requests? not open at this time but feel free to message me i love talking to people!
updates!: i’m trying to write with what free time i have! apologies for slower updates
also!: I sometimes reblog fav fics!
⌘ most of my writings can also be found on my ao3!
full masterlist below ⤸
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
❯ star wars ❮
⤷ din djarin / luke skywalker
✦ planetarium ⌦
series | (f!)reader | love triangle
➺ summary: you used to have adventure in your life. smuggling, traveling, saving the galaxy and you were going to get that life back.
⤷ obidala
✦ lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off ⌦
one shot | mature content | one-night stand
➺ summary: obi wan kenobi meets padme amidala for the first time since his masters passing in the underbelly of coruscant.
⤷ anakin skywalker
✦ intertwining your soul with somebody else ⌦
oneshot | mature content | (f!)reader | situationship
➺ summary: what started as comfort has now spiraled out of control
✦ thunder ⌦
oneshot | mature content | (f!)reader | enemies to lovers
➺ summary: you and anakin had a falling out and now you’re forced to reconcile after a mission gone wrong.
⤷ obi wan kenobi
✦ when we are together ⌦
no warnings | (f!)reader | will they won’t they
➺ summary: it’s been three years since the fall of the jedi order and the rise of the empire. anakin’s two best friends are trying to survive together.
★ the only time I feel I might get better ⌦
no warnings | (f!)reader | first kiss is weird
➺ summary: this is everything you wanted…right?
❯ asoiaf ❮
⤷ headcanons
✦ i can hear the bells
part one (aegon & cregan) ⌦
part two (jace, aemond, & criston) ⌦
➺ summary: Headcanons for your wedding day
⤷ aegon ii targaryen
✦ wintering ⌦
series | sexual content | (f!)reader | enemies to lovers
➺ summary: y/n stark and aegon targaryen are two pawns in the prophecy. or scenes from a loveless marriage.
⤷ cregan stark
✦ slapshot! ⌦
➺ summary: coming soon!
⤷ criston cole
⤷ ✧ begging for rain series ✧
✦ a bushel of oranges for thee ⌦
part Ⅰ | rhaenyra & criston | violence, death, nudity | one sided
➺ summary: everything he ever did, was for her. and now he will die for her.
✦ give my rage a babysitter ⌦
part Ⅱ | alicent & criston | sexual content | situationship
➺ summary: they’re making an aesthetic out of not doing well.
⤷ lyanna stark & rhaegar targaryen
✦ it had to be you ⌦
➺ summary: a retelling of when harry met sally
❯ rush ❮
⤷ niki lauda
✦ illicit affairs ⌦
➺ summary: As the new girlfriend of notorious womanizer and formula one driver, James Hunt, you’re suddenly thrown into a whole new world and meet the man who James hates most, Niki Lauda.
❯ daisy jones & the six ❮
⤷ eddie roundtree
✦ heartbreak hotel ⌦
mature content
➺ summary: both of you were in love with someone else
⤷ pairing(s): maekar targaryen x (afab!)reader & baelor targaryen x (afab!)reader
⤷ warning(s): mentions of sex, alcohol, age gap but reader is still of age not a minor!!!!!!!
⤷ a/n: akotsk is so good and i just needed to add to my hc collection. pls lmk who u would like to see next! Also not really sure how i feel about this one idk
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
★ maekar targaryen
Prince Maekar Targaryen is older, not old, not yet but older than you all the same, by a bit…by a lot in a way that feels significant even when no one says the number aloud and the difference lingers in every glance and every unspoken thought. It’s enough of a difference to draw a line of where you are and where he already is
He has children, sons that would be far more suitable in age for marriage. Your father reassures you gently as that would soften the blow of truth. Your house is poor and desperate for Targaryen coin hollowed from years of quiet decline and so here you are, riding toward King’s Landing while he speaks of necessity as if it were comfort
You are regretful about Princess Dyanna’s passing, a tragedy by any measure and one that still sits heavy in the Realm’s chest. But it was also the catalyst that set you here, in this position you did not want. Some would call you bitter for that thought, for her death had turned into something harder, less forgiving in your chest. Perhaps they are right, it is difficult to mourn without resenting the path her death carved for you
He is a stern man, or so your septa says. She should know, she was lucky enough to grow up in the Red Keep until she was unlucky enough to be sent to your small ramshackle castle, tucked far off away in the Vale. With her memory of childhood, she speaks of the Dragon princes some odd thirty years ago
Is he handsome? you had asked her. Your septa did not answer. She only pressed her lips together, as if weighing what lie she could muster instead of the truth, and that silence annoyed you more than any blunt reply could have. If he were ugly, she would have said so. If he were kind, surely she would have reached for that instead. Her refusal felt deliberate, another small cruelty, another reminder that no one intended to make this easier for you
So you sat in the creaking carriage, each groan of the wheels counting the distance between what little choice you once had and the marriage waiting for you. The road stretched on, slow and merciless, carrying you toward a fate already decided, one mile at a time.
Would you have to lie with him after? Would he expect more heirs, more children to fill the space left behind by his ghost wife? The questions circle endlessly, unanswered and unwanted. You pick at a hangnail on one perfectly tended finger, a small, nervous rebellion. No future Targaryen princess should have outgrown nails, uneven, dirty things. You smooth down the nail anyway, because even dread must be kept presentable
When your carriage arrived, he was already there, standing beside his brother at the entrance to the gate. His posture was composed, stoic, commanding in a way that drew the eye, yet there was something worn in the lines of his face that spoke of years lived and burdens carried
He wasn’t ugly, you mused, though there was a hardness to his features, a seriousness that made youth feel distant. The shadows of experience lingered around him, softening any impression of charm he might have carried in earlier days. In that instant, you could see the weight of responsibility etched into his stance, and a quiet authority that made it impossible to look away
The meeting is brief and cordial, with little pleasantries
Prince Maekar is not happy with this marriage choice made for him, his brow raises at the sight of white and red roses that adorn the great hall, his fingers pick at the delicate petal of a crimson rose, he misses Dyanna and felt bad for the woman who was as young as his own children that he now had the sordid duty of marrying
But his sympathy extended as well to you standing nervously across the hall. You were barely older than his own eldest child, and he felt a stab of guilt for the cruel role fate had cast him in, the duty to marry you, to bind you life to his in a union neither of you had chosen. The weight of tradition pressed down on him, the grandeur of the hall now feeling like a cage, the roses beauty taunting him with the sharp contrast of innocence and obligation. Maekar’s lips tightened, a bitter mixture of regret and responsibility settling heavily over his shoulders.
“What the fuck, Baelor?” Maekar muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took in the situation. The age gap was undeniable, and it weighed on him heavier than he cared to admit. You weren’t ugly, far from it. He let out a low, reluctant sigh. You’ll do, he thought, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. Duty, expectation, and the ever-looming weight of tradition pressed down on him, leaving little room for desire or hope
The ceremony passed quickly, each moment measured and formal, leaving little space for comfort or reflection. When the time came, Maekar swiftly removed your house’s solemn cape, its fabric heavy and replaced it with the ornate, dragon flame red Targaryen cloak, embroidered with silver dragons that gleamed under the hall’s torchlight. His lips were taut at first against yours, a thin line of restraint, betraying nothing of what he actually felt for this. For a fleeting heartbeat, however, they softened ever so slightly, his eyes closed, then just as quickly, the line returned, firm and unyielding, masking any trace of sentiment beneath duty and dignity
Since this was Maekar’s second marriage, the feast was smaller than what the Targaryens might normally host. Yet even small by their standards still dwarfed anything your house had ever seen, goblets full with wine, and servants moving like shadows between them. What might have seemed modest to the great halls of King’s Landing would have been a lavish spectacle in your home, a dazzling reminder of the gap between your lives
By the time he rose from the table, Maekar had already passed through too many cups of wine to count, a faint flush on his cheeks and a looseness in his movements that made him almost unpredictable. Without missing a beat, he extended a hand, sweeping you toward the dance floor with an easy authority
Your steps were clumsy, however, and you stumbled over your own feet, grazing his in the process. “Fuck, did they ever teach you to dance?” he barked, a mix of frustration and amusement in his voice. Your cheeks burned, heat creeping up your neck, and you glanced down in embarrassment, wishing the floor would swallow you whole. Yet there was something in the way he steadied you with his large warm hand on the small of your back, it was brief, that made the mortification sting a little less sharply
Your nerves finally dwindled and you think that maybe you weren’t as opposed to marrying Maekar Targaryen as you were before, he was handsome, nice enough, and warm. There was definitely worse choices in Westeros than the older man that was now your husband
The thought surprised you with how easily it arrived in your mind. The idea of Maekar Targaryen had felt like a death sentence, an older man forged of iron duty and dragonfire, a stranger with expectations as heavy as the crown he wore. Yet now, standing beside him, you found your nerves had quieted into something steadier. Acceptance, perhaps. Or the beginning of fondness.
