Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Star Wars
Padmé dreams.
She dreams of a humid, moonless night. A light breeze blows in through the open doors of the veranda, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine; the gauzy curtains twirl in her periphery.
Beneath her, lying supine, and writhing, is a ghost. His head thrown back, his long throat exposed. She runs her tongue along his pulse, to feel the blood pumping beneath his skin; to remind herself of his humanity. Padmé leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses from his jugular to lips.
She guides him inside her. She pins his wrists to the mattress. A willing supplicant. It turns her on; knowing he could easily overpower her and knowing he lets her take him as she pleases. It makes something low in her belly clench.
His face is strangely out of focus, the edges blurred. A hint of teeth, a flash of gold is all she can make out. His mouth moves; he's saying her name, but she can't hear him.
Then, she finds she can't breathe. Panic swells in her. The room grows hotter. His hands are now around her neck; squeezing. His face still distorted. Black spots burst like a supernova across her vision.
Padmé awakes with a hot, tight feeling between her thighs, and the nebulous impressions of a dream. She stretches herself out along the couch; she can hear the delicate popping of her spine, and the cracking of her ankles. Sighing, she opens her eyes, squinting against the harsh overhead light. An empty glass and an overturned bottle of wine sit on the low, oval table in front of her.
Sitting up, she works her fingers through her hair; unthreading the delicate silver wiring of her headpiece. She reminds herself not to wear it again; it had pinched at her scalp all day.
After a moment Padmé notices she's not alone. His breathing a familiar thing. Easy to tune out when one heard it as often as she did. He sits near the window, at the table she often takes breakfast at. His work spread out before him; a map casting a blue glow over his mask. He does not turn towards her when he asks, "What were you dreaming of?" The voice processor left little room for inflection, but his tone sounded odd.
The dream is fading, but with wetness between her legs and the memory of tanned skin it's easy to guess.
"I don't remember."
Sex was a fraught topic in their marriage, and she had no wish to fight over something as innocuous as a sex dream. He often turned mean when the limits placed on him by his injuries were brought up.
"Hm."
Even without the Force she could sense his change in mood. Hoping to ease him into a more agreeable one she moves to stand beside him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders, and pressing her cheek to the top of his helmet. She feels him lean into her.
Padmé takes care to look at his work, making note of anything that looks important to pass on later.
They share an amicable silence before he says, "He's dead."
Straightening up, she asks, "Who is?"
A beat.
"The man you were dreaming of."
Padmé pulls away.
The bitterness she tries desperately to repress thickens in her heart. A reminder, like the lash of an electro-whip, that this is not the man she married; that he is a cruel shade of her love.
Nails biting into her palm, she looks him dead in the eye when she says, "You needn't remind me, I live with his corpse."
She does not stay to hear his reply; she turns on her heel, and storms towards her rooms.
Later that night he comes to her rooms with intentions, and she spreads her legs willingly. Fucking herself on his hand, she comes with her face half-pressed against a pillow and the memory of a ghost behind her eyelids.