her back onto the bed until he can look in her eyes and whisper, “I love you.”
Ryn clutches at him, deep inside. Whispers: “Harder.”
His next thrust hits something so good that for a second she’s drowning. “I love you.”
Shaking: “Harder.”
This time he practically lifts her hips off the bed; Ryn bites down on her lip and tastes blood. “I love you.”
Harder she starts to say, but she can’t, because she can’t remember how to speak. She clutches again, again, again -- and then she just loses her mind.
. . .
Sitting in a bathtub all by herself, Ryn remembers, and frowns at the bubble bath. Because if the man who could do all that is sleeping just down the hill ... why is she here alone?