The word husband lingered in your mind, unfamiliar and intimate all at once. Your husband.
When his violet eyes looked at you, they were flitting back and forth across your face, down to your fused fingers, and the dance of your legs as if he was trying his best to figure out how to be your husband and not some sort of commanding prince. Then, shyly and all unexpectedly, he smiled at you
‘Wife’ The word struck him harder than expected, he gets thrown back into memory of his solitude, his depression after Dyanna, but you were a glimmer of light
The bedding ceremony had begun as spectacle, laughter, hands too familiar, the heat of bodies pressing. Someone tugged at his cloak, another at your laces, and the room rang with crude encouragements that set his jaw hard, spitting curses
When the chamber door closed, it was just the two of you now, the chamber was lit by low candlelight. You were both barely clothed, the remnants of ceremony clinging where formality had already begun to give way. He stood there for a moment, breathing out, the tension easing from his shoulders as he turned to you
As he crossed the room, closing the distance between you with unhurried steps, you realized the excitement blooming inside you wasn’t fear at all. “Don’t worry we’re not fucking tonight.” His eyes roved over your barely concealed body
“That’s a shame.” You responded, playing at the edge of your sheer chemise, before taking it off completely. “I was hoping we would”
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
★ baelor targaryen
It was the eve of Prince Valarr’s name day and the formal proclamation of his status as heir apparent to the Iron Throne second to Baelor himself. To mark the occasion and present the young prince to the realm in all the splendor befitting a future king, Baelor had decreed a grand feast at court.
The Red Keep had been transformed into a spectacle of illusion and excess. A masquerade of silks and shadows, of velvet and jeweled masks. Lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms were summoned to attend in disguise, their names and titles swallowed by finery and false faces. Music echoed through the halls, strings and flutes weaving together as candlelight flickered against stone and gold. The air shimmered with movement and color, turning the castle into something half-dream, half carefully calculated display of royal power where illusion ruled, and nothing was quite as it seemed
It had been years since Baelor had been widowed, left to raise his two sons alone within these walls. He bore his duty with dignity, but he did not deny the truth of it: loneliness had settled over him like a persistent shadow. For all its splendor, the feast was as much an act of distraction as it was a declaration of strength. A reminder to himself and to the realm that life, joy, and celebration still endured within House Targaryen
It was well into the evening when you arrived. The first dances had already begun, and the hall was alive with motion and laughter when you crossed the threshold alone, a quiet figure framed by torchlight at the entrance. For a moment, no one noticed you. The music swelled, skirts spun, jewels flashed and then you took a hesitant step forward
Your face was hidden behind a delicate mask of pearls, white silk, and fine feathers, arranged as if scattered starlight had settled across your eyes. It concealed not only your features, but your name and history as well, rendering you anonymous among the masked throng
You had been cajoled into attending with soft words, pleading smiles, and finally Princess Daella’s insistent tug at your sleeve wearing you down. It was not something you had wanted, and certainly not a place you had been invited to formally. You were a servant. You knew your place. And it was not beneath chandeliers and candlelight. Yet here you were
Your dress was simple by courtly standards. No heavy embroidery. No jeweled bodice. None of the excess that weighed down the noblewomen drifting through the hall. And still it shone. The fabric caught the candlelight like liquid silver, gleaming softly with every careful step you took. It did not demand attention, yet it drew it all the same. Prince Baelor Targaryen stopped mid-step when he saw you
Maekar was speaking, something sharp, something impatient as always but Baelor did not hear him. His gaze locked onto you as though the rest of the hall had fallen away, as if you were the only solid thing left standing in a room full of ghosts. His feet refused to move. His eyes refused to look elsewhere
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Maekar snapped, waving a hand sharply in front of Baelor’s face and snapping his fingers once, twice. It did nothing. Baelor barely blinked. Who were you?
The question burned behind his eyes as he watched you, the way your hands folded together as if you were afraid to touch anything too precious, the way you lingered at the edges of the room instead of claiming space within it. You did not move like a lady born to court, yet neither did you move like a servant. You were something in between. Something unplaceable. The lords noticed too
One by one, they approached with hands extended, voices smooth and practiced, sons eager to impress. Each time, you refused with a polite dip of your head and a murmured apology, your heart racing with every question narrowly avoided. All it would take was one familiar face, one wrong inquiry, and the illusion would shatter. After all, you were only the chamber maid to Princess Daella
Earlier that evening…“C’mon,” Daella had pleaded, laughter bubbling as she rummaged through an old chest. “Don’t leave me alone with those stuffy lords and ladies. I don’t think I can survive another curtsy.” She’d pulled free a dress she had never worn, one that had sat folded and forgotten for years. “Please,” she’d said, softer now. “Put it on.”
You had hesitated. Gods, how you had hesitated. But how could you resist?
You had never known such finery with silk against your skin, fabric that moved like water when you breathed. Daella had done your hair herself, fingers gentle and focused, humming under her breath. She’d applied your makeup with more care than she ever gave her lessons, and when she finally held up the mirror, you barely recognized the girl staring back
Even without the mask she chose for you, you looked like someone else entirely. Now, you stood alone with a goblet of Arbor red cradled in your hands, staring into its dark surface as if it might steady you
“Hello.” The deep voice startled you, and you nearly spilled the wine. You looked up and there he was. Prince Baelor Targaryen
You had seen him before in corridors, in gardens, passing like a quiet presence through the castle. You clean and ready his rooms. You had always averted your gaze. That was what servants did. But now he stood before you, close enough that you could see the warmth in his mismatched eyes, the easy gentleness in his expression, the smell of him like firewood and musk
He was different from the rest of his family. Kinder. Quieter. He spoke to servants as if they mattered, offered smiles instead of commands. He lacked the sharp Valyrian look of his kin, and perhaps that was why he seemed softer and more human. And gods, he was handsome
“May I have this dance?” he asked, extending a large hand toward you, hopeful and earnest, as if the answer truly mattered. How could you refuse him? He was a prince. Worse, he was the heir to the Iron Throne
You swallowed the rest of your wine in one hurried gulp and placed your hand in his before your courage could fail you. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, and he guided you onto the floor. His other hand settled at the small of your back, as he led you into the flow of dancers while the music swelled around you
You moved as if in a dream, one spun of candlelight and music, of silk brushing skin that had only ever known rough linen. The hall blurred around you, laughing courtiers, clinking goblets, the roar of approval when the musicians struck a faster tune. None of it felt real. Only the warmth of his hand at your waist, steady and possessive, anchoring you to the moment
“So,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it belonged only to you. He leaned closer, lips grazing your ear, hot, teasing, deliberate. “Where are you from, my lady?” Your breath caught. Your pulse betrayed you, leaping far too fast
You bit your lip, tasting salt. You did not want to lie but the truth would shatter everything. You could not tell him your home was a narrow shared room beneath the castle stairs, that your hands were raw from soap and scrubbing, that you knew nobles only from the messes they left behind
“The Riverlands,” you said at last. It was true. At least in the way that mattered. You had been born near Stone Hedge, where the fields stretched wide and green and no one expected you to be anything more than what you were
Baelor smiled, and something inside you twisted painfully at the ease of it, at how completely he accepted your answer. He had no notion of the gulf between the woman he held and the girl you truly were. The music carried you onward, spinning you through candlelight and laughter, and you wondered how long this fragile thing could survive before it broke. If it broke at all
You danced until your feet ached and your cheeks burned from smiling. For a few stolen hours, you were someone else. Someone worth looking at. Someone worth wanting. “I must go,” you said softly, pulling away. Your fingers slid from his, lingering a heartbeat too long. You needed to ready the chambers for the family
“Wait.” His hand closed around yours, firm, instinctive. “Who are you?”
