Anakin’s Redemption
by Fan Fiction Man
Copyright© 2025 by Fan Fiction Man
Fan Fiction Sex Story: This is how I imagine things if Anakin Skywalker chose the light and the Jedi…and Padme over Palpatine, the Sith, the Empire, and the dark side of the Force.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fan Fiction War Science Fiction Aliens Extra Sensory Perception Robot Space Magic Rough Anal Sex Analingus Oral Sex Pegging Pregnancy Sex Toys Politics Violence AI Generated .
The lightsaber trembled in Mace Windu’s grip, its purple hum mirroring the storm outside Palpatine’s office. Anakin stood frozen, his gaze darting between the Sith Lord’s grotesque smile and the Jedi Master’s unyielding stance.
“He must live,” Anakin blurted, voice cracking like a faulty ignition. “I need him.”
Windu didn’t turn, but his shoulders tensed—not in fear, but in the way a rancor does before it charges.
“Look at me, Skywalker,” Windu growled, and when Anakin finally met his eyes, the Jedi Master saw it: raw terror, the kind that turns bones to water. “Why?” The word hung between them, sharp as a vibroblade.
“Padmé,” Anakin choked out, the name a confession. “She’s dying—nightmares—blood—he can save her.”
The admission left him hollow, like he’d ripped his own chest open. Palpatine’s chuckle slithered through the room, wet and knowing.
“Sith Lords lie and betray people, using their fears to manipulate them. That is another way that fear leads to the dark side. This is why Master Yoda worried about training you, due to the fear. He sensed much in you, but you can overcome that fear. Leave the office and speak to your Master, Obi-wan Kenobi, and do it now. Fear will cloud your judgment,” Windu instructed Anakin, “tell him what you told me. Come clean. He will give you wisdom.”
Anakin winced, but nodded, not daring to stay and look in Palpatine’s eyes. He didn’t trust the Chancellor anymore, not completely, but he didn’t trust himself anymore, either.
His boots clicked against the marble floor as he strode toward the door, his steps measured—but the moment his hand touched the cold durasteel frame, Palpatine’s voice slithered after him. “She will die without me, Anakin.” The words dripped like poison. “And what then? Will your precious Jedi robes keep her warm in the grave?”
“She might die because of him, too,” Windu reminded Anakin now.
Anakin hesitated, his fingers flexing around the doorframe, torn between Windu’s warning and Palpatine’s twisted promise. The storm outside mirrored the war inside him—lightning fracturing the sky like his own splintering resolve.
Then it crystallized: evil stank of rot, of desperation. It choked you with false kindness while slipping a knife between your ribs. But Windu? Windu had never lied to him—not even when the truth hurt. That was trust. That was the Jedi way. “Master Windu’s right,” Anakin said, voice steadier than he felt. “You’re just another slimy politician playing games with lives.” The admission burned his throat like bad whiskey.
He didn’t remember the walk to the Temple hangar—just the way his fingers kept spasming around the speeder’s controls. Obi-Wan would be in the archives by now, cross-referencing some obscure battle tactic from the Clone Wars’ early days. Always studying, always ten steps ahead. Anakin’s stomach flipped. What if Kenobi turned away? What if this was the confession that finally broke them?
The speeder jerked to a stop outside the Temple’s eastern entrance, scattering a group of padawans. Anakin barely noticed their startled faces as he vaulted over the side, boots hitting permacrete with a crack that sent pain shooting up his shins. The corridors blurred—temple guards stepping aside, holocrons glowing in their alcoves like judgmental eyes. Then, the archives’ heavy doors, and Obi-Wan’s hunched silhouette at a terminal, blue light etching tired lines around his eyes.
“Master,” Anakin choked out, and Kenobi turned—not startled, but wary, like he’d been expecting this storm to break for months. The holo-projector cast moving shadows across Obi-Wan’s face as he studied Anakin’s heaving shoulders, the wildness in his eyes. Without a word, he tapped a sequence into the console. The door seals engaged with a hydraulic hiss.
