AN:
Cheire – Yeah! I agree! Church bells sound like hope.
Disgal – XOXO
Guest – Anakin is so funny on HISHE. I also like their scenes in clone wars 03. I wish there were more Padme scenes in that show.
Underneath It All
There's times when this dress rehearsal
Seems incomplete
But you see the colors in me
Like no one else
And you're really lovely
Underneath it all
And you want to love me
Underneath it all
I'm really lucky
Underneath it all
You're really lovely
Anakin and Padme sat on the couch; their bills were papers between their after-supper-coffee mugs. The sky had turned purple; the orange tint in the sun grew paler, settling over the coffee table, darkening its grainy wood surface. A small, blue vase stood atop. A vase of wilted flowers, escaping, in search of freedom.
That was how they felt, both positioned on the edge of the love-seat, reading this moment as a stepping stone, praying for a better future.
"Did you pay the rent?" Padme asked, waiting to check off the list on her lap. Anakin grunted in agreement, a 'yes' hidden behind a still face, but exposed like glass. They'd had their fair share of lucky strikes, but they knew by the end of this month, finances could pile up. The sun had set—literally and metaphorically.
Anakin was trying not to let himself get to that stage of hauling the hefty troubles over his shoulder in an obvious way. He'd carry them as discreetly as he could, not wanting Padme to stress herself or the babies. It was more than a nice gesture, he felt it was a responsibility, an exercise.
One he needed to feel. . .needed.
"Water?" Padme went down her list, simple and straightforward, meditative and friendly. That meant he was doing his job. She was relaxed in her first trimester... so the babies were relaxed.
"Yeah." He mumbled.
Then the lightbulbs went out. And their eyes followed the wink of light fading to black.
"Electricity?" Padme jumped to the next item on her list with a smirk. She knew Anakin's face would be replaced by dark shadows, as reality grew large and looming.
Anakin couldn't see Padme's sparkling face or playful eyes but he knew they were pretty, sunshine and rainbows even when the evening was raining down on them; darkness was drooping and chipping away at his calm.
Padme lit an emergency candle on the side table – it was a good thing Anakin hadn't thrown away all his lighters. The candlelight was smoky, glistening splinters hung by a thin thread into the ether.
An uprising of creepy triggers shredded his confidence when Padme brought up that thing again. That thing that she often cloaked in light-hearted banter.
"Look, we can always ask my parents for a little help. They won't mind."
His quick temper rose and fell with a conscious breath. As he stuffed his thoughts, the careless and hopeless ones, back in. A large intake of oxygen and motherlode of insecurities sucked back in with that one inhale.
"We talked about this." He stood up, and his energy was exemplified with his back turned, edgy, grumpy.
Padme felt worn down by the constant struggle of man. Pride comes before the fall. As they say, pride is the crutch of the insecure. "How come it's okay to ask Obi-Wan for a handout?"
Anakin didn't answer her. He knew that she knew the answer. Of course it was different.
He couldn't face her family; they're never on equal footing.
With her family, he felt tested, to sink or swim. Could he ride the waves of hardship and reach the land of opportunity? Would he regress, revert back to the trappings of frustration? It felt like they were waiting for him to fail, like it was inevitable. And whether that was true or not, it conjured some old reactive behavior of his. An outburst of arrogance and fear, a folly. He'd get this way with Obi-Wan when he was a teenager, whenever Obi-Wan expected more from him, condemning him with those critical eyes.
There's no fresh air when you're underwater. Everything unresolved inside stalled him and he could feel the uneven sand beneath his feet. He'd push himself up to float to the surface of patient waters, hoping they'd wash over him. And when he dried off, he'd have reached the safe shore.
"I got it!" Anakin exclaimed. Like the turn of an imaginary switch, he had changed the tone of the evening, shaken up the room, the system. He had retreated from Padme's view, to the bedroom as she waited, stunted.
He came back with a budding smile and Christmas lights in his hand. "They're battery-powered!" He draped them over the shelves that framed the TV unit.
Tender and trusting, Padme looked up at Anakin, who beamed at the sight of the lights when they switched on. He seemed quite proud of himself. Twinkling lights silhouetted him like a crown. One could argue Anakin was an expert. . .at winging it.
A late bloomer, a slow learner.
Life was experimental after all, unpredictable with its turbulent tides. Seas of hidden treasures, depths, stars pull at you with no safety net. Nature's game of chess. Watching our every move, our every direction, deciding how many steps we're allowed to take before we meet our destiny. It is far more strategic than we are.