Your heart thundered. You lowered your eyes. “You already know who I am.”
His brow furrowed, searching your face as if the answer might be written there. “When will I see you again?”
“Soon,” you whispered, because anything else would have been unbearable.
You fled before he could stop you, skirts gathered in your hands. In your haste, something slipped free, a small, worn handkerchief, roughspun and carefully mended, embroidered with your mother’s name in faded thread.Baelor noticed only when the space beside him felt suddenly, painfully empty
He bent down, retrieving the cloth with care. When he turned it over and read the name, his smile changed not gone, but different . Thoughtful. Amused. “Well,” he murmured to himself. “So that’s how it is.”
Months passed, but the handkerchief never left his possession and you never stopped avoiding him
The castle made it difficult, too many staircases, too many halls where a prince might appear without warning. You learned his patterns, adjusted your routes, kept your head down. Still, fate or something crueler caught you on a bright, unforgiving afternoon
You were humming as you climbed the servants’ stairs, a basket of dirty linens balanced against your hip, the tune soft and absentminded “Miss?”
“Seven hells!” The basket slipped. Linen spilled. Pain flared as it landed squarely on your foot. You gasped and looked up
Baelor stood before you, sunlight framing him like some terrible joke. He was dressed simply today, no crown, no fanfare but there was no mistaking him with his one blue, one brown eye
“Forgive me, my prince,” you said quickly, bowing your head. “I was not aware of your presence.” He watched you for a long moment before speaking. Then he lifted his hand. The handkerchief. Your heart sank
“It’s quite alright,” he said mildly. “I think you’ve been missing this.”
You took it with trembling fingers. “Thank you. I must have lost it in the corridor.” You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You had been found out, and you knew it
“Or the Great Hall?” he added softly. Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. “Are you going to imprison me?” you asked, the words barely more than a breath
“No.” He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the heat of his body. “I was going to return it sooner. But then I found I rather liked knowing something about you that you thought was hidden.”
He gently folded the cloth and placed it back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours intentional, unmistakable
“I was also,” he continued, voice lowering, “going to invite you to my chambers this evening.” Your breath stuttered. “Because,” he said, eyes dark and unwavering now, “I have not been able to erase the image of you from my mind. And I no longer wish to try.” The corridor suddenly felt very small. And whatever you had been pretending, whatever line you thought still existed between you, was already burning away
⤷ pairing(s): maekar targaryen x (afab!)reader & baelor targaryen x (afab!)reader
⤷ warning(s): mentions of sex, alcohol, age gap but reader is still of age not a minor!!!!!!!
⤷ a/n: akotsk is so good and i just needed to add to my hc collection. pls lmk who u would like to see next! Also not really sure how i feel about this one idk
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
★ maekar targaryen
Prince Maekar Targaryen is older, not old, not yet but older than you all the same, by a bit…by a lot in a way that feels significant even when no one says the number aloud and the difference lingers in every glance and every unspoken thought. It’s enough of a difference to draw a line of where you are and where he already is
He has children, sons that would be far more suitable in age for marriage. Your father reassures you gently as that would soften the blow of truth. Your house is poor and desperate for Targaryen coin hollowed from years of quiet decline and so here you are, riding toward King’s Landing while he speaks of necessity as if it were comfort
You are regretful about Princess Dyanna’s passing, a tragedy by any measure and one that still sits heavy in the Realm’s chest. But it was also the catalyst that set you here, in this position you did not want. Some would call you bitter for that thought, for her death had turned into something harder, less forgiving in your chest. Perhaps they are right, it is difficult to mourn without resenting the path her death carved for you
He is a stern man, or so your septa says. She should know, she was lucky enough to grow up in the Red Keep until she was unlucky enough to be sent to your small ramshackle castle, tucked far off away in the Vale. With her memory of childhood, she speaks of the Dragon princes some odd thirty years ago
Is he handsome? you had asked her. Your septa did not answer. She only pressed her lips together, as if weighing what lie she could muster instead of the truth, and that silence annoyed you more than any blunt reply could have. If he were ugly, she would have said so. If he were kind, surely she would have reached for that instead. Her refusal felt deliberate, another small cruelty, another reminder that no one intended to make this easier for you
So you sat in the creaking carriage, each groan of the wheels counting the distance between what little choice you once had and the marriage waiting for you. The road stretched on, slow and merciless, carrying you toward a fate already decided, one mile at a time.
Would you have to lie with him after? Would he expect more heirs, more children to fill the space left behind by his ghost wife? The questions circle endlessly, unanswered and unwanted. You pick at a hangnail on one perfectly tended finger, a small, nervous rebellion. No future Targaryen princess should have outgrown nails, uneven, dirty things. You smooth down the nail anyway, because even dread must be kept presentable
When your carriage arrived, he was already there, standing beside his brother at the entrance to the gate. His posture was composed, stoic, commanding in a way that drew the eye, yet there was something worn in the lines of his face that spoke of years lived and burdens carried
He wasn’t ugly, you mused, though there was a hardness to his features, a seriousness that made youth feel distant. The shadows of experience lingered around him, softening any impression of charm he might have carried in earlier days. In that instant, you could see the weight of responsibility etched into his stance, and a quiet authority that made it impossible to look away
The meeting is brief and cordial, with little pleasantries
Prince Maekar is not happy with this marriage choice made for him, his brow raises at the sight of white and red roses that adorn the great hall, his fingers pick at the delicate petal of a crimson rose, he misses Dyanna and felt bad for the woman who was as young as his own children that he now had the sordid duty of marrying
But his sympathy extended as well to you standing nervously across the hall. You were barely older than his own eldest child, and he felt a stab of guilt for the cruel role fate had cast him in, the duty to marry you, to bind you life to his in a union neither of you had chosen. The weight of tradition pressed down on him, the grandeur of the hall now feeling like a cage, the roses beauty taunting him with the sharp contrast of innocence and obligation. Maekar’s lips tightened, a bitter mixture of regret and responsibility settling heavily over his shoulders.