“Tell me,” Obi-Wan said, hands still hovering over the keys, “before you change your mind again.”
Anakin’s knees buckled—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of the truth pressing against his ribs. “Palpatine ... he’s been feeding me visions. Of Padmé. Dying.” The words came out jagged, like shrapnel. “Every night, it’s the same—her screaming, bleeding out in childbirth, and me powerless to stop it. He told me only the dark side could save her, that the Jedi would let her die to—to keep me in line.” His breath hitched, fists clenching. “I believed him. Stars help me, I wanted to.”
“What just happened to make you turn against him?” Kenobi demanded.
The air between them thickened with static—like the moment before a plasma storm erupts. Anakin watched Obi-Wan’s fingers twitch toward his commlink, saw the calculations flicker behind his mentor’s eyes: how many Temple guards stood between Palpatine and escape, how quickly the Council could mobilize. “Because Master Windu made me see,” Anakin admitted, voice raw. “He looked at me like—like I was still worth saving.” The realization carved through him, leaving something tender exposed. “And Palpatine ... he smelled it. My fear. He was enjoying it.”
“You chose well. You wavered, albeit for the right reasons, but at the moment of truth, you chose good over evil, wisdom over folly, light over darkness. The Jedi over the Sith. First, you exposed Palpatine as a Sith Lord and now you have allowed Master Windu to remove him. You did the right thing. You make me proud and you will make Padme proud,” Obi-wan told Anakin, clapping him on the shoulders, “and you have passed a test that we never knew that you faced ... fear vs. wisdom.”
Anakin sighed as Kenobi took him to see Yoda.
Yoda turned slowly in his chair, ears twitching. “Come to confess, Skywalker has.”
Anakin’s throat constricted—how many times had he stood in this chamber, awaiting judgment? But the Grandmaster’s gimer stick tapped an irregular rhythm against the floor, not in reprimand, but something closer to anticipation.
“Dreams of death, you see,” Yoda murmured, those ancient eyes seeing too much. “Yet tell me this: when buried in sand, does the krayt dragon weep for the moisture farmer?” The question hung absurdly between them until Yoda’s ears drooped. “Fear blinds us to life’s resilience.”
Anakin’s fists unclenched—half expecting a lecture, not riddles wrapped in kindness. But Obi-Wan shifted beside him, sensing the shift too: this wasn’t punishment. It was triage.
The storm outside lashed the Temple’s spires, wind howling through the archives’ ventilation shafts like a chorus of lost souls. Anakin flinched—somewhere in that cacophony, Padmé’s voice seemed to whisper. Yoda’s clawed hand closed around his wrist, surprisingly warm. “Your wife,” the Grandmaster said, the word deliberate, unflinching, “stronger than sandstorms, she is. Trust her, you must.”
Obi-Wan’s commlink chirped—a priority alert from the Council chambers. Windu’s face flickered to life in blue hologram, his forehead streaked with sweat. “It’s done,” the Korun Master rasped. Behind him, the Chancellor’s office smoldered, the scent of ozone clinging to the transmission. “But we’ve got incoming—Senate Guard squads mobilizing under ‘emergency protocols.’”
Anakin’s pulse hammered against his ribs. “They’ll brand us traitors.” The realization tasted like copper.
“Us, indeed. Like it or not, you have taken a stand ... with your fellow Jedi. You have shown both weakness and strength. The weakness is a warning for the future, but the strength is a clear victory over your toughest enemy: your own worst fears. Come, stand with us. The deed is done. You have made your choice, Anakin. The right one. Now, stand by that choice,” Obi-wan urged Anakin.
“Yes, chosen well, young Skywalker has. Jedi Master he shall be,” Master Yoda declared, even as the enemy moved to strike.
Anakin felt his blood freeze in his veins. The Senate Guard would come—stormtroopers, perhaps, answering to whoever had seized Palpatine’s emergency authority. And Padmé ... Padmé would hear the news holos screaming about Jedi treason. She’d think him dead or worse.
