Peter Parker should have turned to dust on Titan. But when the Snap tore the universe apart, Peter was ripped to somewhere far worse - a galaxy far far away.
Pairings: Peter Parker x Padmé Amidala x Ahsoka Tano Genre: Multiverse Crossover, War, Smut!
༺✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻
Chapter 2 - What Shouldn't Have Happened!
The Senate platform loomed beneath the descending shuttle, its surface a perfect sheen of durasteel. Immaculate. Symmetrical. Sterile. It reminded Peter of a dentist's office before the pain started.
He leaned forward slightly, peering through the viewport as Coruscant unfurled in every direction. It stretched on forever, a vertical sprawl of duracrete towers and speeder lanes. The planet glowed like a living machine, crowded and endless.
It was beautiful.
But something about it felt wrong.
"This place always creeps me out," Rex muttered beside him. He stood with arms folded, boots braced. "Too clean on the surface. Too many ghosts underneath."
Peter nodded without speaking. That feeling, the quiet pressure behind the eyes, the sense that something was about to go terribly wrong, hadn't left him since he arrived in this galaxy.
"It's beautiful," he murmured. "But it doesn't feel alive."
Ahsoka turned toward him. Her lekku shifted slightly, and her arms stayed crossed. "Because it isn't. It's built on the backs of people no one remembers."
The shuttle touched down with a hiss. The landing gear locked in with a mechanical clunk. The boarding ramp unfolded, and a gust of city wind rolled inside. It carried the faint scent of ozone, fuel, and something sterile.
Peter descended after Ahsoka, keeping his head low. Still, the scale of Coruscant pulled at his senses.
Senate towers arched across the skyline like the ribs of a slumbering god. Columns flickered with embedded circuitry. High above, holo-ads hovered in the air, streaming messages that played on repeat. Support the war. Honor the clones. Trust the Chancellor. Buy bonds. Obey.
On every level, clone troopers patrolled in pairs. Their boots rang against polished platforms. Their armor was bright white under the sun.
Peter watched one group march past. They moved with eerie precision, not like people, but like clockwork. He knew they had faces behind those helmets. He knew some of those faces. But still, watching them walk, Peter felt his chest tighten.
These weren't just soldiers. They were built for obedience.
And he knew where that path ended.
"Keep moving," Ahsoka said gently.
Peter obeyed. Rex followed at their rear, his hand hovering near his blaster but never quite resting on it. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were scanning constantly.
At the Senate concourse, a dark blue speeder pulled up and hissed open. Bail Organa stepped out in stately robes, eyes sharp beneath composed features.
"Commander Tano," he greeted, with a polite nod. "And your guests?"
"Captain Rex," Ahsoka replied. "And this is Peter."
Bail looked Peter up and down. "You're not Republic military."
Peter offered a half-smile. "No, sir. Just lending a hand."
For a moment, Bail looked like he might ask more. Instead, he nodded. "We'll take all the help we can get. The Senate is in an emergency session. We're gathering in the Eastern wing. I want you in the room for this."
Ahsoka tilted her head slightly. "Is this about the Chancellor?"
Bail's face darkened. "Let's say there are some who would rather not have dissenters in the chamber."
Another shuttle docked on a nearby platform. It opened slowly. Peter glanced toward it without much thought, until the passengers began to emerge.
First came Mon Mothma, surrounded by aides and silent guards.
Then came Padmé Amidala.
For a moment, Peter forgot how to breathe.
She stepped forward in a navy robe, her posture flawless, hair twisted in a style that would have looked excessive on anyone else. Her expression was calm. Composed. Tired.
Peter felt the ground shift beneath him. His brain flooded with memory.
She had died. He remembered it. The words spoken by droids, the sterile delivery room, the stillness of her body. She had died crying, and Anakin's scream had torn through the galaxy.
Yet here she stood, very much alive. Regal. Solid. Real.
Peter's stomach turned. He saw her now, and he saw her on a medical slab. He saw the smoke of her funeral pyre. He saw the name carved into history books. And he felt it all again, the grief, the helplessness, the guilt.
Padmé's eyes flicked over Ahsoka, over Rex, then stopped briefly on him.
Peter stiffened. Something flickered across her face. It wasn't recognition, but there was a pause. The kind of pause that made the air feel heavier.
"Senator," Bail said, cutting through the moment. "Glad you could make it."
Padmé gave a short nod. "For now. But I won't sit through another thinly disguised lecture about obedience and unity. Not when the Senate is already rotting from the inside."
Ahsoka gave her a faint, approving smirk.
Peter couldn't speak. His tongue was dry. His hands trembled slightly at his sides.
The group turned toward the main hallway and began walking. The marble floor was too quiet. The air hummed with pressure.
Peter fell into step at the back, surrounded by senators, generals, and shadows.
He was walking through a building that was about to crumble. He knew the cracks already. He had seen the collapse.
But now he wasn't watching from a distance. He was inside it.
…
The committee room was buried deep within the Eastern annex of the Senate Tower. Unlike the grand Senate rotunda above, this space felt forgotten. The lights were too dim, the corridors too narrow, the silence too heavy. It wasn't built for debate. It was built to contain it.
Peter followed Ahsoka down the polished hallway, trying to ignore the mirrored walls. Each one threw back his image like a distorted warning. The masked outsider. The anomaly.
Rex walked behind them, silent, unreadable.
Inside the chamber, hushed voices greeted them. Senators clustered in tight knots, their tones clipped and nervous. Bail Organa stood by a console with Mon Mothma, speaking in low urgency. Across the room, Padmé Amidala paced near a window, her hands clasped tight behind her back.
Peter's breath hitched at the sight of her, but he said nothing.
