A Parody of Manners, 5/? PG-13: Obi-Wan, Anakin, Palpatine, Padmé, Bail Organa, others
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. This story is purely a work of fan fiction, from which I am not making any profit.
Chapter title is a cliché, but in this case it was inspired by "One and Only," from ADELE.
~*~*~*~
A PARODY OF MANNERS
CHAPTER FIVE
[nobody's perfect]
~*~*~*~
“Padmé,” Anakin panted, hanging onto the headboard and the fragile shreds of his self-control with equal fervor. “Tell me ... what you need, Sweetheart.”
Padmé would like to do just that; it sounded wonderful. It was awful to disappoint him, when he was working so hard to bring them both to fulfillment. But the truth was, she didn’t know the answer to his question: she didn’t know what she needed, only that she needed it bad, and most of her shaky concentration was invested in not bucking her hips at him like some kind of harlot.
Ryn would probably move like a harlot.
There were several problems with this thought. The first was that she was thinking, not enjoying the feel of Anakin moving inside her. (He surged again, pulling her hips tighter against his, and Padmé bit her lip to keep from crying out, but then he pulled away again and it was gone.) Another was that Anakin had never actually come out and said he’d ever slept with Ryn, and Padmé couldn’t bring herself to ask him about it. It was none of her business in the first place; it wasn’t like she’d been waiting on him, all those years, when she still thought of him as that little boy she left on Tatooine. But she wasn’t sure she could bear to ask and hear him say that Ryn was better. (He wouldn’t, her common sense whispered, but worry was louder.) And usually she didn’t think about Ryn when she and Anakin were together - well, not obsessively, anyway. But this time she was right here, under the same roof, loose and available and crazy about Anakin. And she probably wouldn’t hesitate to make a fool of herself, throw dignity to the wind and just, yes, fuck with abandon ...
Padmé couldn’t possibly compete with that, anyway. All she could do was try to make love like a lady and hope that Anakin preferred the love of a good woman to Ryn’s harlot tricks, like ... like ...
“Padmé, love,” Anakin gasped raggedly, running his hand down her body, “... just ... come on ...”
Ryn would probably rake her nails down his back and scream at him to take her harder, wrap her legs around his hips and ...
Padmé carefully uncurled her fingers and took a deep breath, forcing her knees to straighten.
“Padmé, I can’t ... can’t ... unnnnngh.” Anakin shuddered, eyes squeezing shut, and collapsed, trembling, in her arms.
She held him close and petted his hair, damp with sweat.
“Was that ...” he was still breathing hard; she could feels his ribs heaving against hers “... good? For you?”
He met her eyes anxiously, and Padmé panicked and pasted on a smile. “Perfect, my love.”
The look that came over his face then almost was.
[~~~]
Obi-wan found his operative on the patio, wrapped in something diaphanous that didn’t fill any of the usual functions of clothing and dragging on a death stick.
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to tell her those things will kill you, and then he got a good look at her face in profile and realized that it wasn’t the death sticks that were killing her.
“Rough night?” he said instead.
Ryn shrugged and flicked ash over the railing. “Not too bad.” She took another drag and added reflectively, “I don’t know whether Senator Taa made a move on his assistant or not, but I can tell you that if she turned him down, it was her loss.”
She sounded bitter about it. Obi-Wan studied the clean line of her back in the moonlight, tense and straight and somehow desperately unhappy. “That good, huh?”
Another twitchy little shrug. “Free doesn’t have to play, he just likes to watch the game.”
Obi-Wan thought, Free? But he watched her take in more toxic, intoxicating fumes while he tried to work through that one. “I’m not familiar with that expression,” he said finally.
Ryn blew smoke at him, the image of every rebel without a prayer. “Means he can’t keep it up, but he likes to see someone else have a good time.” She shook her head. “He’s a little weird, but he’s not a sexual predator, Obi-Wan. Doesn’t the Republic have anything better to do than chase down dirty old men?”