Across the room, Obi-Wan’s saber hilt spun in his palm—not ignited, but ready. His lips moved silently, a habit from the war: counting exits, calculating odds. “We’ll need to split their forces,” he murmured. “Mace, rally the Council. I’ll secure the lower hangars.”
Anakin’s breath hitched. “Padmé’s in the Senate building. If they declare martial law—”
Yoda’s ears flattened. “Go to her, you must. But carefully—seen with Jedi now, you are.” The Grandmaster’s claw tapped Anakin’s forearm, leaving invisible welts of warning. “Darkness lingers where you tread.”
Obi-Wan’s fingers closed around Anakin’s vambrace, grip tight enough to bruise. “Use the service tunnels behind the statues of the Founders—they run straight to her office. And Anakin?” His eyes burned like twin suns. “If you see red blades, you run.”
Anakin nodded, but his chest tightened at the unspoken truth: if Palpatine had apprentices hidden in the Senate’s shadows, nowhere was safe. The Temple’s alarms wailed to life, bathing the archives in pulsing crimson. Somewhere above, duraplast shattered under boot heels.
The service tunnels reeked of stale air and bacta runoff—abandoned maintenance routes only droids and desperate senators used. Anakin’s boots slipped on grime-slicked grating as he ran, each footfall echoing like a gunshot. He could feel it—the way the Force coiled around Coruscant’s underbelly, thick with something oily and watching.
Padmé’s private frequency buzzed in his wrist comm—once, twice, then silence. Either she’d muted it for a Senate session, or someone had cut the signal. His lungs burned. The vision surged unbidden: her gown soaked crimson, clutching her swollen belly as shadows laughed.
A durasteel door screeched open ahead—not the hydraulic hiss of Senate security, but the jagged tear of a lightsaber. Anakin skidded to a stop. The reek of scorched metal flooded the tunnel. Two figures blocked the exit: cloaked, masked, and humming with the sickly yellow glow of forbidden energy shields. Not Sith. Worse. “Jedi Hunter droids,” Anakin hissed. Palpatine’s contingency plan.
Behind them, the service tunnel trembled—boots pounding closer. Anakin’s fingers twitched toward his saber, then froze. Ignite it here, and every vibration-sensitive droid in the Senate’s sublevels would swarm him. The Hunters tilted their faceless heads in unison, sensors locking onto his racing pulse.
Padmé’s muffled scream echoed through the commlink static—not pain, but fury. “Let go of me!” Anakin’s vision tunneled. The droids lunged, shields flaring, but he was already moving, ducking under their synchronized swipe with a smuggler’s instinct he’d learned from pirates on the lower levels. His elbow cracked against one’s photoreceptor, the satisfying crunch of glass followed by the stench of sparking circuits.
The second Hunter pivoted with mechanical precision, its shield edge grazing Anakin’s ribs—searing through his tunics before he twisted away. Heat bloomed across his side, but the pain sharpened him, crystallized his focus. He vaulted onto the droid’s back, fingers scrabbling for the maintenance port beneath its cowl. The thing bucked like a bantha, slamming him against the tunnel wall.
Somewhere above, a detonation rocked the Senate building—durasteel groaned, dust rained from the ceiling. The commlink spat static, then Padmé’s voice, breathless: “Ani, they’re sealing the—” The transmission died mid-word. The remaining Hunter droid lunged, but Anakin was already rolling, his stolen vibroblade glinting as he jammed it into the joint of the droid’s knee. Hydraulic fluid sprayed, the stench of burnt lubricant thick in his nostrils.
Obi-Wan’s warning echoed in his skull—if you see red blades, run—but the tunnel ahead shimmered with something worse: shadowy figures clad in Senate Guard armor, their helmets painted with the jagged crimson sigil of the new interim government. Their blasters weren’t set to stun. One leveled his rifle, the barrel glowing charge-light flickering in the gloom. “Jedi traitor,” the lead guard barked, voice metallic through the vocoder. “Drop the weapon.”