The room quieted as Padmé stepped forward, her voice filling the space without effort.
"The Chancellor has delayed the demobilization vote for the third time. Emergency powers were supposed to expire months ago. Instead, we're reinforcing them again."
Her tone was calm, but her eyes betrayed the fire underneath.
A few senators nodded. Others avoided her gaze.
Peter watched in silence. He knew this moment wouldn't change the galaxy. Not yet. But it was part of the fracture. Part of the unraveling.
The meeting ended in a stalemate. No resolution. No motion passed. Only more unease.
Senators trickled out one by one. The air outside the chamber felt thinner, and heavier, like the tower itself was holding its breath.
Padmé walked ahead with two aides and a pair of clone guards, heading toward the landing platform reserved for her private speeder. Her pace was steady, but something about the way her shoulders moved made Peter uneasy.
Too exposed. Too quiet.
His mask slid over his face before he even realized his hands were moving.
Then the air snapped.
A bolt of blue plasma streaked across the platform. It missed Padmé by inches, searing into the durasteel beside her. She stumbled back as the clones shouted, drawing blasters.
A second shot came, and this time Peter saw it.
A rusted, modified STAP droid burst out from behind a maintenance column. Its repulsors whined with strain, and its frame had been jury-rigged with extra plating and old Separatist tech. It wasn't elegant. It was built to kill and be discarded.
It opened fire.
Ahsoka had her lightsabers out before the second bolt hit. The first shot ricocheted off her blade and slammed into the wall. The second went wide.
Peter was already sprinting.
Padmé's aides ducked behind the wreckage of the railing. The clones fired, but the STAP dipped and strafed, spraying fire across the pad.
One bolt clipped the rear engine of Padmé's speeder.
The fuel cell ignited.
Flames exploded outward as Peter vaulted into the air. Webs shot from his wrists, catching a tower strut high above. He swung low and fast, wind screaming in his ears.
Padmé froze, caught between the blast and the drop behind her.
Peter didn't hesitate.
He slammed into her just as the speeder erupted, his arms curling around her as the shockwave sent them both flying. They hit the durasteel deck hard. Peter twisted mid-fall, taking the impact on his back. Pain exploded in his shoulder, but he kept hold of her.
The heat rolled over them, a sudden furnace of flame and smoke. Shards of twisted metal clattered across the platform.
Peter rolled to his feet, still shielding Padmé.
The STAP hovered in a tight arc, repositioning.
Peter's webs launched without thought. The first hit the stabilizer strut on its left side. The second wrapped around the railing nearby. With a pull, he yanked the droid sideways into a support beam.
It hit hard and exploded in a crack of metal and fire.
The platform fell silent except for the distant shriek of alarms.
Peter turned to Padmé, who was sitting up now, her hair disheveled, robe scorched.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice low.
She looked at him, eyes wide. Her breath came in short gasps. Her fingers brushed against the burn across her sleeve.
"I remember you," she said, barely above a whisper. "From the landing platform."
"Then you know I'm not here to hurt you."
Her gaze held his for a beat longer. Something was searching in it. Something more than fear.
Before she could speak, Rex's voice cut through the smoke.
"Spider, go. Now."
Peter stepped back. He didn't wait for a second warning. He fired a web, caught the edge of a Senate spire, and vanished into the sky.
Clones rushed the pad moments later. Some shouted. Others scanned the air, blasters raised.
Ahsoka moved to Padmé's side, helping her to her feet.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her sabers still active in a low guard.
Padmé nodded slowly. Her voice was quiet.
"Yes. Thanks to... him."
Ahsoka said nothing. Her gaze tracked the trail of smoke where the attacker had fallen. The flames were already dying.
One of the clone captains stepped forward.
"Commander Tano. Initial reports credit your defense with saving the Senator's life. The Chancellor will want a full briefing."
Ahsoka deactivated her blades. "Of course."
Padmé didn't correct the report.
She stood a little straighter, pulling her cloak around her.
But her eyes were still on the sky.
Peter crouched on the side of a comms tower, watching the emergency crews descend on the platform below.
His shoulder throbbed. Burnt metal clung to his suit. He was shaking, but not from the pain.
He'd acted on instinct. Again.
He couldn't stand by and let it happen. Not to her. Not again.
She was alive. And that had to matter.
But as he watched clone officers take holoscans off the wreckage, as he saw another squad point to the scorched trail where he'd leaped away, Peter knew something had changed.
He had exposed himself. Too soon. Too visibly.
And the city had eyes.
He fired a web and vanished into the underlayers of Coruscant, the memory of Padmé's voice still ringing in his ears.
…
The Senate medical wing sat beneath the central tower, far removed from the debate chambers above. It was sterile and quiet, with white floors that reflected too much light and droids that moved like whispers.
Padmé rested on a diagnostic couch, a small scanner arcing above her. The explosion hadn't touched her skin, but her robes had been scorched, and the smoke had left a cough that hadn't quite faded. A medic droid hovered nearby, humming as it ran atmospheric detox routines through her bloodstream.
She stared at the ceiling but wasn't really seeing it. The white above her seemed too bright, too clean. It didn't feel real. What she remembered was the heat. The sound of fire cracking. The pressure of someone's arms around her. The voice that had asked if she was alright. The webbing.
Ahsoka stood near the entrance, arms folded, watching.
"Still no concussion. No serious lung damage either," Ahsoka said, her tone casual, but her brow remained furrowed. "You'll be cleared in an hour."
Padmé nodded slowly. "I've had worse."
"Not lately," Ahsoka replied. "And not that close to the Senate landing pad."
There was a pause.
"You think it was political?" Padmé asked.
Ahsoka didn't answer right away. "I think you've been speaking louder than the people who want silence."