“What the fuck, Baelor?” Maekar muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took in the situation. The age gap was undeniable, and it weighed on him heavier than he cared to admit. You weren’t ugly, far from it. He let out a low, reluctant sigh. You’ll do, he thought, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. Duty, expectation, and the ever-looming weight of tradition pressed down on him, leaving little room for desire or hope
The ceremony passed quickly, each moment measured and formal, leaving little space for comfort or reflection. When the time came, Maekar swiftly removed your house’s solemn cape, its fabric heavy and replaced it with the ornate, dragon flame red Targaryen cloak, embroidered with silver dragons that gleamed under the hall’s torchlight. His lips were taut at first against yours, a thin line of restraint, betraying nothing of what he actually felt for this. For a fleeting heartbeat, however, they softened ever so slightly, his eyes closed, then just as quickly, the line returned, firm and unyielding, masking any trace of sentiment beneath duty and dignity
Since this was Maekar’s second marriage, the feast was smaller than what the Targaryens might normally host. Yet even small by their standards still dwarfed anything your house had ever seen, goblets full with wine, and servants moving like shadows between them. What might have seemed modest to the great halls of King’s Landing would have been a lavish spectacle in your home, a dazzling reminder of the gap between your lives
By the time he rose from the table, Maekar had already passed through too many cups of wine to count, a faint flush on his cheeks and a looseness in his movements that made him almost unpredictable. Without missing a beat, he extended a hand, sweeping you toward the dance floor with an easy authority
Your steps were clumsy, however, and you stumbled over your own feet, grazing his in the process. “Fuck, did they ever teach you to dance?” he barked, a mix of frustration and amusement in his voice. Your cheeks burned, heat creeping up your neck, and you glanced down in embarrassment, wishing the floor would swallow you whole. Yet there was something in the way he steadied you with his large warm hand on the small of your back, it was brief, that made the mortification sting a little less sharply
Your nerves finally dwindled and you think that maybe you weren’t as opposed to marrying Maekar Targaryen as you were before, he was handsome, nice enough, and warm. There was definitely worse choices in Westeros than the older man that was now your husband
The thought surprised you with how easily it arrived in your mind. The idea of Maekar Targaryen had felt like a death sentence, an older man forged of iron duty and dragonfire, a stranger with expectations as heavy as the crown he wore. Yet now, standing beside him, you found your nerves had quieted into something steadier. Acceptance, perhaps. Or the beginning of fondness.
The word husband lingered in your mind, unfamiliar and intimate all at once. Your husband.
When his violet eyes looked at you, they were flitting back and forth across your face, down to your fused fingers, and the dance of your legs as if he was trying his best to figure out how to be your husband and not some sort of commanding prince. Then, shyly and all unexpectedly, he smiled at you
‘Wife’ The word struck him harder than expected, he gets thrown back into memory of his solitude, his depression after Dyanna, but you were a glimmer of light
The bedding ceremony had begun as spectacle, laughter, hands too familiar, the heat of bodies pressing. Someone tugged at his cloak, another at your laces, and the room rang with crude encouragements that set his jaw hard, spitting curses
When the chamber door closed, it was just the two of you now, the chamber was lit by low candlelight. You were both barely clothed, the remnants of ceremony clinging where formality had already begun to give way. He stood there for a moment, breathing out, the tension easing from his shoulders as he turned to you
As he crossed the room, closing the distance between you with unhurried steps, you realized the excitement blooming inside you wasn’t fear at all. “Don’t worry we’re not fucking tonight.” His eyes roved over your barely concealed body
“That’s a shame.” You responded, playing at the edge of your sheer chemise, before taking it off completely. “I was hoping we would”
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
★ baelor targaryen
It was the eve of Prince Valarr’s name day and the formal proclamation of his status as heir apparent to the Iron Throne second to Baelor himself. To mark the occasion and present the young prince to the realm in all the splendor befitting a future king, Baelor had decreed a grand feast at court.
The Red Keep had been transformed into a spectacle of illusion and excess. A masquerade of silks and shadows, of velvet and jeweled masks. Lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms were summoned to attend in disguise, their names and titles swallowed by finery and false faces. Music echoed through the halls, strings and flutes weaving together as candlelight flickered against stone and gold. The air shimmered with movement and color, turning the castle into something half-dream, half carefully calculated display of royal power where illusion ruled, and nothing was quite as it seemed
It had been years since Baelor had been widowed, left to raise his two sons alone within these walls. He bore his duty with dignity, but he did not deny the truth of it: loneliness had settled over him like a persistent shadow. For all its splendor, the feast was as much an act of distraction as it was a declaration of strength. A reminder to himself and to the realm that life, joy, and celebration still endured within House Targaryen
It was well into the evening when you arrived. The first dances had already begun, and the hall was alive with motion and laughter when you crossed the threshold alone, a quiet figure framed by torchlight at the entrance. For a moment, no one noticed you. The music swelled, skirts spun, jewels flashed and then you took a hesitant step forward
Your face was hidden behind a delicate mask of pearls, white silk, and fine feathers, arranged as if scattered starlight had settled across your eyes. It concealed not only your features, but your name and history as well, rendering you anonymous among the masked throng
You had been cajoled into attending with soft words, pleading smiles, and finally Princess Daella’s insistent tug at your sleeve wearing you down. It was not something you had wanted, and certainly not a place you had been invited to formally. You were a servant. You knew your place. And it was not beneath chandeliers and candlelight. Yet here you were
Your dress was simple by courtly standards. No heavy embroidery. No jeweled bodice. None of the excess that weighed down the noblewomen drifting through the hall. And still it shone. The fabric caught the candlelight like liquid silver, gleaming softly with every careful step you took. It did not demand attention, yet it drew it all the same. Prince Baelor Targaryen stopped mid-step when he saw you
Maekar was speaking, something sharp, something impatient as always but Baelor did not hear him. His gaze locked onto you as though the rest of the hall had fallen away, as if you were the only solid thing left standing in a room full of ghosts. His feet refused to move. His eyes refused to look elsewhere
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Maekar snapped, waving a hand sharply in front of Baelor’s face and snapping his fingers once, twice. It did nothing. Baelor barely blinked. Who were you?
The question burned behind his eyes as he watched you, the way your hands folded together as if you were afraid to touch anything too precious, the way you lingered at the edges of the room instead of claiming space within it. You did not move like a lady born to court, yet neither did you move like a servant. You were something in between. Something unplaceable. The lords noticed too
One by one, they approached with hands extended, voices smooth and practiced, sons eager to impress. Each time, you refused with a polite dip of your head and a murmured apology, your heart racing with every question narrowly avoided. All it would take was one familiar face, one wrong inquiry, and the illusion would shatter. After all, you were only the chamber maid to Princess Daella
Earlier that evening…“C’mon,” Daella had pleaded, laughter bubbling as she rummaged through an old chest. “Don’t leave me alone with those stuffy lords and ladies. I don’t think I can survive another curtsy.” She’d pulled free a dress she had never worn, one that had sat folded and forgotten for years. “Please,” she’d said, softer now. “Put it on.”
You had hesitated. Gods, how you had hesitated. But how could you resist?