Destiny would come sooner than later – when the Christmas lights began to flicker. Fight or flight – the room froze until the lights finally shut down.
"Did you charge the batteries?" Padme did everything in her power not to laugh.
"Oh man." Anakin grumbled, slumping himself down on the couch beside her. "I thought that would be romantic as hell."
He rolled on his side, facing her, with the grin of a charming fibber.
"It was." She assured, tentatively. "For about. . .three minutes."
His head dropped to her shoulder as she chuckled.
"You know..." Padme said suggestively, candlelight behind her, playing on her face. The flames' reflection gave her a mild, golden, inferno glow. It brings out his angel, and he slips back into heaven, innocence. "I can think of a few things we could do in the dark."
"Oh yeah?" Anakin sat up straight; a deluded sense of joy spread from cheek to cheek as he embraced her, watching an enchantment film over her eyes. "Like what?"
Their eyes honed in on the narrow view of only each other up close. He followed her with his eyes, lips, hands. His neck bent to her so their lips were almost touching, chins were tilted upwards.
Screw the material world and its batteries. They had something better here. A push and a push back; a natural vibration.
"Whatever you want."
He had yearned to place his mouth on hers, and she smiled as he squirmed. He found himself dizzyingly slipping into a hunger created out of her delicious words. "Whatever I want?"
She hummed, sweet and silky. Her fingertips trailed over his Adam's apple, down to his chest, and slid inside the top of his t-shirt. Her hand pressed against his heart, feeling it thump under her fingers. That hand kept him at a distance, but he was close enough to feel her warm breath on his lips. His eyes fell closed, entranced. His splayed fingers on her back jerked her closer to him with need. She felt the desperation on his slightly parted lips.
"Tell me what you want." The sound of her voice was destablizing. He swallowed, restlessly. He could feel every goosebump telling him exactly how close she was––in his arms, getting into his skin.
She offered a quick brush of the lips, light and stingy, and his exhales became rushed, tough, uncontainable... It gave her an edge, she felt his energy roar with anticipation. If she didn't let him loose, he'd probably explode. So she let him fasten his lips to her mouth.
After a generous taste, he still kept his eyes shut and his lips close to hers. The crux of the matter was that he needed to be in control. With a short, slick exhalation to give himself some structure, he planned to settle the stormy sea swirling south. The south won. He sat there, leering at her with a woundedness; he had wound himself up in a state that assumed he missed the point in history when man went from animal to civilized. He was unabashedly potent, and he wanted her to give in to this relentless frenzy, too.
His rugged tone whispered against her mouth. "Kneel."
His blatant request motivated her. She knelt before him with cushions under her kneecaps. And it felt like decades until he was unzipped and in her warm hands. She stared up at him with startlingly clear brown eyes, as vital and gentle as her touch. Her dark hair framed her face, bringing out the rosiness of her cheeks. Her hand caressed down his shaft as her lips brushed against the head. It wouldn't be long until he'd lose himself in the heat from her mouth taking him in. He wanted to be lost in her full, bright pink lips that wrapped around his penis, and away from money woes and disturbances. Hardened in her mouth, a bestiality stabbed its way in. She couldn't quite reach the base, he was big and bulging. But he was pleasured in every realm possible – by the sight of her on her knees to serve him, the tickle of her curls on his inner thighs, the delicate hand that stroked him, the flicks of the tongue dancing around the tip and sliding down the underside. She was slow, sensual, talented. Her mouth never lies, always giving, always honorable—and only ever perverted with him.
She felt feminine, admired and powerful when he groaned and his trembling hand found the crown of her head. He grunted out, a deep sound in the back of his throat, a surrender. His head hung off the end of his spine, caught by the couch's backrest. He was going, going... gone; mouth agape, his other hand on the throw pillow beside him, holding something for stability. It felt too good, he wanted more. Something depraved, shameless, to crack a mirror until it distorts and reflects how he felt inside. He felt like air suppressed in a can that hadn't really been free to flow out until she sucked it out of him. And with her fancy head bobbing up and down, he felt the pull of paradise, taking him by the dick, taking him beyond. Beyond crude matter – as he gave himself over absolutely in the throes of obscenity.