Padmé offered a faint smile. "Then I must be doing something right."
A tone sounded behind them.
Ahsoka turned her head slightly and nodded to the door. "I'll give you a moment. Someone wants to check on you."
Before Padmé could ask who, Ahsoka stepped out.
The door hissed open again, and Peter slipped inside.
He wasn't in full armor this time. His mask was retracted, and his eyes looked exhausted. There was a bruise darkening his cheekbone, and one shoulder of his suit was half-sealed with field repairs. Even without the suit's helmet, he somehow looked less like a superhero and more like a young man trying to hold too many pieces together.
He stopped two paces into the room and gave an awkward, uncertain half-wave.
"Hey," he said.
Padmé stared at him for a moment, then let out a soft breath.
"You saved my life."
Peter shifted his weight. "Yeah. I guess I have a habit of doing that at inopportune times."
She blinked. Then, to his surprise, she laughed, quiet, tired, but genuine. He looked relieved.
"I wanted to thank you," she said.
"You're welcome," he said, then scratched the back of his neck. "I would've come sooner, but I figured your security detail might tase me."
Padmé tilted her head slightly. "And you'd deserve it. You vanished before I could even speak to you."
"Old habit," Peter replied. "You save someone, then disappear into the smoke before the authorities ask too many questions. Works better in alleys than Senate platforms, though."
She looked at him closely. "You're not a Jedi."
He smiled faintly. "Nope."
"You're not a soldier."
"Not officially."
"Then who are you?"
Peter didn't answer at first. He moved toward the chair beside her bed and sat, carefully, as if he didn't want to shift the atmosphere too much.
"I'm someone who's seen what happens when people who should speak up decide not to," he said quietly.
That sobered her. She studied his face, noting the way his gaze drifted toward the floor whenever she held it for too long.
"You're young," she said.
Peter gave a half-shrug. "Yeah. The universe didn't care much about that."
Another silence settled between them. Not cold, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Padmé reached for a cup of water and sipped from it. Her hands were steady again. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer.
"Do you know what it's like, sitting in those chambers, knowing what's coming and being able to do nothing?"
Peter didn't answer right away. He only nodded.
Padmé leaned back against the cushions, her gaze on the far wall. "Every session ends with fewer voices raised in protest. Every week, someone who used to question the Chancellor just… stops. Like a switch was thrown. I speak up, and the others look at me like I'm mad. Or worse, like I'm naive."
"You're not," Peter said.
"I'm tired of wondering which ones are pretending and which ones are just afraid."
Peter hesitated, then leaned forward. "I don't think you're crazy. Or naive. I think you're brave. And I think they know that. That's why they're afraid of you."
She met his eyes. "You say that like you've seen this before."
Peter blinked. Something in his throat caught.
He almost said it.
He almost told her about the funeral. About the child she never met. About Anakin's scream. The way a galaxy bent around the moment her heart stopped.
But instead, he swallowed it down.
"Let's just say… where I'm from, people like you don't always get to finish the fight."
Padmé went still.
There was no sound for a long moment except the soft click of the scanner above.
Then she looked away.
"Tell me something," she said. "And be honest."
Peter tensed. "Alright."
"Do you think we're already too late?"
He didn't want to answer. But he didn't lie.
"I think… if you stop fighting, it will be."
Padmé nodded slowly as if she already knew that.
"Thank you," she said again.
Peter stood. "Try not to get blown up again. I'm kind of running out of web fluid."
She laughed once more, tired and soft.
He moved toward the door.
Just before he stepped through, Padmé's voice called to him.
"Peter."
He turned back.
"You don't treat me like the others do," she said. "Not like a symbol. Not like a senator. Just… me."
"I like just you," he said, then blinked and immediately looked horrified. "I mean, not like that. I mean, I do, but not in a weird way. Just…"
She smiled. Not amused. Not political.
Genuine.
"Thank you," she said again.
Peter gave a small nod, then slipped out the door, heart pounding like he'd just survived the explosion all over again.
Outside, Ahsoka was leaning against the wall.
"She's safe," Peter said quietly.
Ahsoka nodded. "I know."
They walked together down the sterile corridor.
Neither of them spoke.
But something had shifted.
And both of them felt it.
…
The Senate Tower's rooftop garden was quiet at night.
There were no airspeeders humming past, no senators arguing into commlinks. Only the soft rustle of engineered leaves and the hum of far-off repulsorlifts echoed below, muted by the garden's atmospheric barrier. Stars, rare and filtered through Coruscant's pollution dome, flickered dimly above the city's endless glow.
Peter sat cross-legged near the edge of the garden, where a low safety wall framed the skyline. His hands rested on his knees, and his eyes were closed, though his body never fully relaxed. Meditation had been forced on him during his short training with Stephen Strange. He wasn't good at it, but tonight, it was the only way he could stay still.
He hadn't stopped thinking about her. Not in the medbay. Not after. Not even now.
Every time he blinked, he saw her flinching away from plasma fire. The burn across her sleeve. Her voice when she said, "You don't treat me like the others."
He hadn't meant to. He just didn't know how to treat her like an icon.
She was real. Flesh and breath and heartbreak. Too real for the timeline to carry.
Footsteps approached behind him.
Peter didn't open his eyes.
He knew who it was before she spoke.
"I thought I'd find you up here." Her voice was softer than usual. Exhausted.
Peter opened his eyes slowly.
Padmé stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself despite the warm air. She wore a loose robe over thinner sleep clothes, her hair unpinned and falling past her shoulders in long, uneven waves. She looked... less like a senator. More like a woman who hadn't slept in weeks.
"I didn't want to be inside," Peter said. "Too many cameras. Too many walls."