At least part of Ryn’s problems right now were his fault, so Obi-Wan tried to keep his patience with her. “If he is behaving suggestively toward his Senatorial staff, that is still a violation of the ban -”
“Yeah,” said Ryn, turning to face him with that wry grin that was all in her eyes. It looked more bitter than he remembered. “How is Satine, by the way?”
Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes at her. “Your sense of humor is reprehensible.”
Ryn drew on the death stick, hard enough to hollow her cheeks. “There’s a war on,” she reminded him, blowing a smoke ring. “And this is what the Jedi are worried about? The sex lives of lusty aristocrats?”
Obi-Wan glanced at the mostly-empty bottle of alcohol beside her and sighed. “Does Loreth have sexual harassment legislation?”
Ryn grinned at him, only swaying a little bit. “We don’t even have harassment.”
Obi-Wan folded his arms and gazed at her coolly. “No one on your world has ever been pressured to have sex?”
That look didn’t work on Ryn even when she was sober. “Sure.” Ryn swayed again and turned it, most unfairly, into a cheeky swagger. “But then you just tell everybody they weren’t any good.”
Obi-Wan lifted one eyebrow. “And this strategy works?”
“Oh, hell yeah.” Ryn nudged the bottle with the blade of her foot, flipping it into the air so she could catch it, one-handed. Galactic reflexes, going to waste before his eyes. “Don’t get mad, get even.” She sucked down the last of her death stick, tossed the butt aside, and yanked out the stopper on the gin bottle. “Drink?”
Obi-Wan looked at her in the darkness, beautiful and talented and utterly lost. “No, thank you.”
Ryn shrugged one last time and went back to drowning her sorrows, and Obi-Wan left her alone, feeling uncomfortably aware that he had entirely too good an idea what those sorrows were.
[~~~]
“This is as good as a holovid,” Breha Organa declared, leaning into her husband’s arm as they both peered over the edge of the stairwell in center of the house to watch the comings and goings. Top of the list: Senator Orn Free Taa's aide Beiy'ssa was canoodling with a Rodian from Mon Mothma's entourage. “Doesn’t anyone ever stay in their own room at these things?”
Bail kissed the top of his wife’s head. “I do.”
She tugged at his arm, drawing him back toward the door of their suite with a mischievousgrin. “Show me.”
Chapter title is a cliché, but in this case it was inspired by "One and Only," from ADELE.
~*~*~*~
A PARODY OF MANNERS
CHAPTER FIVE
[nobody's perfect]
~*~*~*~
“Padmé,” Anakin panted, hanging onto the headboard and the fragile shreds of his self-control with equal fervor. “Tell me ... what you need, Sweetheart.”
Padmé would like to do just that; it sounded wonderful. It was awful to disappoint him, when he was working so hard to bring them both to fulfillment. But the truth was, she didn’t know the answer to his question: she didn’t know what she needed, only that she needed it bad, and most of her shaky concentration was invested in not bucking her hips at him like some kind of harlot.
Ryn would probably move like a harlot.
There were several problems with this thought. The first was that she was thinking, not enjoying the feel of Anakin moving inside her. (He surged again, pulling her hips tighter against his, and Padmé bit her lip to keep from crying out, but then he pulled away again and it was gone.) Another was that Anakin had never actually come out and said he’d ever slept with Ryn, and Padmé couldn’t bring herself to ask him about it. It was none of her business in the first place; it wasn’t like she’d been waiting on him, all those years, when she still thought of him as that little boy she left on Tatooine. But she wasn’t sure she could bear to ask and hear him say that Ryn was better. (He wouldn’t, her common sense whispered, but worry was louder.) And usually she didn’t think about Ryn when she and Anakin were together - well, not obsessively, anyway. But this time she was right here, under the same roof, loose and available and crazy about Anakin. And she probably wouldn’t hesitate to make a fool of herself, throw dignity to the wind and just, yes, fuck with abandon ...
Padmé couldn’t possibly compete with that, anyway. All she could do was try to make love like a lady and hope that Anakin preferred the love of a good woman to Ryn’s harlot tricks, like ... like ...
“Padmé, love,” Anakin gasped raggedly, running his hand down her body, “... just ... come on ...”
