A/N: I am the worst when it comes to actually getting stories done. I've always wanted to write the story of how Anakin and Padme decided to go from admitting their feelings to full-blown marriage, to fill in the gaps from the hangar scene on Geonosis to the evening ceremony at Varykino. I've been holding onto this one for a while, and I've had to accept that I may only every contribute this section to the world - even though I have other sections done as well. Maybe sharing this will spark me to finish something that I've started. The good news for you is that this can be read as a single story without any unduly long cliff-hanger lack of updates. Like I said, I really am the worst.

A/N (updated as of March 19th, 2023): I have started posting the above-mentioned story in its entirety but I will leave this section up a while longer due to popular demand. But be warned, dear reader, there is a pretty good change that while the event below will eventually be incorporated into the larger work, some of the specific details here may evolve and/or change. Be sure to check out Interlude if the tale of "I truly, deeply love you" to "I do" seems like your jam!

May 12th, 2023: Have tweaked a few details in this to have it align more with other WIPs. Knowing you sharp-eyed peeps, I have faith you will spot them. ;)

Reviews are always appreciated!

Part I

...

The moment they enter the sitting room, she thinks she's made a terrible mistake. As she takes in the familiarity of her surroundings - the hearth has been lit to ward off the cooling evening air, the lights dimmed to a more intimate setting - Padmé realizes there is too much memory in here.

"From the moment I met you…"

His phantom words come back to her in an instant, the unabashed sincerity of his confession ringing in her ears, the way he had pressed forward, with an intensity so raw, she had spooked, jumping up from the exact spot where she now finds herself seated. Anakin's hand slides out of hers and he turns away, much as she had done to him then. He stands quietly as if to contemplate the fire; though, Padmé wonders if he's also reliving the last exchange they had in this room.

Before she can ask, Threepio totters in with a tray laden with wine. He's taken his task to heart – at least with what heart a protocol droid can have – and added a various assortment of fruits and cheeses to the platter.

"I do hope this is acceptable, Miss Padmé," he says, worrying himself unnecessarily with the arrangement of the two wine glasses. "Forgive me for not serving. These joints won't allow me to manage the seal."

Out of the corner of her eye, Padmé sees Anakin flex his prosthetic fingers, but he remains turned away from her, and she cannot gauge his expression.

"Thank you, Threepio," she says, more calmly than she feels. "I'm sure we will manage."

The droid steps back, and even though she knows it isn't possible, she imagines she can almost see the gold plating over his chest swell, as if to prepare for more fuss with another breath.

"That will be all, Threepio," Anakin says, finally turning to face them. He reaches for the bottle of wine, fits the bottle opener, and unstoppers the cork through the seal in one swift motion. Pouring out two glasses of wine, he raises his gaze to see the droid still hovering uncertainly, and repeats, "I said that will be all, Threepio."

Though Anakin has only been back in her life for three weeks – has it really only been such a short time? – she hears the slight waver in his voice. Somehow, the realization of their shared apprehension calms her own nerves. She smiles gratefully as Anakin passes her a glass.

"Master Ani, if I may…" C-3PO begins in earnest.

"Threepio!" they say in unison, Anakin's tone one of exasperation, hers more a gentle admonishment. Anakin grins at her, the moment of levity enough to break through the tension, and he comes to sit by her side.

"Thank you for the refreshments, Threepio. You and Artoo can power down for the evening," Padmé says.

Artoo tootles and wheels a circle, before bumping into a still protesting C-3PO, who wobbles stiffly, struggling to keep his balance. Mercifully, he follows the retreating astromech, berating his companion's inexcusable manners.

"If you had let me explain, I was only trying to assist…"

His words are drowned out when Artoo chortles back.

"…understand wedding customs, more probably than you… Why wouldn't they need us anymore this evening?"

As if issuing a derisive snort, Artoo beeps a distinctly abrupt noise before gurgling a string of sounds that suggests the little astromech may have more understanding of wedding customs than his programmed counterpart and why two droids won't in fact be needed any further this evening.

At least, Padmé surmises this from the way Anakin snaps his head towards the retreating duo, his face turning a brilliant shade of red. While she had always been able to interpret the general tone of Artoo's whistles and beeps, Anakin had always seemed to wholly understand the droid's binary.