You had never known such finery with silk against your skin, fabric that moved like water when you breathed. Daella had done your hair herself, fingers gentle and focused, humming under her breath. She’d applied your makeup with more care than she ever gave her lessons, and when she finally held up the mirror, you barely recognized the girl staring back
Even without the mask she chose for you, you looked like someone else entirely. Now, you stood alone with a goblet of Arbor red cradled in your hands, staring into its dark surface as if it might steady you
“Hello.” The deep voice startled you, and you nearly spilled the wine. You looked up and there he was. Prince Baelor Targaryen
You had seen him before in corridors, in gardens, passing like a quiet presence through the castle. You clean and ready his rooms. You had always averted your gaze. That was what servants did. But now he stood before you, close enough that you could see the warmth in his mismatched eyes, the easy gentleness in his expression, the smell of him like firewood and musk
He was different from the rest of his family. Kinder. Quieter. He spoke to servants as if they mattered, offered smiles instead of commands. He lacked the sharp Valyrian look of his kin, and perhaps that was why he seemed softer and more human. And gods, he was handsome
“May I have this dance?” he asked, extending a large hand toward you, hopeful and earnest, as if the answer truly mattered. How could you refuse him? He was a prince. Worse, he was the heir to the Iron Throne
You swallowed the rest of your wine in one hurried gulp and placed your hand in his before your courage could fail you. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, and he guided you onto the floor. His other hand settled at the small of your back, as he led you into the flow of dancers while the music swelled around you
You moved as if in a dream, one spun of candlelight and music, of silk brushing skin that had only ever known rough linen. The hall blurred around you, laughing courtiers, clinking goblets, the roar of approval when the musicians struck a faster tune. None of it felt real. Only the warmth of his hand at your waist, steady and possessive, anchoring you to the moment
“So,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it belonged only to you. He leaned closer, lips grazing your ear, hot, teasing, deliberate. “Where are you from, my lady?” Your breath caught. Your pulse betrayed you, leaping far too fast
You bit your lip, tasting salt. You did not want to lie but the truth would shatter everything. You could not tell him your home was a narrow shared room beneath the castle stairs, that your hands were raw from soap and scrubbing, that you knew nobles only from the messes they left behind
“The Riverlands,” you said at last. It was true. At least in the way that mattered. You had been born near Stone Hedge, where the fields stretched wide and green and no one expected you to be anything more than what you were
Baelor smiled, and something inside you twisted painfully at the ease of it, at how completely he accepted your answer. He had no notion of the gulf between the woman he held and the girl you truly were. The music carried you onward, spinning you through candlelight and laughter, and you wondered how long this fragile thing could survive before it broke. If it broke at all
You danced until your feet ached and your cheeks burned from smiling. For a few stolen hours, you were someone else. Someone worth looking at. Someone worth wanting. “I must go,” you said softly, pulling away. Your fingers slid from his, lingering a heartbeat too long. You needed to ready the chambers for the family
“Wait.” His hand closed around yours, firm, instinctive. “Who are you?”
Your heart thundered. You lowered your eyes. “You already know who I am.”
His brow furrowed, searching your face as if the answer might be written there. “When will I see you again?”
“Soon,” you whispered, because anything else would have been unbearable.
You fled before he could stop you, skirts gathered in your hands. In your haste, something slipped free, a small, worn handkerchief, roughspun and carefully mended, embroidered with your mother’s name in faded thread.Baelor noticed only when the space beside him felt suddenly, painfully empty
He bent down, retrieving the cloth with care. When he turned it over and read the name, his smile changed not gone, but different . Thoughtful. Amused. “Well,” he murmured to himself. “So that’s how it is.”
Months passed, but the handkerchief never left his possession and you never stopped avoiding him
The castle made it difficult, too many staircases, too many halls where a prince might appear without warning. You learned his patterns, adjusted your routes, kept your head down. Still, fate or something crueler caught you on a bright, unforgiving afternoon
You were humming as you climbed the servants’ stairs, a basket of dirty linens balanced against your hip, the tune soft and absentminded “Miss?”
“Seven hells!” The basket slipped. Linen spilled. Pain flared as it landed squarely on your foot. You gasped and looked up
Baelor stood before you, sunlight framing him like some terrible joke. He was dressed simply today, no crown, no fanfare but there was no mistaking him with his one blue, one brown eye
“Forgive me, my prince,” you said quickly, bowing your head. “I was not aware of your presence.” He watched you for a long moment before speaking. Then he lifted his hand. The handkerchief. Your heart sank
“It’s quite alright,” he said mildly. “I think you’ve been missing this.”
You took it with trembling fingers. “Thank you. I must have lost it in the corridor.” You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You had been found out, and you knew it
“Or the Great Hall?” he added softly. Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. “Are you going to imprison me?” you asked, the words barely more than a breath
“No.” He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the heat of his body. “I was going to return it sooner. But then I found I rather liked knowing something about you that you thought was hidden.”
He gently folded the cloth and placed it back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours intentional, unmistakable
“I was also,” he continued, voice lowering, “going to invite you to my chambers this evening.” Your breath stuttered. “Because,” he said, eyes dark and unwavering now, “I have not been able to erase the image of you from my mind. And I no longer wish to try.” The corridor suddenly felt very small. And whatever you had been pretending, whatever line you thought still existed between you, was already burning away
⤷ pairing(s): aegon ii targaryen x reader & cregan stark x reader
⤷ warning(s): mentions of sex, alcohol, general rudeness
⤷ a/n: please forgive me for Aegon 😖 part two with jace and aemond will be up soon…hopefully i acquired a hand injury today soooo… whoops lol
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
★ cregan stark
The betrothal had come with Jace, secured through the Stark’s oath and the promise of alliance from the North. In a fortnight, you were to fly to Winterfell and become Lady Stark. Pride should have filled you, but instead, the thought brought a tightening in your chest. At night, when the castle grew quiet, tears would slip unbidden, tracing paths down your cheeks.
Baela never let you face those next fourteen nights alone. She stayed by your side, holding you close, whispering stories and reassurances until the ache loosened. Her warmth was a shield against the uncertainty of the North, and her laughter a reminder that you were not truly leaving home.
You struggle with the thought of standing alone at your binding to Lord Stark, knowing no familiar face will be there to support you, but you understand the weight of duty, your family is teetering on the brink of war and need the alliance
The North is cold and sparse, yet its expansive desolation is half the charm. Vast stretches of land lie open and unclaimed, quiet in a way that feels both intimidating and freeing. The cold seeps into everything at first, it’s bone deep and unforgiving but in time it’ll become a familiar presence, something you learn to live with, and eventually even respect
There is no welcome reception, and few words greet you upon your arrival, only Lord Stark, Sara Snow, and half a dozen of his men. The welcome is cordial and brief, there is a war to attend to
On the morning of the wedding, Cregan’s half-sister, Sara is warm and gentle, her presence and quick quips are a quiet comfort amid the chill of the North. She braids your hair in the Targaryen fashion, strands woven with practiced care, yet dresses you in the Stark way, heavy wool and muted colors meant for cold and duty rather than courtly display. The contrast feels foreign at first, dragon and direwolf entwined, but as the final clasp is fastened, the weight of it all begins to settle
As you walk toward the weirwood beneath softly swirling snow, you mourn the absence of your mother and siblings. Your thoughts linger on your father, long since perished within the scarred halls of Harrenhal, and on Luke, whose death still brings tears unbidden to your eyes which just end up crystallizing on your cheeks in the cold. The quiet of the North leaves room for grief to breathe, and each step forward is taken with those you have lost walking beside you in memory
Cregan is handsome, ruggedly so. He is not the man you once envisioned yourself beside, but he will more than do. You find yourself drawn to his frost bitten cheeks and the fall of his long brown hair, to the heavy furs wrapped around him that make him seem warm and solid, inviting despite the cold. He stands nearly a head taller than you, and you cannot stop the blush that rises to your cheeks. You hope he takes it for the chill rather than the thoughts he stirs inside you
Cregan had never imagined himself wed to a Targaryen princess. Yet when he finally looks upon you, he finds it difficult to look for long or to look away. You are far more beautiful than he had ever imagined, your presence striking and unexpected
He surprises you with a feast not with flowers or the grandeur of the weddings you’re familiar with, but with music, hearty food, and people dancing without care. You quickly learn that Northerners know how to have fun and savor a good celebration, rough edged though it may be, warm in its own honest way
Your and Cregan’s first dance is nothing short of awkward but it’s full of laughter as he spins you around and as you step on his toes. His large hands encases your own as he guides you through the dance floor.
You forget about what’s brewing in the south and relish in the feast, while simultaneously falling in love with your husband
The bedding ceremony comes around and Cregan’s timid at first. He’s unwilling to hurt you. Sweet and kind, Cregan is not rough for now
There’s a moment fleeting at this time but sure to grow, as his slightly crooked smile think forever could be lovely with him
★ aegon ii targaryen
The two of you have been betrothed since your fifth name day, bound by vows neither of you could understand, let alone refuse and doomed long before you ever learned the shape of the word choice.