Padmé’s office door hissed open behind the guards—just a sliver, just enough for Anakin to see her fingers gripping the frame, her knuckles white. Then the durasteel slammed shut again, cut off by a guard’s armored boot. The droid’s sparking corpse twitched at Anakin’s feet, its shield sputtering like a dying heartbeat.
Anakin’s saber was in his hand before he’d decided to move—blue plasma flaring to life with a snap-hiss that made the guards flinch. The lead guard’s rifle whined as it powered up, but Anakin was already pivoting, his blade arcing toward the blaster’s barrel. Molten durasteel dripped to the floor as the weapon split in two.
Padmé’s door hissed open again—just wide enough for Anakin to see her silhouette framed in the emergency lighting, one hand pressed to her rounded belly. Her lips formed his name, but the guards’ shouts drowned it out. Two more rifles swung toward him, their red targeting dots dancing across his chest like bloodstains.
The Force screamed a warning—not from the guards, but from the tunnel behind him. Anakin spun just as the wall exploded inward in a shower of permacrete and wiring, revealing a hulking figure wreathed in smoke: Clone Marshal Commander Fox, his armor scorched, his DC-17 already leveled.
“Stand down, Jedi,” Fox ordered him, “the Jedi Order is disbanded by order of the Senate and you’re under arrest.”
Anakin’s throat tightened—Fox had served beside them for years, fought droids and bled with Jedi. But the clone’s finger didn’t waver on the trigger. Behind Fox, the shattered tunnel swarmed with crimson-armored troopers—not the familiar blue of the Coruscant Guard, but the fresh, unmarked plastoid of a newly activated legion. Padmé’s door squealed open wider, her face pale in the emergency lighting. “Anakin!” she cried—not in fear, but in warning.
Fox fired—not at Anakin’s chest, but his knees. The world slowed. Anakin twisted, his blade arcing up in a vicious diagonal that sliced clean through Fox’s rifle, then his chest plate, then the flesh beneath. The clone commander crumpled, his severed blaster clattering to the grate as steaming viscera spilled between the cracks. The other guards froze—not in discipline, but in primal terror. One dropped his weapon with a metallic clang; another stumbled back into his comrades, their formation dissolving into a panicked retreat. The stench of burnt meat filled the tunnel.
“They’ve lost. They just don’t know it yet,” Bail Organa announced as he approached with a small detachment of armed and loyal Senators that he had rallied once word got out that the Chancellor was slain.
Anakin blinked—Organa’s face was half-lit by emergency glowpanels, sweat streaking through the dust on his brow. Behind him, Mon Mothma clutched a datapad like a weapon, her usually impeccable robes smudged with soot. “The Loyalist Committee’s broadcasting evidence as we speak,” she said, voice cutting through the blaster echoes. “Holo-footage of Palpatine confessing to engineering the war.”
Padmé’s fingers found Anakin’s wrist—warm, solid, alive. “You did it,” she breathed, but her eyes darted to Fox’s smoking corpse. The clone’s hand still twitched, fingers scraping against the grating in some final synaptic firing. “This isn’t over,” she whispered. “They’ll call it a coup.”
Across the tunnel, Organa’s group fanned out—senatorial aides brandishing stolen blasters, their trembling barrels trained on the retreating guards. Mothma’s datapad flickered with stolen security feeds: Palpatine’s yellowed teeth bared mid-sentence, his hologram boasting about “necessary sacrifices” to some unseen ally.
Anakin’s fingers twitched—Padmé’s pulse thrummed against his palm, too fast. Behind them, the service tunnel shuddered again, but this time it wasn’t boots—it was the guttural roar of repulsorlifts. Someone had brought in a gunship.
Fox’s blood pooled in the cracks between the grates, black in the emergency lighting. Organa stepped over the corpse without hesitation, his polished boots leaving crimson prints. “The 501st is securing the Temple,” he said, tossing Anakin a comlink. “But half the Senate Guard still thinks they’re following legitimate orders.”