When he notices her watchful stare, he tries to nonchalantly sip at his wine, swallows wrong, and ends up coughing hard enough that she hurriedly sets down her own glass and moves to help. Clearing his throat, Anakin waves her off, but she's already settled in closer, curling up against his side, her palm rubbing soothingly along his back.

More in control now, Anakin turns towards her, and Padmé swears the room ratchets up several hundred degrees. His face only inches from her own, the memories surface again. She can see quite clearly that Anakin remembers too.

"You are in my very soul, tormenting me."

The words that had almost made her succumb to him. And yet, she had resisted. Padmé isn't sure Anakin understood how much strength it had taken to walk away from him that night.

But there is no reason to maintain that façade of resistance now. No reason for her not to confess how precariously close she had been to surrender.

"I wanted to," she whispers. She swirls the wine in her glass, unable to look away from the hues of red sparking and lighting against the firelit crystal.

"You wanted to?" Anakin repeats slowly. She doesn't have to look up to see the confusion in his voice, but she does so anyway. She thinks the weight of his indigo stare is devastating.

"That evening when we were here before…" She gestures at their surroundings. "I wanted to give in to you… to give into us."

It feels like so much more than a confession.

Anakin sucks in a short breath, sitting away slightly. She thinks she may have finally spooked him too, but his body relaxes after a moment, and he settles closer against her.

"I thought you may have wanted to," he says.

She arches an eyebrow wryly. "And how did you know that exactly? Jedi premonition?"

Anakin laughs, shaking his head.

"I don't think anyone needs Jedi premonition to know what you intended by wearing that dress." For once, Padmé is at a loss for words and just stares at him. He shifts uncomfortably, fiddling with his drink. "I mean why else would you wear it, if you didn't want… something," Anakin stammers, shy with the turn this conversation has suddenly taken.

Padmé smiles then, thinking maybe she does owe him an explanation. She had made him sweat through that night after all.

"I've always been able to use my Senator persona, Amidala, as a shield. But you saw through it so immediately, so thoroughly… I wondered what you would do if I threw the truth at you. Some part of me thought it might make you set back on your heels." Padmé laughs softly at the craziness of it all. "Shame on me."

Anakin shakes his head, leaning closer to her and smiling that cheeky grin that causes her heart to flip flop in her chest.

"You wore that dress to 'set me back on my heels'?"

He snorts with laughter.

"I tried to call your bluff!" she protests. "I felt totally uncomfortable in it. Clearly, I'm not meant to play the role of seductress," she adds softly, almost as an afterthought.

Anakin's face suggests that he might beg to differ.

"I thought it was… well…"

His shoulders barely contain a traitorous shudder. Padmé notices, glancing up at him beneath her lashes.

"Would you rather I change and put that dress back on?" she asks, her tone both teasing and serious, as she collects their empty glasses and sets them onto the end table.

Anakin makes a noise in his throat like he may want exactly that.

"Uh," he clears his throat. "I wouldn't mind seeing you in that dress again, but you in this dress…" He carefully touches the delicate lace of her sleeve, his fingers brushing softly against her skin. "… proves what I said to you before. You're an angel." He pulls away then suddenly, his face darkening. "I feel like I shouldn't even touch you in this."

"Then perhaps…" she starts, swallowing heavily once, steeling herself to finish following him down this road he's led them on, "… you should take it off." She's proud of herself for keeping her eyes on him.

Anakin holds her gaze, as he did then, his blue eyes reflecting the firelight in the same way. She sees him glance to her lips, then back to her eyes – her heart pounds hard against her ribs with ruinous anticipation - before he moves in closer to kiss her. This time, she doesn't pull away.

They've kissed several times now, but this one means something more. Where before their lips met in a tentative, searching sort of dance; now, he slides his lips against hers with a pressure that promises danger and excitement, pressing his mouth to hers again and again, like a drowning man trying to steal her last breath for his own. Blood boiling beneath her skin, her body shivers violently in his arms, and he correctly interprets this as a sign that he's doing something right, because he gathers her against him, even as she already shifts to settle across his lap.

At last, gasping for air, they pull away, both reluctant to surface from the lake of desire. Padmé doesn't have to be Force-sensitive to feel how badly Anakin wants her; his body practically vibrates from the restraint. He looks up at her, longing darkening the cerulean depths. His fingers trace inquiring circles over her hips; her own skin quivers with an age-old answer.