It isn’t love at first sight. Not even close. In fact, he looks at you with open disgust when you are finally presented to him at his sixteenth name day tourney. Aegon makes a game of mocking your clothes, sneering at the cut of your hair and the colors you wear, as if fashion were a crime rather than a preference. He questions your intellect with lazy insults, delivered loudly enough for others to hear. You endure it with a practiced calm, privately amused by the irony of being judged by a boy so clearly deficient in the very wit he claims to prize. The challenge of Aegon excites you
There are not many meetings between the two of you before the queen suggests, that you take rooms at the keep. The word suggests is a courtesy, nothing more. You are not thrilled by the idea, but refusal is not an option afforded to you. It is framed as convenience, as preparation for a future already decided. You accept with a practiced nod, aware that every choice you are allowed to make exists only in the narrow space where it does not matter
It isn’t until a month has passed since your arrival at the Red Keep that he finally decides to acknowledge your presence
At first, it is small things. A glance that lingers a moment too long, a hand brushing yours as he hands you something, a quiet word spoken just for you. In the months leading up to your union, there are fleeting moments when he is almost… sweet, almost affectionate, as though the boy who once sneered at you might, in secret, hold you in regard
He touches your wrist with casual familiarity, brings you small indulgences he believes you might enjoy, and, quietly but deliberately, spends more time in your company than with anyone else. These gestures are tentative, measured, as if he is testing boundaries as much as revealing them
Over time, you begin to wonder if there might actually be something like love between you. The moments of tenderness, rare and fleeting though they are, start to feel meaningful. You catch yourself hoping for his attention, craving the quiet intimacy of shared glances or casual touches. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you allow yourself to imagine a life where you and Aegon might be more than betrothed. You might even grow to be friends, confidants, lovers
And yet, even in these moments, you sense the weight beneath the warmth. Asubtle reminder that nothing is given freely, that his tenderness is still tethered to expectation, to duty, to the inevitability of the life that has been chosen for you both
At the very least, you can admit it to yourself, you are falling in love with him.
And in that admission lies both exhilaration and fear, for even as your heart leans toward him, you cannot forget the years of cruelty, the inherited expectations, or the inevitability of a crown that has chosen your lives for you. Love, it seems, may be possible, but only on its own uncertain terms
On his wedding day, he takes the white and silver cloak, heavy with its rough spun cloth made for winter chill, embroidered with twin direwolves and scattered with crimson weirwood leaves. He casts it aside without a second thought. The fabric slips from his hands like a discarded promise, pooling on the floor in a flash of pale ivory silk and red thread
His kiss is sloppy, too wet, and it reeks of alcohol. It’s uncouth in a way that makes heat creep up your neck for all the wrong reasons. It is not tender, it is clumsy and disgusting. You do not return it. Instead, you remain still, lips unyielding, enduring the spectacle with a patience that borders on defiance. You wait it out, letting the moment exhaust itself, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of your participation while the embarrassment lingers, thick and unavoidable, between you and the rest of the wedding patrons
Aegon gets further drunk at the reception
Far into his bottle of wine, his tongue loosens and his manners rot. The words slip out with a drunken sneer, low and ugly, wolf whore. He leans in close enough that you can smell the sourness of the wine on his breath, close enough to think the insult private. “Northern barbarian”, he murmurs against your ear, as though the whisper makes it clever instead of cruel
You’re sure that if your brother was able to join the festivities away from the castle, he would have killed Aegon
The chamber meant for celebration is cavernous and cold, the bed untouched except for you. Candlelight emits low as you sit on the edge of the mattress, the weight of silk and ceremony pressing down until it feels unbearable. When you finally lie back, the tears come quietly at first, then in earnest, staining the sheets that were meant to mark a beginning, not an ending
Sleep refuses you. Instead, your thoughts spiral, serious, dangerous thoughts. Of slipping away before dawn. Of trading titles and vows for the anonymity of the road. You imagine the feel of night air on your face, the freedom of motion, the mercy of distance. Each passing moment makes staying feel heavier, and running away less like cowardice and more like survival
It is nearly dawn when the knock comes. You stir from a thin, uneasy slumber as the door opens on creaking hinges, the sound careful, almost scared.
He enters timidly. It is a version of him you do not recognize, a manner you had not known existed with Aegon. No swagger, no claim laid upon the space. He closes the door behind him
The mattress dips as he crawls onto the bed, slow and deliberate, keeping his distance. He does not reach for you. Does not speak. He lies there instead, a measured span of space between your bodies. In the quiet before sunrise, his restraint is louder than any insult
He is nervous, Aegon confesses at last. It is an unfamiliar sensation, he admits, this carefulness, this ache in his chest he cannot name. Love and respect are foreign feelings to him, places no one ever bothered to map. There were lessons in duty, in conquest, in indulgence, but none in tenderness. No one taught him what love could be
His voice lowers, rough with something dangerously close to honesty. He tells you he does not know how to be good at this, not yet. That everything he has ever been rewarded for is the complete opposite to what he feels now, lying beside you. Still, he says, he can see it, imperfectly. He can see himself learning. With you
⤷ a/n: idk criston cole is fun to write and it helps that he’s pretty, this isn’t my favorite work and I’m sure I’ll rewrite someday but I wanted to get it out now before my vacay
masterlist
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
★ aemond targaryen
You were not a highborn lady, nor a Targaryen or Velaryon. You had no gilded halls to return to, no courtly tutors or whispered expectations guiding your every move. Fate had something stranger in store. You met Aemond in the bowels of Flea Bottom, in a tavern thick with smoke, raunchy laughter, and the scent of spilled, stale ale. You did not know who he was, not a prince, not a figure destined for songs and court gossip, but only a man leaning against a rough table, a curious eye catching yours in the dim light.
And then you talked with hours passed unnoticed, the world outside that low ceilinged room fading to nothing. You spoke of adventure, of far-off lands, of the lost glory of Valyria, your words tumbling into his and his spilling into yours. By dawn, the tavern was empty, and yet you were not. Something unspoken had passed between you, a spark that neither title nor station could name. For a brief, impossible moment, the world had narrowed to conversation, laughter, and shared wonder, and nothing else mattered.
Aemond was intrigued by your ignorance of his station. You did not see the weight of crowns or the burden of lineage in him or the sapphire eye given to him by nephews. You saw only a man who spoke of faraway places, history, and strategy with fire in his eyes. He reveled in it, in the secrecy of this simple, unguarded life you shared together, where a prince could be nothing more than a companion at a tavern table and you could be nothing more than yourself. The world outside with its intrigues, the titles, the expectations did not exist here. In those stolen hours, the divide of birth and blood felt irrelevant, and he lingered in it, savoring the rare freedom that came from being unseen.
It wasn’t two months later that the truth hit you. A goldcloak, marching past in the streets, bowed stiffly and addressed him by his title, his voice carrying over the crowd of the tavern. Aemond. Prince. Targaryen. The man you had laughed with, argued with, shared secrets with in the dim glow of candlelight was not simply a stranger or a companion. He was a prince, and you had been nothing more than…naive.
You avoid him for months, keeping to yourself, weaving through streets and courts, taking the long way round and down the seedy unsafe streets and praying he would leave you be but Aemond is relentless. No alley, no gathering, no whispered corner of a courtyard could hide you from him. He followed, persistent and determined, seeking you out with that same dangerous charm that had first drawn you in.