Padmé’s grip tightened—Anakin felt her wedding band dig into his wrist. The gunship’s roar swelled, its shadow swallowing the tunnel’s flickering lights. Through the dust, Anakin saw the outline of its underbelly turrets swiveling—not toward them, but toward the fleeing guards.
Organa’s comlink crackled—Rex’s voice, raw with static: “We’ve got the Temple, but the lower levels are crawling with Palpatine’s loyalists—they’re rigging the power grid.” In the background, blasterfire punctuated his words like punctuation marks.
Anakin’s prosthetic fingers curled around Padmé’s—cold durasteel against her feverish skin. The gunship’s floodlights painted the tunnel in stark relief, revealing something worse than troopers: Senate commandos in riot gear, their visors reflecting the blue glow of his saber.
“Get her out,” Organa snapped to Mothma, shoving them toward a maintenance hatch. His voice dropped to a growl Anakin had never heard from the diplomat: “They’re flooding the tunnels with neural gas.”
Anakin rushed with Padmé to the nearest door—some forgotten storage closet—and got them inside just as the first canisters clattered down the tunnel. The seal hissed shut behind them, muffling the screams of Senate aides choking on vaporized sedatives. Padmé’s back pressed against shelves of cleaning supplies, her breath coming in sharp hitches. “They’re herding us,” she whispered. Her fingers found his in the dark, slick with Fox’s blood. “They want us in the Senate building.”
Outside, the neural gas curled through the tunnels like a living thing—then came the whine of repulsorlifts, the mechanical precision of marching feet. Not clones. Not guards. The droids descended in perfect formation, their chassis gleaming under emergency lights—Mace’s design, Obi-Wan’s strategy. They moved with lethal grace, slicing through Palpatine’s loyalists like a scythe through wheat. Blasterfire sparked off durasteel plating; a commando’s scream cut off mid-breath as a vibroblade severed his spine.
Padmé flinched as something heavy slammed against the closet door—a body, judging by the wet thud. Anakin pressed his ear to the metal, catching the rhythmic pulse of droid treads over gurgling death rattles. “Master Windu doesn’t half-ass things,” he muttered, pulling Padmé deeper into the shadows as the door’s hinges groaned under pressure. The stench of ionized air seeped through the cracks—droid blasters overheating from rapid fire.
Half an hour passed by, Padmé and Anakin facing each other in awkward silence. Her fingers traced the scorch mark on his tunic where the Hunter droid’s shield had grazed him; his prosthetic hand twitched like he wanted to pull away but didn’t dare move. The closet’s single glowpanel flickered, casting her pregnancy-swollen silhouette against shelves of leaking detergent.
“You were close to the Chancellor, but when it came down to it, you stood with the Jedi against him. What did he have over you and why didn’t it hold you?” she finally asked.
Anakin’s jaw clenched—he could still smell Palpatine’s cloying aftershave, feel the phantom pressure of those manicured fingers on his shoulder. “He knew about you,” he admitted, voice scraping raw. “About us. And he ... he showed me visions. You dying. The baby—” His throat closed around the word.
Padmé’s palm flattened against his chest, right over the scar where Dooku’s blade had pierced him. “So you believed him?” Her whisper carried the weight of shattered glass. “After everything we’ve survived?” The detergent dripped onto his boot, its chemical stink mixing with the iron tang of Fox’s blood still crusting his vambraces. Anakin watched a single drop slide down her temple—not sweat, but the first tear she wouldn’t let fall.
“For a moment, but he tipped his hand too soon, let slip that he was twisting my fear to control and manipulate me, right as Master Windu warned me about him,” Anakin explained.
Padmé’s fingers curled into fists against his chest—not pushing him away, but grounding herself. “You didn’t tell me,” she said. “Not about the visions, not about the threats.” The closet’s glowpanel flickered again, illuminating the tracks of moisture down her cheeks.
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