Ryn would probably rake her nails down his back and scream at him to take her harder, wrap her legs around his hips and ...
Padmé carefully uncurled her fingers and took a deep breath, forcing her knees to straighten.
“Padmé, I can’t ... can’t ... unnnnngh.” Anakin shuddered, eyes squeezing shut, and collapsed, trembling, in her arms.
She held him close and petted his hair, damp with sweat.
“Was that ...” he was still breathing hard; she could feels his ribs heaving against hers “... good? For you?”
He met her eyes anxiously, and Padmé panicked and pasted on a smile. “Perfect, my love.”
The look that came over his face then almost was.
[~~~]
Obi-wan found his operative on the patio, wrapped in something diaphanous that didn’t fill any of the usual functions of clothing and dragging on a death stick.
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to tell her those things will kill you, and then he got a good look at her face in profile and realized that it wasn’t the death sticks that were killing her.
“Rough night?” he said instead.
Ryn shrugged and flicked ash over the railing. “Not too bad.” She took another drag and added reflectively, “I don’t know whether Senator Taa made a move on his assistant or not, but I can tell you that if she turned him down, it was her loss.”
She sounded bitter about it. Obi-Wan studied the clean line of her back in the moonlight, tense and straight and somehow desperately unhappy. “That good, huh?”
Another twitchy little shrug. “Free doesn’t have to play, he just likes to watch the game.”
Obi-Wan thought, Free? But he watched her take in more toxic, intoxicating fumes while he tried to work through that one. “I’m not familiar with that expression,” he said finally.
Ryn blew smoke at him, the image of every rebel without a prayer. “Means he can’t keep it up, but he likes to see someone else have a good time.” She shook her head. “He’s a little weird, but he’s not a sexual predator, Obi-Wan. Doesn’t the Republic have anything better to do than chase down dirty old men?”
At least part of Ryn’s problems right now were his fault, so Obi-Wan tried to keep his patience with her. “If he is behaving suggestively toward his Senatorial staff, that is still a violation of the ban -”
“Yeah,” said Ryn, turning to face him with that wry grin that was all in her eyes. It looked more bitter than he remembered. “How is Satine, by the way?”
Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes at her. “Your sense of humor is reprehensible.”
Ryn drew on the death stick, hard enough to hollow her cheeks. “There’s a war on,” she reminded him, blowing a smoke ring. “And this is what the Jedi are worried about? The sex lives of lusty aristocrats?”
Obi-Wan glanced at the mostly-empty bottle of alcohol beside her and sighed. “Does Loreth have sexual harassment legislation?”
Ryn grinned at him, only swaying a little bit. “We don’t even have harassment.”
Obi-Wan folded his arms and gazed at her coolly. “No one on your world has ever been pressured to have sex?”
That look didn’t work on Ryn even when she was sober. “Sure.” Ryn swayed again and turned it, most unfairly, into a cheeky swagger. “But then you just tell everybody they weren’t any good.”
Obi-Wan lifted one eyebrow. “And this strategy works?”
“Oh, hell yeah.” Ryn nudged the bottle with the blade of her foot, flipping it into the air so she could catch it, one-handed. Galactic reflexes, going to waste before his eyes. “Don’t get mad, get even.” She sucked down the last of her death stick, tossed the butt aside, and yanked out the stopper on the gin bottle. “Drink?”
Obi-Wan looked at her in the darkness, beautiful and talented and utterly lost. “No, thank you.”
Ryn shrugged one last time and went back to drowning her sorrows, and Obi-Wan left her alone, feeling uncomfortably aware that he had entirely too good an idea what those sorrows were.
[~~~]
“This is as good as a holovid,” Breha Organa declared, leaning into her husband’s arm as they both peered over the edge of the stairwell in center of the house to watch the comings and goings. Top of the list: Senator Orn Free Taa's aide Beiy'ssa was canoodling with a Rodian from Mon Mothma's entourage. “Doesn’t anyone ever stay in their own room at these things?”
Bail kissed the top of his wife’s head. “I do.”
She tugged at his arm, drawing him back toward the door of their suite with a mischievousgrin. “Show me.”