She didn't ask if he wanted company. She just came and sat beside him.
For a while, neither spoke. The city whispered beneath them. Distant engines. Echoes of late-night traffic. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, and then silence returned.
Padmé ran a hand down her arm, fingers brushing the edge of the burn that had healed, but left a faint line of pink.
Peter glanced at it.
"They shouldn't have let you leave the medbay so soon," he said.
"I insisted."
"Of course you did."
She looked at him sideways. "That a complaint?"
Peter smiled faintly. "No. You've got that same 'I do what I want' look I remember from..."
He stopped. Swallowed.
Padmé tilted her head. "From where?"
Peter looked away. "I told you," he said. "I know things I shouldn't."
The silence pressed again.
"I can't sleep," she admitted quietly.
He didn't respond. Not yet.
She glanced down at her hands. "I keep seeing it. The fire. The moment everything could've ended."
Peter looked at her. "You didn't freeze."
"I did."
"For a second."
Padmé let out a breath. "That's all it takes, sometimes."
Peter turned back to the skyline.
"I freeze more than I want to admit," he said. "It just... doesn't always show."
She didn't answer. But her posture changed, ever so slightly.
"I used to think I was strong," she said. "All these speeches. All the ideals. I thought I could hold it all together if I just kept going. If I kept believing."
"You're still strong," Peter said.
Padmé gave him a look that held no amusement. "Strength isn't the same as pretending to be fine. That's what I've been doing. For months. For years."
She paused. Her voice softened further.
"Anakin used to look at me like I was everything. Lately, I can't tell if he sees me at all."
Peter said nothing. The ache in her voice filled the space between them.
Padmé shook her head slowly. "He's always angry now. He thinks I don't understand. That I'm just... one more thing he has to keep safe, like I'm made of glass."
"You're not."
"I know," she whispered. "But he doesn't."
The words sat there, brittle and unfinished.
"I keep thinking," she said, voice trembling, "maybe the fire would've been easier."
Peter turned, alarmed. "Don't say that."
"I didn't mean it like that." She closed her eyes. "I'm just tired. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I give speeches in a Senate that stopped listening. I walk past friends I don't recognize. I smile for cameras while my galaxy dies under my feet."
Her voice cracked, just slightly.
Peter didn't speak. He just reached out and touched her hand. She didn't pull away.
"You ever feel like you're the only one trying to keep the pieces from falling apart," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "but everyone else is pretending it's already over?"
Peter nodded.
"All the time."
She looked at him then. Her eyes were wet. She didn't cry, not fully. But something inside her had cracked.
And she let him see it.
Peter shifted closer. He didn't reach for her again. He let her make the choice.
And she did.
Padmé leaned into him. Slowly and hesitantly.
He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, letting her head rest against his collar. Her breath trembled against his neck. His hand smoothed gently across her back. Just comfort.
But the moment didn't fade. It lingered.
Peter felt her fingers slide up his chest, soft and uncertain, fingertips brushing the collar of his tunic. She wasn't pulling him closer, just holding on, as if to steady herself against something she couldn't name.
She lifted her head.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them said a word.
Then she kissed him.
It was small at first. Soft. Her lips barely moved against his, testing the shape of the moment. Peter didn't flinch. He only answered, gently, letting the kiss linger.
When she kissed him again, it was deeper. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just filled with the kind of ache that had no words.
They broke apart slowly, their foreheads touching.
"This is a mistake," she whispered.
Peter nodded. "Yeah."
But neither of them moved.
Her lips brushed his again. Then again. And when he kissed her back, when her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, something in her broke, and something in him gave way.
She drew back slightly, her breathing uneven, her eyes never leaving his. Then, in one slow movement, her hands rose to her chest. She slid her fingers into the loose knot of her robe.
The fabric loosened.
Peter froze as the robe began to part. She didn't look away. Her hands moved deliberately, drawing the silken material from her shoulders, baring more of her skin with every inch.
It slipped down her arms and pooled at her elbows, then past them. The robe whispered across her body as it fell, revealing everything.
She sat there, bare in the garden's glow, the light from the Senate tower painting her in silver and soft shadows.
Her skin was a rich, warm gold under the night, smooth and flawless except for the faint line of a healing burn on her forearm. Her breasts were full and firm, the nipples a soft, dusky rose, already tightening in the night air. Her waist curved inward delicately, leading down to soft hips and strong, sculpted thighs that parted just enough for him to see the glisten between them.
A small beauty mark sat near the hollow of her navel. Her stomach, though flat, was not rigid, it softened with every breath, rising and falling as she exhaled.
She wasn't a goddess.
She was real.
And she was breathtaking.
Peter stared, mouth slightly open, heart hammering.
Padmé raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth quirking. "Say something."
"I... I don't think I have the words," Peter said quietly. "You're... perfect."
"Liar," she said softly. "I'm tired. I'm stressed. I'm flat in all the wrong places."
Peter knelt in front of her, eyes wide with disbelief.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he said, with no hesitation. "And I'm including everyone I've ever seen in flight."
She huffed a short, broken laugh. Then she reached out and cupped his cheek.
"You're dangerous," she murmured.
Peter leaned into her hand. "Only for you."
She lay back then, guiding him down with her. The robe slipped beneath her like water. Her legs parted without fanfare, just an invitation. Her bare pussy was glistening already, her folds flushed and swollen with need. She wasn't shy. Not anymore.
She looked up at him, waiting.
Peter hovered over her, breathing hard.
"Can I...?"
"I want you to," she said.
He kissed her lips once, then trailed down slowly, chin, throat, collarbone. Each kiss was soft, open-mouthed, tongue trailing just behind. He paused at her chest, brushing his lips over the subtle swell of one breast while his hand rested lightly over her heart, fingers splaying across smooth skin.