It did not take long before the walls you had built briefly came down. Against your obvious better judgment, you resumed your secret meetings, stolen hours in shadowed corridors and quiet chambers, a world apart from the prying eyes of court and family. He even sneaks you into the Red Keep here and there
Then, a year into your affair with the one-eyed prince, everything changed. You were pregnant
Aemond was overjoyed, admittedly it was not a relief. He touched your belly as if to reassure himself it was real, laughing, murmuring you name with a kind of love that made your heart ache and contort. And yet, despite his happiness, fear clawed at your insides. You heard the stories of the Targaryens, knew of the boiling civil war, his brother had all but abandoned his wife, his lovers, his bastard was your neighbors child. Would he do the same to you? To your child? You clutched the truth to yourself, silent in your terror, watching him celebrate what you could not yet allow yourself to fully embrace
You call him mad and laugh, the sound sharp and bitter, thinking it must be some cruel jest. Marriage? Royalty? The words tumble from his lips as if they were nothing more than idle fantasy. He meets your laughter with unflinching seriousness, eyes dark with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. “I will not raise a bastard,” he says, his voice low but absolute, as though the very idea is unbearable
You kick him out of your small, one room refuge, the door slamming behind him with a hollow echo. Your heart hammers in disbelief and fury, how dare he? How could he expect such a thing? After everything with the secrecy, the fear, the life you had paved out in stolen secret moments? And yet, even as you push him away with everything you could muster, as your anger blinds you, there is that same impossible pull, magnetism to him, the same one that had kept you both tied together through months of hiding and longing
It takes a month before you finally accept his proposal, it took sleepless nights and worried days before finally talking yourself into his idea as a good one
There are no flowers, none lining the aisle or spilling from gilded vases. Only the ones he brought you himself, a simple bouquet held with nervous hands at dawn. The petals catch the early sunlight, delicate and warm, and for a fleeting moment, they seem enough to hold back the weight of everything that has come before.
It is rushed but Aemond is determined and ready as he swears his vows and barely waits for you to finish your own before kissing you hard
It is a warm, golden morning as you step together into the Sept of Baelor. The air smells faintly of incense and stone, a quiet contrast to the tumult of your journey here. A skeptical High Septon regards you both with measured eyes, the lines of doubt etched deep across his face, while his sworn guard stands rigid, the glint of steel and oath a silent reminder that even in this sacred space, duty and scrutiny follow you.
As you walk forward, hand in hand with the one-eyed prince who has made your life both unbearable and extraordinary, the sunlight of dawn falls upon the petals he brought, and for the briefest instant, the world narrows to this moment, the warmth, the scent the quiet defiance of a love that has beaten odds
You spend a sennight in Dorne for your honeymoon, hidden away from the world, unbeknownst to the wrath awaiting you and Aemond in the Red Keep
Alicent is cold and unwilling to understand the situation. It is not easy or happy meeting for you.
★ criston cole
After the dance of dragons, criston cole is given a choice. To be stripped of his white cloak die within the cells of the Red Keep or to be stripped of his white cloak, return to Dorne and live a quiet life out of the realms politics. Cole chooses the latter, of course. It’s far more kindly than what he assumed would be his fate.
Dorne is not what he remembers it being, it’s dry and vast with little in it’s lands. Cole doesn’t consider this desert his home.
His father was not proud of him, but he needs to still secure the house lineage and secures a marriage pact
As the youngest daughter of house Dayne, you’re not thrilled at the prospect of marrying the fool (one of many nicknames they’ve aptly named Criston in Dorne). You have only heard of the most vile and selfish stories about your now betrothed.
When you first meet Criston Cole, you’re shocked. He’s attractive, his hair has grown out to his shoulders and there’s a scar running down his neck but the weeks leading up to your meeting you had envisioned all sorts of monstrosities, considering you and the realm had decided he was a cruel inept monster
He is quiet and replies with a soft voice, you’re puzzled how the ex-Lord Commander and Hand of the King for the traitor king is gentle. However it is hard to see past what he has done to tear the realm apart
When your wedding day comes around, he replaces your cloak with a rough cloth with colourless dots adorning the back. House Cole is not wealthy and the dowry wasn’t large.
He kisses you well not really. His rough hands squeezes your own gently and barely brushing his lips to your cheek
There is no feast, just a family meal that is supplied well with meat and wine in the gardens well into the evening
The bedding is just like his kiss, hardly anything to recount to your sisters or companions. It isn’t romantic and your sure he doesn’t even finish. You hope that this isn’t what it’ll always be
★ jace velaryon
Growing up alongside your future husband isn’t the norm, but you are glad for it. As many ladies are stuck with brutes and old men for husbands
Jace has matured into a handsome man that you can’t bare to look at without blushing. With every look he gives you, you can’t help but turn your head with cheeks red
But despite your embarrassment, you are both more than excited to finally be married
You opt for a traditional Valyrian wedding, the same as Rhaenyra and Daemon had done. There was no fancy ceremony with cloaks of golden threads, just Jace and you
Sleep did not come the night before, as the excitement and giddiness ran through you like shots of lightning. You couldn’t even feel the exhaustion in your muscles as you readied yourself in the robes and headpiece
Jace could not find sleep himself, as he was too excited as well at the prospect of finally calling you his
Jace’s eyes watered while waiting for you, he choked on his Valyrian as you laughed at his sweet mistake
The kiss wasn’t needy or greedy, but it wasn’t the cordial kiss of the Lords & Ladies of the Seven would display. It was tender and loving and gentle.
The feast was celebrated through the night and full of laughter. When it came to the bedding ceremony, you and Jace instead fell asleep quite quickly in your now shared bed
⤷ a/n: idk criston cole is fun to write and it helps that he’s pretty, this isn’t my favorite work and I’m sure I’ll rewrite someday but I wanted to get it out now before my vacay . UPDATE 1/27/26 I’m updating these headcanons because let’s be honest, they can be better written lol
masterlist
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
★ aemond targaryen
You were not a highborn lady and definitely not a Targaryen or Velaryon. You had no gilded halls to return to, no courtly tutors or expectations guiding your every move. Fate had something stranger in store.
You met Aemond or Addam as you first knew him, in the bowels of Flea Bottom, in a tavern thick with smoke, raunchy laughter, and the scent of spilled, stale ale. You did not know who he was, not a prince, not a figure destined for songs and court gossip, but only a man leaning against a rough table, a curious eye catching yours in the dim light.
And then you talked with hours passed unnoticed, the world outside that low ceilinged room fading to nothing. You spoke of adventure, of far-off lands, of the lost glory of Valyria, your words tumbling into his and his spilling into yours. By dawn, the tavern was empty, and yet you were not. Something unspoken had passed between you, a spark that neither title nor station could name. For a brief, impossible moment, the world had narrowed to conversation, laughter, and shared wonder, and nothing else mattered.
Aemond was intrigued by your ignorance of his station. You did not see the weight of crowns or the burden of lineage in him or the sapphire eye given to him by nephews. You saw only a man who spoke of faraway places, history, and strategy with fire in his eyes. He reveled in it, in the secrecy of this simple, unguarded life you shared together, where a prince could be nothing more than a companion at a tavern table and you could be nothing more than yourself. The world outside with its intrigues, the titles, the expectations did not exist here. In those stolen hours, the divide of birth and blood felt irrelevant, and he lingered in it, savoring the rare freedom that came from being unseen.
It wasn’t two months later that the truth hit you. A goldcloak, marching past in the streets, bowed stiffly and addressed him by his title, his voice carrying over the crowd of the tavern. Aemond. Prince. Targaryen. The man you had laughed with, argued with, shared secrets with in the dim glow of candlelight was not simply a stranger or a companion. He was a prince, and you had been nothing more than…naive.
You avoid him for months, keeping to yourself, weaving through streets and courts, taking the long way round and down the seedy unsafe streets and praying he would leave you be but Aemond is relentless. No alley, no gathering, no whispered corner of a courtyard could hide you from him. He followed, persistent and determined, seeking you out with that same dangerous charm that had first drawn you in.