"What can I do? I'll do anything you ask."

"I can't… We can't."

Now, the memory of her protest sounds weak, mocking her with its feeble plea. Oh, how naïve she had been to think Amidala could stop Padmé.

Not when Anakin looks at her the way he is. Not when she feels it too - this manic need to touch and be touched. To feel his skin against her own. This slow burn deep in her belly, the ache so fierce she rolls her hips into his, desire driving her almost to the point of madness.

And Padmé no longer can lie to herself that she even wants Amidala to.

His flesh hand twists into her curls, pulling her back under for another kiss. Blindly, she braces herself against his shoulders and feels him strip off her the train of her gown. The delicate lace falls to the floor at his feet, leaving her in the simple sleeveless shift of her wedding dress.

Anakin breaks off their kiss, his fingers trailing lightly down her bare arm, his eyes watching the path they track, mesmerized by the firelight glinting off newly exposed skin. Padmé knows she's bared more than even this, but somehow, under his gaze, she feels more naked than ever before. She shivers, whether from his touch or the cool evening breeze blowing in from the still-open veranda, she doesn't quite know.

"Are you all right?" he asks. His voice is thick, the timbre deeper than she's ever heard it. She doesn't recognize the roughness behind it though her body seems to, the ache twisting harshly in her core. Anakin tries to sit back, but she clutches his tunic with shaky hands, her palms slick against his leather tabards, preventing his retreat. "You're trembling."

"I… I've never done this before," Padmé says in almost a whisper.

Startled by her admission, Anakin blinks, then his mouth quirks in a wry smile, and she thinks his skin might flush a little, but it's hard to tell with the firelight illuminating him from behind.

"Me neither," he says. "It's not exactly part of the standard Jedi curriculum."

He fixes her with that devilish grin that she thinks she first fell in love with, and she swats at him playfully, mock annoyed at his mirth.

"I should certainly hope not," she says. Her tone is a bit less forgiving than how she intends. She doesn't mean it to sound reproving, but Anakin has this uncanny way of unsettling her with his teasing. Sometimes, she forgets that the normal civilities don't apply to them - that rules of any sort never really applied to them considering Anakin's blatant disregard for daily decorum and her rebellious willingness to indulge his irreverence. But years of formal training in propriety don't just simply dissolve overnight.

Chastened by her words, Anakin bites his lip and averts his gaze.

"Ani," she says, raising his chin gently with her fingers. His eyes sway a shade, and if she hadn't just spent the past weeks in constant proximity to him, she would have missed the flash of anxiety she sees in their blue depths. "What is it?"

"Will you…" He swallows hard. "Will you tell me if I do something wrong?"

And there it is.

That brazen honesty that fells her every time.

She smiles radiantly at him, capturing his face between her palms and drawing him to her once again. The kiss starts slowly, carefully, pressing her lips to his with a tender affection before she presses herself against him fully, insistently. Anakin is quick to catch her intent and takes up her lead, smothering her with a passion that leaves her feeling liquid inside.

His flesh fingers make quick work of her veil. She responds by unfastening his utility belt, tossing it behind them. When it clatters loudly on the marble floor, they both jump at the sudden noise, laughing at their shared unease. Padmé starts in on his robes, surprised at the number of layers separating her hungry hands from his tanned skin. He lifts his arms as she guides his undershirt over his head, the gauzy material soft between her fingers. She traces her fingertips lightly over the definition of skin and sinew, smiling as the muscled planes of his chest and stomach ripple beneath her touch. Her palms run the broad width of his shoulders, ghosting over his upper arms, only hesitating when he winces, her hand drawing across the purple and blue skin just above his prosthetic limb.

When she reaches for the metal arm, he jerks, seeming to fight the urge to pull away.

"Does it hurt?"

He shakes his head mutely, looking away from her. She sees the shame he tries to hide and realizes the real meaning behind his earlier question.

There's too much memory in this room, even if some of the ghosts have been dragged to the fireside in recollection and unresolved nerves from their first attempt at indulgence and its woefully errant conclusion.

Patiently, Padmé waits him out.

"I don't want to hurt you again," he admits, after a moment, still not looking at her.

Anakin probably wishes she'd let go, but he doesn't ask that of her. Instead, she raises his hand with her own, entwining their fingers. He doesn't reciprocate at first, turning back to watch her with a nervous kind of fascination. She nods encouragingly.