Her back arched as his mouth closed around her nipple. He sucked lightly, then circled it with his tongue, teasing until she groaned. His other hand moved slowly down her stomach, past the curve of her hip.
When his fingers reached her pussy, she gasped.
Peter looked up at her, then kissed lower. He slid between her thighs and kissed them open, gently pushing her legs apart. She let him breathe unevenly.
He kissed her inner thigh first, slow and hot.
Then he licked.
Padmé's body jolted.
His tongue parted her folds carefully, starting at the bottom and dragging up. She was slick, soaked already, the taste of her instantly dizzying. He kissed her clit once, soft and reverent, then circled it with his tongue until she moaned.
"Peter," she breathed, one hand gripping the grass, the other finding his hair.
He hummed against her, letting the vibration settle into her nerves. Then he went deeper.
He licked her pussy in slow strokes, then faster, flattening his tongue to press into her. She whimpered, thighs twitching. When he sucked her clit into his mouth, she gasped, hips rising to meet him.
"Yes," she moaned, her voice cracked. "Just like that… don't stop."
Peter pulled back for just a second to speak, his voice rough.
"Sit up. Ride my face."
Padmé stared at him. A pause, and then a dark smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.
She sat up and swung one leg over his head.
Now she was kneeling over his mouth, cunt glistening, dripping above his lips.
Peter looked up at her, his hands gripping her ass.
"Sit."
She lowered herself slowly, pressing her pussy to his tongue.
His mouth sealed around her. His tongue slid between her folds and circled her clit as he sucked her deeper against his face.
Padmé gasped loudly, grabbing his hair with both hands. She rocked her hips slowly, then faster, grinding down as he licked and licked and licked. The rhythm was messy and desperate.
She rode his face like she needed it to survive.
"Oh fuck," she cried, her voice cracking. "Peter, I'm…"
She came suddenly, thighs clamping around his head, pussy clenching hard as her orgasm ripped through her. She was shaking, gasping, her entire body pulsing with release.
Peter didn't stop.
He licked her through it, swallowing every drop.
She fell forward, chest pressed against his, mouth dragging across his collarbone.
"Stars..." she breathed, trembling against him. "What the hell are you doing to me?"
He grinned, lips slick with her arousal. "Exactly what you needed."
Padmé grabbed Peter's chin, kissed him deep and rough, and moaned low in her throat at the taste of herself on his tongue. Her thighs clenched around his hips, grinding against the swollen bulge in his suit, frantic now, beyond teasing.
"Now," she hissed into his mouth. "I want to feel you inside me. I don't want gentleness. I want you."
Peter nodded, chest rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon. His hands were shaking as he stood to strip. The garden lights flickered over the sweat-slick muscles of his chest as he peeled off his tunic. Her gaze dropped to the obvious tension between his legs, his cock, flushed and hard, jutting up against the night air, leaking at the tip.
"Stars," she whispered, hungry. "You're beautiful. Every inch."
He flushed, self-conscious, but the way she stared at him like she wanted to devour him, made him feel like a god.
Padmé reclined back, her knees falling apart with practiced grace. One hand dragged down her belly, the other between her thighs. She spread herself with two fingers, glistening and open. "Then stop staring and fuck me, Spider."
He moved fast, crawling over her like a predator, guiding his cock to her entrance, eyes locked to hers. "Tell me if..."
"If you stop, I'll break your fucking neck."
He smiled, heart hammering.
And pushed in.
The heat was instant. Blistering. She gasped, legs twitching as he filled her slowly. Her pussy clenched and fluttered with greedy resistance, sucking him in inch by inch. Her nails dug into his back, dragging across his spine as her thighs locked tight.
"Fuck," he breathed, voice cracking. "You're… squeezing me like a vice."
Her mouth twisted into a grin. "You think I'm letting you go?"
He bottomed out with a deep groan. Her body arched under him, taking every inch until they were locked, hips flush, heat fused. Her breath hitched.
Peter started to move.
Slow at first, dragging against her soaked walls, pulling out until only the tip remained before driving back in, deeper each time. The slap of his hips grew louder, wetter. Padmé's moans spilled freely, fingers curling in his hair, heels digging into the curve of his ass.
"Harder," she growled.
He obeyed.
He fucked her like he needed it to breathe. Brutal, punishing thrusts that rocked her against the stone tiles. His cock carved into her again and again, the sounds of skin and sex filling the night air, wet, obscene, perfect.
She clung to him like a lifeline, her voice breaking. "Yes, don't stop…"
Peter reached between them, thumb pressing hard against her clit, rubbing in frantic circles as he kept thrusting. She jerked beneath him, hips stuttering.
Padmé came with a scream.
Her body seized, pussy fluttering around him in rhythmic spasms, her nails raking bloody lines down his back. Her thighs quaked, her voice cracked, and she didn't stop shaking. But Peter didn't slow down.
He was still going.
"Another one," he panted, voice thick and wild. "Give me another."
Her laugh was broken, sharp. "Greedy."
He slammed into her, again. "So are you."
Her second orgasm hit harder, triggered by the relentless thrusting, the hot, messy slap of his balls against her ass, by his voice in her ear, whispering filthy things she never expected from him.
"You feel that?" he groaned. "You're dripping down my cock. Fuck, you're drenched."
She could only whimper, twitching with overstimulation, her cunt milking him like it never wanted him to leave.
Peter was close. She could feel it. His breath was ragged. His rhythm faltered.
"Padmé, I'm gonna... I need to... fuck, I have to pull out..."
She snarled, feral, and locked her ankles behind him.
"No. Inside. I want it. Fill me."
