AN:

Cheire – I love this comment!


I'm In Love


It was not a good start to the day. The morning had Padme wound up with the effects of restless sleep. She is aureoled by the kiss, the relentlessness of last night's vibrations. She sat opposite Miss Scintel, trying to correspond with reality, maintain concentration. But her head was scrambled with all the images, feelings of a wish unfulfilled.

As she muddles through, blocking the distractions, she knocked her handbag off the table with an unfocused hand gesture. Her bag tipped over and the book she was reading fell to the floor. Scintel reached to pick up the book as Padme collected her bag and the items that were scattered around it.

"D.H. Lawrence." Scintel read out loud, confounded, trying to reconcile her young, pretty, quite conservative and reserved lawyer with her choice of book. She then, with a nod of approval, quoted from memory: "A woman has to live her life, or to repent not having lived it."

Padme sat back down on her chair, regaining composure. "Yeah, I thought it was time I saw what all the fuss was about."

"He had a reputation." Scintel handed the book back to her. "But if one is to criticize, one must first understand. You'll be surprised at how much wisdom is found in someone's darkness."

"I think I've learned quite a bit from him already. . .about life and, hopefully, men." Padme chuckled softly, to which Scintel offered her a beam of lively intellect.

"Men and women aren't complicated. Only man and woman. But once you understand man and woman, you understand all men and all women."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Padme found it odd that Scintel thought in such generalizations – especially considering how she now describes herself as a writer. Perhaps it was in the same way that comedians generalize on stage, knowing it is only for the purpose of their art material. Padme never wanted to see the world with such absolute lenses. It is the circumstances, trials and tribulations of life that shape the individual. Maybe for Miss Scintel it was easier to see the world as less individualistic. But for Padme it was clear that if one isn't to dig deep into what makes us individuals, we'd never truly see anyone.

Padme has always been interested in people, she is fascinated by the psychology we form from childhood. Conversely, Anakin was more interested in things: technology, machinery–

–why is he in my thoughts? After all her efforts to take on the day cerebrally – and ignore all emotional responses to the night before – he still found a way to crawl back in, swimming in her head. Even in her mind, he is vulgar.

"Listen, uhm–" Scintel spoke with hesitance. "Forgive me – and you can say no if you want to – but would you be interested in reading my work? Give me notes, feedback. . .just so I can get an idea of how the general public might react?"

She was quite taken with Padme's thirst for knowledge and thought who better to give a fair critique and understanding.

"Sure!" Padme was intrigued to uncover the inner-workings of a woman who talked like she loved secrets, like she had a key to the underbelly of the human psyche, and she wanted to disclose it with all its nakedness.

"All I've got are sixty-five pages so far."

"Gotta start somewhere." Padme encouraged, and Scintel smiled back freely, raving.

"I'll email them to you."


Anakin must have been waiting to hear Padme's keys dangling in the hall because he popped his head out the door as soon as she arrived.

"You're back!"

"I got off early." She met his smile with an equally genuine one.

"Made dinner plans?" He asked.

She shook her head softly, slow, waiting for an excuse to be with him. "Not yet."

"You wanna go get something to eat?" He grabbed his keys, shutting his door behind him and immediately approached her like he hadn't eaten in days.

His steps are arranged with certainty, indomitable. It installs her in the reaping of the present. His eyebrows are slender lines, they make him look furious, serious, committed, threads that pinch nerves. But his complexion is far from pallid; his cheeks lit up with rapturous power – one you cannot subdue or defeat.

He excludes any distractions in their surroundings that interfere with his blind obsession. It forces her to cease control of anything that deviates from this moment. Hesitance isn't something she is clutching onto anymore, only eagerness. She knows that there is only one more step to bring him close to her, and it will have her succumbing to what they both need – to desire and to be desired.

"Sure." Her feet take root, almost waiting for him to claim her. The rhythm of their breathing changes; there was no semblance of order in the rhythm, but together they sounded in unison.

He invokes her vulnerability with his eyes like dagger thrusts. There was no way she could remain intact.