Slowly, he closes his fingers between hers, playing with the pressure, and while she works to steady herself against the initial cool contact of the digits – his fingers, she reminds herself firmly – she doesn't flinch, and this time, he doesn't hold too tight.

"See?" Padmé breathes, noticing how quickly the metal warms to her skin. She guides his hand beneath the silk and lace strap over her collarbone, Anakin's eyes widening at her boldness. His breath hitches as she presses his mechanized fingers to her bare skin. "You won't."

He hesitates, then starts to slide the band of fabric over her shoulder, dipping lower, charting her skin before he can see it with his own eyes. Deftly, he skims over the side of her breast, his palm naturally moving to cup her, his thumb stroking circles experimentally over each increasingly revealed inch. A sigh shudders out of her and she pushes into the contact as Anakin's confidence increases. He grips a little tighter and it's like an electric current spreads across her skin, all the nerve endings awakening with a primal recognition within her.

She moans softly in appreciation; he freezes at the noise.

Padmé's eyes whip open, her hand moving to cover his before he can pull away, holding it against herself.

"Don't you dare stop," she whispers.

She barely registers the quirk of his smile before he consumes her mouth with his own. Her fingers twist in his close-cropped hair as he resumes his ministrations with his metal hand, his flesh one working the buttons of her gown with incredible speed.

The dress pools at her hips to keep his discarded robes company on the sofa. Blindly, she raises herself to shimmy out of the puddle of fabric, and he uses the opportunity to lift her up, her bare legs instinctively suctioning around his waist.

She's not sure how he manages to find the way to her – their – room, kissing her senseless like this, but he does, toppling them to the cool sheets in a tangle of limbs. His weight pressing her small frame into the mattress, Anakin flushes, his tan skin turning a deep russet, but he gamely meets her stare and doesn't pull away. Padmé is reminded of sunshine and meadow grass.

Never breaking eye contact, one hand works its way along his side, her fingertips dipping under the waist of his pants. Playfully, she catches his Padawan braid in her other hand, tickling his nose with its end. He scrunches his face at her in a scowl, one that disappears into shameless desire when she deliberately moistens the tip with her tongue, her lower fingers deliberately brushing against him.

Padmé's not even sure Anakin's aware of the little growl he makes, but his hand – she can't help but notice he uses the flesh one – snakes underneath and she raises herself a little to help him rid her of the last scrap of fabric that separates them.

They have reached the point of no return.

When she looks up at him frozen above her, she can see a thousand emotions in those dark blue eyes – awe, joy, anxiety, love – fear. There was usually nothing timorous about Anakin Skywalker, but if she ever had cause to use that word to describe him, she imagines it would be now.

Gently, she reaches up to press her fingertips against his cheek, her touch careful and light. Her other hand finds its way to his hip, canting them towards her with steady pressure as she shifts beneath him to accommodate the sudden closeness. She inhales, holding in an anticipatory breath, her heart pounding frantically in her chest.

The first time his skin connects with hers, the contact pulls an unsteady breath from her and a deep groan from him. Her hand by his cheek slips to his shoulder, her grip tightening desperately into the muscles of his neck and back, when he pushes into her waiting warmth. Her whole body tenses, her lower lip catching between her teeth as she successfully fights back a whimper of protest.

"Oh, Padmé," Anakin whispers. The way he says her name sounds like a prayer. Her hips roll instinctively, trying to relieve the strange ache that settles between her legs. The movement beckons differently to Anakin because he drives forward once, pulling a strangled cry from her, the sensations below not yet entirely welcome. Anakin stiffens as he tries to wrest some control over his body's instincts, his mouth falling open and Padmé is certain she's about to hear an apology. She lets go of her death grip on his shoulder – ironically, there are now red marks on his skin – and presses a finger to his lips.

"It's okay," she breathes out.

He looks down at her like he doesn't quite believe her. "Padmé…"

She will be damned this time if he doesn't.

"I'm okay," she insists. "Please don't stop. Just go slow."