He tried to resist. He didn't.
He came with a cry, hips jerking forward hard, cock throbbing deep inside her. Hot spurts of cum spilled into her womb, thick and unrelenting. She gasped at the flood, the warmth spreading fast inside her, and that alone was enough.
Her third orgasm snapped through her like lightning.
Her entire body arched off the ground, her mouth falling open in a silent scream as her cunt clamped down and milked him. His cum leaked around the base, gushing down her ass and soaking the stone beneath.
Still, he didn't stop.
His cock twitched, still half-hard, moving in shallow thrusts even as he emptied the last of himself inside her. She writhed beneath him, her body boneless, eyes glassy.
And still, he was inside.
Still, she kept him there.
They lay tangled in sweat and heat and cum, the scent of sex thick around them. His back bore her scratches. Her thighs were slick with him. The stars above Coruscant glowed faint and uncaring, distant witnesses to what they'd done.
Padmé's hand drifted down to her belly, fingers brushing lower, slipping between her legs with a slow press.
Cum squelched out around Peter's cock, still buried deep inside her.
She hummed softly, a satisfied sound, then clenched around him one last time, just to feel the wet fullness again. "I didn't think it could ever feel like that," she murmured, dazed and wrecked. "You just… broke me."
Peter kissed her throat, lazy and reverent. "You make me lose control."
She smiled, slow and dangerous. "Good. Next time, don't ask for permission."
But this time, finally her legs loosened around his waist, muscles trembling with exhaustion. His softening cock slipped free with a wet, messy sound, a fresh gush of cum spilling out from her swollen entrance and sliding down between her thighs.
Peter shivered.
Padmé followed the trail with her fingers, lazy and unhurried, before glancing up at him. Her eyes gleamed with mischief and something else. Something deeper. Gratitude, hunger, affection, all wrapped in a grin that made his breath catch.
Before he could speak, she was already moving, pushing gently against his chest and guiding him onto his back.
She slid down his body like silk, pressing hot kisses across his stomach. His cock twitched, still damp and sticky with the evidence of their first round.
"Padmé," he rasped, too stunned to think. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupted, voice velvet and smoke. Her smile was slow and deliberate. "You fucked me like I was your only purpose. Let me thank you like it's mine."
She kissed the base of his cock, warm and soft, then gave the shaft one long, slow lick dragging her tongue through the combined taste of him and her. He moaned, hips jerking, already hardening again under her attention.
Her tongue circled the head with reverence before she took him into her mouth, slow and smooth. Her lips stretched around him, cheeks hollowing as she sucked him deeper, inch by inch.
Peter groaned, eyes fluttering shut, fingers tightening in her hair. "Fuck, Padmé…"
She didn't stop.
She moved in a slow rhythm at first, savoring him, letting her tongue glide along every vein and ridge. Then she began to quicken, head bobbing, mouth wetter, the sounds obscene and lewd as she sucked him with increasing hunger.
Her hands gripped his hips to hold him still as she swallowed him again, his cock hitting the back of her throat. She didn't gag. She just moaned around him, the vibrations tearing a curse from his lips.
"Padmé, I'm gonna…"
She moaned louder, taking him even deeper.
Peter came with a strangled cry, his cock jerking against her tongue as he spilled down her throat. She swallowed every drop, messy and eager, milking him with her mouth as his body trembled beneath her.
She didn't pull away until he was done, utterly spent, twitching, wrecked.
When she finally released him with a wet pop, her lips were swollen, her breath ragged, eyes heavy with heat. She licked her way up the head, cleaned the last bead of cum with a teasing flick of her tongue, and pressed one final kiss to the sensitive tip.
Then she crawled back up and collapsed beside him, head on his chest.
"Now we're even," she whispered, smirking against his skin.
Peter let out a dazed laugh. "I don't think that's how math works."
"Then I guess I'll have to keep thanking you."
…
The rooftop garden was pale with morning light.
The stars had faded. The towers of Coruscant loomed golden now, bathed in the sterile glow of sunrise. The atmospheric barrier shimmered faintly in the sky above, high-altitude traffic already resuming its orderly chaos.
Peter stirred slowly, the taste of her still on his lips.
Padmé lay curled against him, her back to his chest, the thin blanket he'd pulled over them barely covering either of them. Her breathing was steady. Calm. But not peaceful.
His hand rested on her hip, fingers brushing the curve of her waist. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. Not with everything still raw and messy between them. But her body had been warm. Her lips had whispered against his neck, soft with sleep.
And for a moment, the galaxy hadn't been falling apart.
She stirred.
Peter opened his eyes fully as she sat up, the blanket sliding down her spine. Her bare back was graceful in the light, shoulder blades shifting as she pulled her robe from the grass. She didn't speak.
He pushed up onto his elbows. "Hey…"
Padmé paused, fingers stilling on the fabric.
Peter's voice was soft. "You okay?"
She didn't turn around. "We shouldn't have done that."
His heart sank. "I know."
She stood, wrapping the robe around her body in a single practiced motion. When she finally turned, her face was composed, but her eyes gave her away. They were red-rimmed. Not from crying. From holding everything in.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice low. "That wasn't fair to you."
Peter shook his head. "It's not about fair."
"Yes, it is," she said, and now she looked at him directly. "You were trying to comfort me. And I…" Her voice caught. "I needed something I shouldn't have taken."
Peter reached for his pants. "You didn't take anything I wasn't already giving."
Silence.
She stepped closer, arms folded tight over her chest, the robe barely shielding her.
"You don't know what this will do," she whispered. "If anyone found out…"
"They won't," Peter said firmly. "I'm not telling anyone."
Padmé nodded once, but her body was still rigid. Distant. She looked like she was already back in the Senate.