He held her head with both hands now, dragging himself deeper, deeper into the pearl that was her mouth. She felt safe even as his hands gripped and moved her fast and furiously. She wasn't fearful when he exposed his aggression, everything in him that is primitive, hulkish. She understood that he needed to be enveloped by the sensation, tortured by it. She understood the relief it would grant. She also understood that she herself was turned on by his power. In living wildly, his mind is free. So she let him accelerate down the hill like a madman and subjugate her.
That was her husband after all. Intense. The most hopeful, tragic person. She saw him, really saw him. Even in times like these, when all he can do is submit himself to his most basic desires with his frantic, undefinable expressions, aggressive hands, the wriggling contours of his body until he finally released all that transformed hysteria into happiness. He floated so far away from past misery, he'd bury himself in her for longer if he could take it. But he was too sensitive, too swollen to cope. His hands had now loosened their grip yet his fingers remained tangled in her soft strands. He weakly stroked her head with gratitude, messing up her hair further. What she did was perfect. So perfect he wanted to build her a shrine with flowers, pies, votives... a library of love... whatever she asked for, for putting up with his strangeness, his needs.
He helped her up to the couch, and they sat there serenely, holding each other. He couldn't stand up just yet; if he did, he'd stumble.
They were both slaves to each other. They had given themselves recklessly to each other, and in many ways they made each other better. Through the many moons, they kept each other's flame going.
Anakin felt more of a slave than she did, because she could break out of the glass prism of egocentricities. She had a strength he didn't have because she was not driven by her ego. She did not fool herself into thinking she should race against spiritual fate.
He, on the other hand, doesn't let go. He grabs what gives him satisfaction and vigorously demands all he can get from it, just like he did with her now. He was a victim of attachment, throwing himself wholly at it. An attachment could be a person, a belief, a lie. Sometimes that made him stubborn, hard-headed.
But the side he shared with her, and only her, his devotion, vulnerability – and a side that can be foolish in love – made up for the rest. To her, he was perfect – just with a little temper. Padme supposed she was full of forgiveness.
The next morning, Anakin was an early riser, hoping to catch a worm. Today, the worm was a financial resolution. The sun had risen with ever-changing shades of yellow, growing brighter as it speckled the ginger sand.
He sat in Watto's office at Watto's Motors, waiting for Sebulba.
Sebulba pushed past employees with an intimidating gait. He was deemed crazy by most, broken by others. He was a spoiled brat most of the time. But he was also one of the few people that created a space for young people who were 'damaged' or 'didn't fit in.'
The relationship between Anakin and Sebulba was a tricky one. It wasn't based on integrity or growth, but there was a respect between them. They were two wild horses running parallel to each other. Not a friend or a foe. They didn't step on each other's toes. They depended on each other, yet kept a distance. They put on this silly act together, an act of fearlessness, and covered for each other, because they relied on 'backup.' They were both getting what they wanted out of the 'friendship.' Some would argue Seb got more out of it than Anakin, but Anakin didn't need more... until now.
"Sebulba, listen." Anakin cleared his throat once Sebulba sat down behind his father's desk. "I need you to give me an advance this month."
Sebulba's hazel green eyes pointed at him like spiked grass.
"Either that or a raise." Anakin added bluntly.
"That's new." Sebulba said, smooth-tongued, still questioning the intent – assassinating the culprit. Perhaps Anakin's lawyer wife was rubbing off on him. Now he wants to renegotiate.
"Come on, man. I bring a lot of money in. I've lost one race since I got here."
"Yeah, a loss you could rectify in the Hutt deal."
Anakin's voice was peppered with dissidence. "I'm serious."
"So am I." Sebulba rested back in the padded desk chair.
There was an annoying tickle in the back of Anakin's throat, dying to come out before it lowers to his stomach. It traveled down a message from the sincere tool between his ears. He had to put it all out there. There was too much waiting in the wings, riding on his capabilities. "...Padme's pregnant. With twins."
Sebulba sighed. His steel face no longer had a strained expression. If Anakin didn't know better, he'd say Sebulba looked sympathetic to Anakin's money problems.
"Look," Sebulba was about to roll out the excuses with a remorseful shoulder shrug. "I can't help you right now. The only way I can get us some money now and fast is if you join me in the race against the Hutts."
You know some real bad tricks
And you need some discipline
But lately you've been trying real hard
And giving me your best
And you give me the most gorgeous sleep
That I've ever had
And when it's really bad
I guess it's not that bad
No Doubt - Underneath It All