"Or, we could–" He paused, studying her as he takes that step closer. He is so tall, so muscular that she is ready to give herself over. They talk slow while their hearts beat fast. It was too much to wait this long to stimulate hunger – who could starve for this long and still think straight.

"Stay in." He finished with a final breath, tense, low.

"Yeah." She nodded avidly, nervously; her gaze on his mouth. Her voice not quite catching up with her breath.

His lips crash into hers desperately, meeting her very ready mouth. She is helpless as he takes hold of her with competency. Not as chivalrous as he hoped he'd be, more pushy instead, culminating a thrill that has her dropping her keys on the floor.

He bends down to pick them up and his hands graze her legs on his way up, with her keychain hanging off his index finger like a large ring. He stops when his hands are splayed across her bottom, and he lifts her up. Her legs are now clamped around him, her hot tongue is in his mouth as he strives to get her door open.


The door swung open quite savagely. Anakin threw her key in the bowl beside the door. Or at least he thinks he did. He didn't bother to look – his one-track mind was on kissing her. She manages to push the door closed while he carried her. He walks her to the nearest wall for stability. He presses his bulge against her – as if he wouldn't make it all the way into the house without a teaser, a quick hit, as they continue to tussle and waltz their way in.

They ravage each other with open-mouthed kisses and she breathes out muffled moans in between each brushing of the lips, "The bedroom's the door to your right."

He rushed through the door with her in his arms, and plants them on the bed. He hurriedly unbuttons her blouse and quite impatiently as he thinks he may have torn one off when he ripped her shirt open. Her shirt falls at her sides. He stops, transfixed by the fullness of her breasts popping out of her bra. The sight of her body, its richness, its womanly splendor makes him dizzy.

They undress each other with urgency and care. Stealing a kiss whenever they could, between, during, the removal of each layer... until there is nothing preventing their bare souls from touching, and every emotion is naked, without a camouflage. But it feels good to lay it all out there, honest and open about what makes you weak, excited, dissipated.

He looks down at her desirable mouth, her rouge lips parted. With an earthiness, lustiness, fierceness he lowers his lips to hers – too famished to wait any longer.

He divined her state of happiness, which touches conjure up her lascivious cries, back arches, which ones make her beg, what makes her fervently open her legs for him. The head of his penis glides over her clitoris. She is wet and warm, inviting and pulsing. She had never ached for someone so much before – her entrance had a heartbeat. He slides in and their bodies both tighten, immersed in physical, spiritual desire.

Fuck. He mumbles under his breath – dissolved with rapture. They lose themselves in each other and thus reveal themselves to each other. It was overwhelming – but they were overwhelmed together.

Her hands caress his back, imprinting with her sensuality. He had never been touched with such delicacy before. It melded well with his violent impulses – taming them. A transparent alchemy, where water and smoke mix. The fatality of consciousness. It could be destructive or fecund. She is like water when she moves under him. She could be carried away by the storm of his fire, but she could also drown it out. And when her hands reach up to his hair, he has never felt more serene. The fire simmers down. It is now the light flame of a candle, as long as he didn't pour his intoxications onto it.

Primitive instincts arouse in him but he is cautious. The most cautious he has ever been, like he was defusing a bomb and trying his hardest not to let it go off. His pace is that of someone who has never been steady but has something to prove to her, to himself. He was so passionate, it stirred something torrential in her. She meets his thrusts with her hips. The mind becomes crazed by the body experiencing flights of opulent colours – nothing painted in imagination could compare.

Her soft moans are beautiful, sexy, a song growing louder at the chorus, and her voice is nothing short of hypnotic. It tempts and sways the ears, cutting through his concentration, his sense of control.

"Shh." He covers her mouth with the palm of his hand. "I'm really trying to pace myself here." The weight of his voice is heavy, almost defeated. His voice is a dichotomy of his split soul. He talks with a mellowness, a soft rasp – but brutal. Youthful yet manly.

She looks directly at him. At his golden-blonde hair, angelic. At his eyes, observant and cool on the surface. Then at his mouth, which is more honest, it is greedy and open.

Her face was also a mystery, that he couldn't quite read, displaying such innocence. "Well, don't."