Anakin nods mutely, and she closes her eyes, forcing herself to exhale, her mind chanting Relax, relax…

When he moves again, Padmé feels the world. She thinks Anakin agrees with her by the way he groans softly into her ear. Somehow, he remembers to pause, and she can feel what it costs him to forge this new path, patiently, slowly. He pulls back, and this time, her hips lift to follow him on their own accord, seeking to hold the connection for as long as possible. The ache returns when he disappears and as he slides forward again, stretching her fully, driving the ache away with his return, she moans in grateful relief.

Anakin stares down at her in wonder. Sweat forms on his brow as he forces himself to continue at this tortuous pace, but his patience is seemingly infinite when it comes to her. He can feel her loosening beneath him, every movement he makes rewarded readily with a breathless sigh, or a soft word like "more" or "yes" or "please". Her eyelids flutter closed and her thighs slide further up his flanks. When he shifts, he slips just so, driving away all coherent thought and awareness from the galaxy, except for that point where he touches her inside.

"Oh, Anakin" she gasps, her voice breathy with surprise. Every muscle tenses tighter and tighter, every nerve teetering on the edge of pleasure and pain with every stroke he makes above her. She thinks she might want him to stop yet she wants him, needs him to continue, pulses of white-hot desire speeding through her like wayward blaster bolts, until she's taut and trembling almost without measure, until suddenly… it's all just too much.

"Anakin!" she cries, twisting under him to crush all her damp skin to his, her hands clutching his shoulders desperately trying to stay grounded as wave upon wave of pleasure ripples through her. He's forced to pause, so close to losing his own control, and he wants to see this, wants to see her come unglued, to see Padmé in a state no one else has ever seen her in before.

The tension of her release seeps away from her almost as quickly as it came, her body collapsing bonelessly around him. When she looks up at him, she blinks once, her hazy vision coming into sharp focus, and she's acutely aware of Anakin above her, watching her, his expression one of awe and adoration. He moves again, her hips rising to welcome him, her body recognizing his silent plea and she can feel the rush of blood in his veins, feel the warm pull of her body as he draws out of her, only to surge desperately back in. She almost has to suppress a moan, though Anakin doesn't. The air feels thicker and heavier, like static charged by their frenzied friction, the energy around them, oppressive and seductive. She swims in its headiness.

Anakin moans her name into her hair, his hips jerking forward and then stilling as he sheaths himself in her fully one last time, releasing himself into her warm waiting depths. Her inner walls fluttering around him, her fingers tracing soothing patterns along his sweat-soaked back, Padmé presses her lips to his shaking shoulder, reveling in the closeness.

After a moment, his breath coming easier, he raises himself onto his elbows. She gazes up at him, pressing her palm to his cheek. In the quiet aftermath, the stillness is like a protective shawl around them.

I love you.

It takes a minute for her to realize that he didn't speak, that she's hearing his voice in her head.

"Are you doing this?" she asks softly.

Anakin's brow furrows. "Doing what?"

"I heard you," she says. "When you said you loved me, just a second ago."

Anakin blinks, his eyes flashing with puzzlement.

Padmé?

"Yes?" she answers aloud.

Anakin grins, and shakes his head. "Not out loud. Try again."

Okay… Ani?

You can hear me?

Yes. What are you doing?

I'm not doing this.

She narrows her eyes at him.

I swear!

"I swear," he repeats, out loud for both of their benefits.

The energy is fading a little. Anakin rolls off of her and onto his back. The emptiness inside her leaves her feeling poignant. She can see the wheels turning, but no longer hears his words in her head.

"What was that?" she asks. "I could hear you. I could feel you."

"Feel me?" Anakin asks, cocking his head.

"Like I was you," she explains. "But also me. Like we were the same and different." Padmé laughs softly. "I sound crazy."

"No, you're not crazy," Anakin says. "I think you just felt a Force connection."

"A what?"

"A meld more specifically."

"So you did that?"

"No, I didn't," he insists. "At least, I wasn't trying to." He frowns at the ceiling, bemused.

"What are you thinking?" Padmé whispers. She props herself on an elbow, her other hand coming to rest across his chest.

"I'm just wondering if what we just experienced was normal…" Anakin pauses, glancing sideways at her laugh. "What's so funny?"

"Ani, I don't think a Jedi engaging in these sorts of activities," she gestures at the general disarray of the bedsheets, "with his wife can be described as normal."

He grimaces good-naturedly.

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know," she says, before kissing him.

They lay together, quiet for a time, letting the afterglow envelop them snugly against the darkening Naboo night.

...