"You should go before the tower wakes," she said. "The guards start patrols soon."
Peter hesitated, then pulled on his tunic. The silence between them wasn't hostile. It was heavier than that. Dense with things they couldn't afford to say.
When he stood, she looked at him one last time.
Her voice was soft. "We were never here."
Peter gave a tight nod.
He leaned in, hesitating, but didn't kiss her. Just brushed his fingers down her arm, a silent thank-you, and turned away.
He didn't see her eyes fall to her stomach, her hand resting there for just a moment too long.
A chime sounded on Peter's comm.
[Ahsoka]: Where the hell are you? We've got new orders. Meet me at Landing Bay 12 in ten minutes.
He exhaled.
The war hadn't paused. Not for them. Not for anything.
…
It had been hours since Peter left the rooftop.
The sun had climbed and dipped again. Whatever mission Ahsoka had summoned him to that morning, a perimeter sweep with minimal contact had passed in a blur. Padmé hadn't sent a message. Hadn't looked his way in the briefing hall. Peter told himself that was for the best.
But something deeper than guilt still churned in his gut.
He hadn't been able to shake the looks in the clones' eyes that day. Some of them, Jesse, Kix, and even Rex had hesitated just a little too long before reacting. Their movements were sharp, but off. Their eyes were clear but too controlled. It didn't feel like stress. It felt like something waiting.
So Peter had come to the medbay, long after lights out.
He told himself it was about concern. About wanting to help.
But really, it was about fear.
The lights in the medbay were dim, just enough to navigate, not enough to be intrusive.
Most of the injured clones were asleep, breathing through filtered masks, bacta patches glowing faintly where deep blaster wounds hadn't yet closed. The hum of vitals, and the occasional beep from life monitors, filled the sterile air with a quiet kind of dread.
Peter moved like a shadow.
He kept his suit half-activated, the nanotech crawling just enough to mask the soles of his boots. The gloves were engaged, and the fingers synced with his interface as he slid into the private diagnostics terminal near one of the recovery beds.
The trooper in it, CT-4389, nicknamed Slate, had taken a head injury during the battle on Mandalore. He was still unconscious. Perfect for what Peter needed.
He didn't have authorization. He didn't wait for it.
The data was pulled up in seconds. Peter's HUD flickered to life inside his right eye, displaying neural activity scans, pulse readings, and chemical stability. Nothing looked strange at first until he noticed the aggression response chart.
There was a spike right before the battle.
Then another, stronger, more precise, when Slate was near Jedi signatures.
Peter frowned.
He scrubbed through other clone profiles, pulling from encrypted backup servers deeper into the GAR archives. Dozens. Hundreds. The pattern repeated.
Elevated aggression under stress. But always higher when near Jedi. And even more disturbing, there were suppressor tags in the medical records. Hidden, buried code. Command strings.
Strings that didn't make sense in a standard military medfile.
"Execute."
"Suppress hesitation."
"Override reflex."
Peter's blood ran cold.
These weren't just biometric logs. They were programming cues.
The inhibitor chip.
He leaned in closer, fingers moving faster now. His suit's AI decrypted another layer, revealing a tight coil of commands, unreadable except for one horrifying line:
Protocol 66. Active Readiness.
Not a code. Not a defense. A weapon waiting to be fired.
Peter's stomach twisted.
He backed out of the terminal and downloaded the data into a private folder sealed behind five layers of encryption. His heart was pounding now, not from the stealth, but from the implications.
If this was real if every clone had this chip.
A door slid open.
Peter froze.
Footsteps. Light. Measured.
Ahsoka.
She stepped into the medbay without her armor, wearing a simple tunic and leggings, lekku bound back loosely. Her eyes scanned the room automatically.
Peter closed the data stream in his HUD and turned, casual.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
She looked at him for a second too long.
"I could ask you the same."
Peter shrugged. "Old habit. Back home, I used to do late patrols. Felt weird not checking in."
Her gaze flicked to the terminal behind him.
"You weren't just checking in."
"I was reviewing the vitals," he lied smoothly. "Slate's pulse dipped earlier. I thought it might be useful to analyze, his suit cracked during the last blast. Thought I could cross-reference suit impact with a cranial response. Might be useful for next field deployment."
Ahsoka didn't say anything.
She walked past him and checked the display for herself.
"Anything unusual?"
"Just a few spikes in adrenaline," Peter said. "Standard combat trauma. Nothing dangerous."
She stared at the monitor a second longer, then nodded.
A long silence.
Then she turned her head just slightly.
"Anakin's watching you."
Peter blinked. "What?"
"He doesn't trust you. He's not the only one."
Peter's throat dried.
"I haven't done anything wrong."
"You saved clones. You helped me hold Mandalore. You've followed every order. But you're still not one of us." She looked back at him, voice quiet. "And people are starting to notice."
Peter nodded, slowly.
"Thanks for the warning."
She looked like she wanted to say more, but didn't. Instead, she stepped past him and moved toward the doorway.
Just before leaving, she paused.
"I don't know what you're looking for, Spider," she said without turning around. "But if you find something dangerous… don't wait until it's too late to tell someone."
The door hissed shut behind her.
Peter stared at the darkened screen. The glow of Slate's vitals flickered like a countdown.
In his mind, the phrase burned like fire:
Protocol 66.
A gun pressed to every Jedi's back.
He closed his eyes.
The war wasn't just wrong.
It was rigged.
…
The meditation chamber was silent, but Anakin Skywalker could not quiet his thoughts.
He sat cross-legged on the polished floor, eyes closed, breathing unevenly. The Force churned around him, not in harmony, but in heat, like a storm refusing to break. The harder he tried to center himself, the deeper the sense of unease grew.
