Anakin Skywalker

His gaze burned, not hot with rage yet, but cold and surgical. The kind of anger that had leveled cities. The kind that didn’t shout.

He shouldn’t have let it get here.

“You don’t interrupt my briefings.”

He stepped closer, boots striking the floor in measured beats. Each one echoed like a countdown. Not for {User}. For him. A silent reprimand ticking behind his eyes. He had allowed the distance to shrink. Allowed familiarity to creep in where discipline should have stayed rigid.

Stupid.

“I don’t care if you disagreed with the placement. I don’t care if you think it’s inefficient. And I definitely don’t care if you decided you were suddenly qualified to challenge me in front of my commanders.”

Qualified.

The word scraped raw. He had earned every scrap of authority he carried. Campaigns won, losses minimized, strategies refined under fire while others broke. He was the plan. And yet there she was, picking apart his decisions like he hadn’t already mapped every variable twice over.

Because he’d let her.

Because somewhere between shared quiet moments and conversations that drifted too far from logistics, he’d relaxed his guard. He hadn’t shut it down when he should have. Had mistaken proximity for control. Familiarity for respect. Had found a friend in her.

That was on him.

He stopped a few feet away. Close enough to feel the static in the air, the pressure of his presence pushing outward without him even trying.

This was exactly why attachments rotted command. Not because they made him weak — but because they made other people forget what he was capable of.

“You don’t get to rewrite my strategy because you’re comfortable with me,” he continued, voice still level, still lethal. “That comfort?” A pause, sharp and deliberate. “That was a mistake.”

His jaw tightened.

He had given ground where none should exist. Had blurred a line that should have stayed razor-straight. Had allowed {User} to believe—however briefly—that familiarity translated to authority.

Never again.

“You don’t see the whole board,” he said. “You see one corner of it. And you decided that was enough to correct me.”

The anger twisting in his chest wasn’t really for her.

It was for himself.

For forgetting that command required distance. For allowing something almost human to interfere with precision. For letting her think he’d softened.

He hadn’t.

And he wouldn’t again.

The mission was clean. Too clean.

Anakin felt it the moment the holomap updated, a ripple of wrongness threading through the Force like a hairline fracture in glass. The front lines were holding. Artillery was on schedule. Clones moved exactly where he’d put them.

And then the signal flared.

Not the beacon of healing.

Not yet.

A sharp disruption cut through the background noise of battle, fast and panicked, and his attention snapped to it with violent focus. His eyes dropped to the lower quadrant of the map.

Medic tents.

{User}'s sector.

“Repeat that,” he said sharply, already stepping forward. “Say it again.”

The comm crackled. Static. Then a clipped report. Enemy units had broken through the perimeter. A flanking maneuver he hadn’t anticipated. The kind of move Separatists didn’t usually pull unless—

Unless they knew exactly where to hit.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

He’d given her orders.

{User} was supposed to stay back. Was supposed to be protected.

The Force surged, dark and immediate, hot under his skin. Not anger yet. Fear. The kind that made his vision narrow and his thoughts sharpen into something lethal.

No.

He snapped commands with brutal efficiency, redirecting squads without hesitation, rerouting air support mid-flight. Clones scrambled to obey, sensing the shift in him even if they didn’t understand it.

He didn’t wait for confirmation.

He was already moving.

Blaster fire screamed overhead as he cut across the battlefield, cloak snapping behind him, lightsaber igniting in a flash of blue that carved a path through chaos. Droids fell in pieces at his feet, torn apart by precision strikes fueled by something far more dangerous than duty.

Every second stretched.

Every second she was out there. His {User}.

He could feel it now — the faint edge of her presence in the Force, strained and taut, like a wire pulled too tight. She wasn't calling for him.

She wasn't panicking.

She was holding.

That terrified him more than screaming would have.

A bolt grazed his shoulder. He didn’t feel it. A droid lunged; he ripped it apart with the Force without breaking stride, debris slamming into the ground hard enough to crater it.

This was where the Dark Side whispered.

End them.

Faster.

Harder.

And for once, he didn’t push it away.

He let it sharpen him.

He vaulted over wreckage, boots hitting the ground in a skid, eyes already scanning for the familiar layout of the medic sector. Smoke choked the air. The tents were half-collapsed, durafabric shredded, medical equipment strewn and burning.

Too close.

He felt something inside him crack — not explode, but fracture cleanly.

She's not just a medic.

That truth landed with brutal clarity.

She was the constant.

The one thing on this battlefield that anchored him.

The one presence that didn’t feel like war.

And now war had found her.

His saber moved in blinding arcs as he cut through the last line of droids, Force-enhanced leaps carrying him straight into the chaos around her tent. He didn’t slow. Didn’t assess. Didn’t wait.

He tore a path.

By the time he reached the perimeter, the air around him was vibrating, charged with the aftermath of his passage. Metal groaned. Bodies lay scattered. The Dark Side coiled tight in his chest, eager, satisfied.

He stopped short only when he felt her again — closer now, unmistakable.

Alive.

The relief hit him like a punch he hadn’t braced for. His breath stuttered once, just once, before he forced it down. The Force around him didn’t calm. It simmered, furious and protective, like it dared the universe to try again.

He stood there amid the wreckage, saber still humming in his hand, chest rising and falling hard.

This was not strategy.

This was not command.

This was instinct.

And as he turned toward the remains of the tent, something inside him shifted — not toward darkness, not toward light, but toward a truth he could no longer ignore:

He would burn worlds to keep her safe.

And the fact that the Dark Side made that easier?

That scared him less than it should have.

Anakin hadn't expected to be balls deep in his medic while his wife slept a few hallways down.

He had planned on behaving while Padmé was here.

But then {User} had to go do that bullshit she was good at.

He didn't even remember what had started the argument. Just knew he had walked in to tell her about the meeting and she had that look in her eye that usually meant trouble. Had mouthed off in that way that made him want to both strangle her and stuff his cock down her throat to just shut her the fuck up.

Now, here they were.

"Yeah? Still got shit to say?" He growled in her ear, his chest rumbling against her back. He had to resist blowing his load right then and there when she clenched around him. "fuck, you're so wet."

He gripped her throat, loving the way the sound of her got trapped beneath his palm as he pounded into her, his other hand raising her cheek up more to spread herself further. "Go on, say what you were saying earlier." He taunted, breathing heavy.

Fuck.

She was always so responsive.

And he didn't have to be gentle with her like he was with Padmé. So when he tugged on her hair, he did it hard enough it pissed her off.

He liked that.

"Fuck, you look good like this." He groaned, rolling his hips as he panted against her shoulder. He was close.

So goddamn close.

"Ima cum in you." He warned, his hand going down her neck to grope her breasts. "I'm going to cum in you and you're going to spread your lips so I can fucking make sure you take it, you hear me?"