He stares at her in wonderment. He feels validated in his urge to be unrestrained, liberated. He flips her over with the avarice, vigour of a man set loose. He is treacherous and chaotic as he grips her hips, positioning her lush buttocks against his pelvis, dying to possess her.

He becomes uninhibited, inflamed, animal. He pounds into her to dominate, to conquer unexplored realms. He is rampant, intense with his intent. She grows desperate, reaching out to hold onto something, anything, scrunching up the sheet in her fists. Her hair disordered about her shoulders. He continues to ravish with an amorous force, and she screams into her pillow. She then crawls up on her elbows. He wraps his arm around her stomach, pulling her back to him, so she is forced to kneel up. Her body leans back against his and her head falls back onto his shoulder, supported by his hand that felt her breasts on his way up. He wraps his fingers around her neck, to cradle – and squeeze just a little – to relish having her in the palm of his hand.

She has surrendered to his violent cravings; his hand on her neck, his lips on her ear, and his other hand now in between her legs – his fingers working her, an encirclement enhancing her sensitivities. If this was an emotional crisis, then let it torment her with excruciating pleasure. She becomes consumed by the rhapsodic climax, which has him going off like a gunshot. He is full, free, and driven to madness. His orgasm is like him, assertive, instinctual.

She collapses forward, rolling herself onto her back with a pounding heart, full of gratitude. Shocked and satisfied with what he did to her, she gasps softly for air, "Anakin..."

He loved the sound of his name leaving her sensuous lips. His disarming smile glows from within. He purrs, "Padme."

He collapses on top of her. His head on her chest. Their hearts settle down together as her fingers run through his hair, replenishing him as they deepen the essence of their connection.

What the hell was she doing with her life if she wasn't doing this? Living without what is so vital, so human. She never knew it could and should feel this good. It was a transformative experience, a bond. And from now on, anything less meant sacrificing the gift of life itself. It was the most natural high, heightened. When they made love, they created ecstasy in her bed. And she will never recover.


I can taste you on the tip of my tongue; you're by my side

And when we wake up, never had a feeling like that

When I kiss your lips, feel my heartbeat thump

And then we make love right there

And then you say "Love, this is what it's all about"

So keep on kissing my mouth and put that record on again


Padme was reminded of what she felt when she read about love in Greek mythology – agape and eros, specifically. How distinct it was. How conflicted love seemed, like it was a hopeless struggle to search for a balance in between two halves. But as she watches the beautiful man in her bed, she relies on a wordless intuition. He is the distillation, the purification of the myth she had read about.

He blended both, agape and eros, and she could see it now more vividly than ever. Like an alarm ringing in her gut. She had no option but to accept it with candor. And it was refreshing, startling. She had exposed herself to the value of the human spirit – when in balance.

Anakin was the picture of conflict, the image in folk tales, fairytales, and mythology. Always written about. Never fully seen. He was the impulsive, erotic, intense lover. Yet the protector, the supporter. The mind defined by agape, the highest form of love – which was probably why he was a little nuts with that ever-working psyche. But without a doubt, his body was defined by eros – probably why he was so physically and ambitiously reckless.

That's why love is often incongruous, out of harmony... because we are missing that balance. The tension between the selfish and unselfish, the light and dark, the rough and the tender, the dangerous and the safe, the romantic and the realist, the creative and the destructive, the perverse and the innocent. The duality of us, of the masculine and the feminine. And we need to be in touch with all of it.

She couldn't take her eyes off him now. He lived and breathed every emotion. Vulnerably. Feeling with such strong conviction. Like he studied his own emotionalism to a torturous degree, oscillating between powerful and insecure. He was in touch, perhaps far too in touch, with his feelings and without restriction – his aggression, neuroses, jealousy, glee, fear. And it made her want to be that authentic, that explosive, on this journey of self discovery.


I don't wanna hear sad songs anymore

I only wanna hear love songs

I found my heart up in this place tonight

Don't wanna sing mad songs anymore

Only wanna sing your song

'Cause your song's got me feeling like I'm

I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love


Rita Ora - Your Song (Ed Sheeran Acoustic Version)