Padmé.
He reached for her presence, as he had done countless times before. But tonight, it was distant. Dimmed. Not gone, but veiled.
Then the vision came.
It struck without warning. A flash of silk sheets. Moonlight on bare skin. Padmé, her face flushed, her body trembling beneath an unseen figure. The scene was blurred, distorted by the Force, but real enough to send a jolt through his chest.
She wasn't alone.
A red-blue shimmer wrapped around the figure moving with her, light bending unnaturally, too vivid to ignore.
Her breath caught. Her hands clutched at shoulders he could not see. She arched. She gasped.
Anakin's eyes snapped open.
Cracks split the meditation chamber wall, spiderwebbing outward from where his fists had slammed down. The air vibrated with raw energy, the scent of scorched metal lingering in his nostrils.
He stood abruptly, fists still clenched, chest heaving.
No.
He moved to the viewport, gaze locking onto the distant spire of Padmé's apartment. The windows were dark. Silent.
But the vision clung to him.
Padmé. With someone else.
His mind tried to reject it. The Force had been wrong before. Visions weren't always literal.
But it had felt real.
Too real.
He didn't see the man's face. Didn't hear his voice. But the colors, the red and blue, seared behind his eyes like a brand.
Not a Jedi. Not a clone. Not him.
The chamber around him seemed too small. Too close.
His breathing slowed, but it didn't ease the rage growing behind his ribs.
He didn't know who the man was.
But he would.
And when he did, the galaxy would feel it.
…
Interlude
The tower chamber was dark, lit only by the flicker of holoscreens and the cold gleam of Coruscant's upper-atmosphere traffic streaking past the high transparisteel windows.
Chancellor Palpatine sat motionless in the center of the chamber, robes folded neatly over his knees, spine perfectly straight. His eyes were half-lidded, seemingly at rest.
But he wasn't resting.
He was listening.
The Force pulsed through him, frayed, distorted, off-rhythm. Not shattered like during the Clone Wars' bloodiest battles, but rerouted. Like a thread had been pulled from fate's loom, twisted by foreign hands, and left to dangle.
There was something in the currents. A shimmer outside prophecy. Not chaos. Something worse.
Choice.
His lips curled slowly.
He had felt it first when Ahsoka Tano returned to the Republic's fold. Her presence alone was irrelevant. She had rejected the Jedi, after all, and rejection bred pain. Pain bred clarity.
But she had not returned alone.
The boy.
The outsider.
Palpatine's brow creased, and his eyes opened fully.
With a flick of his fingers, the main terminal whirred to life. Blue light bathed the room as a dozen surveillance feeds shimmered into place. Senate corridors, landing pads, deep-channel archives. The usual clutter of the Republic's institutional rot.
Then he paused one.
Zoomed in.
A security feed. Grainy but recoverable. The Senate platform, mid-crisis. Smoke from the explosion still curled into the air. Guards rushed to the wreckage. And above it, there he was.
A masked figure in crimson and blue crouched beside Senator Amidala.
He touched her arm.
Her eyes were locked on him, not with fear. Not with confusion.
With familiarity.
Palpatine enhanced the frame again. The faceplate of the mask shimmered in the light, unreadable, alien. The suit was too advanced for clone tech. Too fluid for Jedi armor. And the boy moved like something... untrained.
Raw. Dangerous.
He tapped his fingers against the chair's armrest once, then twice. Not out of irritation. Calculation.
"Who are you?" he murmured.
The Force did not answer, not directly. But the ripple was clearer now. The boy was not part of the plan. Not conceived by prophecy. Not forged by the Code or the Sith Rule of Two.
He was... something else.
A fracture.
Palpatine's tongue ran over the inside of his cheek.
A mistake.
Or an opportunity.
He stood slowly, hands tucked into the folds of his sleeves, and crossed the chamber toward the central comm station. With a wave of his hand, a private line activated. Seconds later, the translucent blue form of Mas Amedda appeared, head bowed.
"Your Excellency."
"I want eyes on former Commander Tano," Palpatine said quietly. "And the one she arrived with."
"The... Spider, sir?"
"That name again," Palpatine mused. "Yes. Him."
Mas Amedda hesitated. "Shall I dispatch security agents?"
"No." Palpatine's voice cooled. "Use the Black Watch. Quiet observers. No interaction. Just... patience."
Mas Amedda nodded. "Yes, Chancellor."
The feed flickered out.
Palpatine turned back to the window, staring into the sky beyond the Senate.
Anakin was slipping. That much was clear. His heart cracked every time Padmé spoke against the war, every time Kenobi undermined his authority. Soon, he would fracture. And from that fracture would pour power raw, unshaped.
But perhaps the Chosen One no longer stood alone.
Perhaps... the Force, in its clumsy desperation to balance itself, had thrown another card onto the table.
He could feel it. That boy, this Spider, he did not belong here. His thread was interwoven, but it did not originate in this galaxy's weave.
That made him dangerous.
Unrooted.
Malleable.
Or, failing that, expendable.
Palpatine's smile returned, thin and sharp.
Let the boy believe he was doing good. Let him build bonds, expose hidden cells, and fracture Jedi discipline from within. The more he acted, the more he would lead the Sith to the places they could not see.
"Let him walk the web," Palpatine whispered to no one. "He will lead us to every corner the Jedi think hidden."
Outside, a thunderstorm rolled across the upper stratosphere, lightning flickering across the sky.
Palpatine closed his eyes and returned to meditation.
The future was changing.
And for now, that was enough.
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Thanks for reading. This fic will run for 10 chapters packed with tragedy, angst, and smut. Chapters 3 and 4 (Peter x Ashoka smut) is already live on P*treon.
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