It did not take long before the walls you had built briefly came down. Against your obvious better judgment, you resumed your secret meetings, stolen hours in shadowed corridors and quiet chambers, a world apart from the prying eyes of court and family. He even sneaks you into the Red Keep here and there
Then, a year into your affair with the one-eyed prince, everything changed. You were pregnant
Aemond was overjoyed, admittedly it was not a relief. He touched your belly as if to reassure himself it was real, laughing, murmuring you name with a kind of love that made your heart ache and contort. And yet, despite his happiness, fear clawed at your insides. You heard the stories of the Targaryens, knew of the boiling civil war, his brother had all but abandoned his wife, his lovers, his bastard was your neighbors child. Would he do the same to you? To your child? You clutched the truth to yourself, silent in your terror, watching him celebrate what you could not yet allow yourself to fully embrace
You call him mad and laugh, the sound sharp and bitter, thinking it must be some cruel jest. Marriage? Royalty? The words tumble from his lips as if they were nothing more than idle fantasy. He meets your laughter with unflinching seriousness, eyes dark with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. “I will not raise a bastard,” he says, his voice low but absolute, as though the very idea is unbearable
You kick him out of your small, one room refuge, the door slamming behind him with a hollow echo. Your heart hammers in disbelief and fury, how dare he? How could he expect such a thing? After everything with the secrecy, the fear, the life you had paved out in stolen secret moments? And yet, even as you push him away with everything you could muster, as your anger blinds you, there is that same impossible pull, magnetism to him, the same one that had kept you both tied together through months of hiding and longing
It takes a month before you finally accept his proposal, it took sleepless nights and worried days before finally talking yourself into his idea as a good one
There are no flowers, none lining the aisle or spilling from gilded vases. Only the ones he brought you himself, a simple bouquet held with nervous hands at dawn. The petals catch the early sunlight, delicate and warm, and for a fleeting moment, they seem enough to hold back the weight of everything that has come before.
It is rushed but Aemond is determined and ready as he swears his vows and barely waits for you to finish your own before kissing you hard
It is a warm, golden morning as you step together into the Sept of Baelor. The air smells faintly of incense and stone, a quiet contrast to the tumult of your journey here. A skeptical High Septon regards you both with measured eyes, the lines of doubt etched deep across his face, while his sworn guard stands rigid, the glint of steel and oath a silent reminder that even in this sacred space, duty and scrutiny follow you.
As you walk forward, hand in hand with the one-eyed prince who has made your life both unbearable and extraordinary, the sunlight of dawn falls upon the petals he brought, and for the briefest instant, the world narrows to this moment, the warmth, the scent the quiet defiance of a love that has beaten odds
You spend a sennight in Dorne for your honeymoon, hidden away from the world, unbeknownst to the wrath awaiting you and Aemond in the Red Keep
Alicent is cold and unwilling to understand the situation. It is not easy or happy meeting for you.
★ criston cole
After the Dance of the Dragons, Criston Cole is given a choice. He may be stripped of his white cloak and die in the cells of the Red Keep or be stripped of his white cloak, return to Dorne, and live out his days in quiet obscurity, far from the realm’s politics.
Cole chooses the latter, it is far kinder than the fate he had thought was strung for him
Dorne is not as he remembers it. The land is empty and vast, its harsh and ugly in comparison to what he has lived in. Cole does not think of this desert as home.
His father is not proud of him, yet the line must endure and to secure the house’s lineage, Lord Cole arranges a marriage pact
As the youngest daughter of House Dayne, you are far from thrilled at the prospect of marrying the “Fool” one of the many names the Dornish have so aptly given Criston. You have heard only the vilest, most selfish tales of your betrothed, and none give you cause for hope of a happy ending
When you first meet Criston Cole, you are shocked. He is attractive, his hair grown to his shoulders, a pale scar tracing the length of his neck. In the weeks leading up to your meeting, you had imagined all manner of monstrosities. After all, you and the realm had already decided he was a cruel, inept monster
He is quieter than you had anticipated, his replies soft and measured. You are puzzled how can the ex-Lord Commander, the Hand of a traitor king, speak with such gentleness? Yet no softness can erase the memory of what he has done, the way he helped tear the realm apart
When your wedding day arrives, he replaces your cloak with a rough cloth, its back marked with dull, colorless dots. House Cole is not wealthy, and the dowry has been meager
He does not kiss you..not really. His rough hands wrap around yours, and his lips barely brush your cheek, soft and fleeting. More like the touch of a feather or the kiss of a rain droplet
There is no grand feast, only a family meal, plentiful with meat and wine, served in the gardens long into the evening
The bedding is much like his kiss, hardly anything to recount to your sisters or companions. It is not romantic, and you are certain he does not even finish. You can only hope it will not always be this way
★ jace velaryon
Growing up alongside your future husband isn’t the norm, but you are glad for it. As many ladies are stuck with brutes and old men for husbands
Jace has matured into a handsome man that you can’t bare to look at without blushing. With every look he gives you, you can’t help but turn your head with cheeks red
But despite your embarrassment, you are both more than excited to finally be married
You opt for a traditional Valyrian wedding, the same as Rhaenyra and Daemon had done. There was no fancy ceremony with cloaks of golden threads, just Jace and you
Sleep did not come the night before, as the excitement and giddiness ran through you like shots of lightning. You couldn’t even feel the exhaustion in your muscles as you readied yourself in the robes and headpiece
Jace could not find sleep himself, as he was too excited as well at the prospect of finally calling you his
Jace’s eyes watered while waiting for you, he choked on his Valyrian as you laughed at his sweet mistake
The kiss wasn’t needy or greedy, but it wasn’t the cordial kiss of the Lords & Ladies of the Seven would display. It was tender and loving and gentle.
The feast was celebrated through the night and full of laughter. When it came to the bedding ceremony, you and Jace instead fell asleep quite quickly in your now shared bed
⤷ pairing(s): aegon ii targaryen x reader & cregan stark x reader
⤷ warning(s): mentions of sex, alcohol, general rudeness
⤷ a/n: please forgive me for Aegon 😖 part two with jace and aemond will be up soon…hopefully i acquired a hand injury today soooo… whoops lol
―✧˖° ♛ °˖✧―
★ cregan stark
The betrothal had come with your brother Jace, secured through the Stark’s oath and the promise of alliance from the North. In a fortnight, you were to fly to Winterfell and become Lady Stark. Pride should have filled you but instead, the thought brought a tightening in your chest. At night, when the castle grew quiet, tears would slip, tracing paths down your cheeks.
Baela never let you face those next fourteen nights alone. She stayed by your side, holding you close, whispering stories and reassurances until the ache loosened. Her warmth was a shield against the uncertainty of the North, and her laughter a reminder that you were not truly leaving home.
You struggle with the thought of standing alone at your binding to Lord Stark, knowing no familiar face will be there to support you, but you understand the weight of duty, your family is teetering on the brink of war and need the alliance
The North is cold and sparse, yet its expansive desolation is half the charm. Vast stretches of land lie open and unclaimed, quiet in a way that feels both intimidating and freeing. The cold seeps into everything at first, it’s bone deep and unforgiving but in time it’ll become a familiar presence, something you learn to live with, and eventually even respect
There is no welcome reception and few words greet you upon your arrival, only Lord Stark, Sara Snow, and half a dozen of his men. The welcome is cordial and brief, there is a war to attend to
On the morning of the wedding, Cregan’s half-sister, Sara is warm and gentle, her presence and quick quips are a quiet comfort amid the chill of the North. She braids your hair in the Targaryen fashion, strands woven with practiced care, yet dresses you in the Stark way, heavy wool and muted colors meant for cold and duty rather than courtly display. The contrast feels foreign at first, dragon and direwolf entwined, but as the final clasp is fastened, the weight of it all begins to settle
As you walk toward the weirwood beneath softly swirling snow, you mourn the absence of your mother and siblings. Your thoughts linger on your father, long since perished within the scarred halls of Harrenhal, and on Luke, whose death still brings tears unbidden to your eyes which just end up crystallizing on your cheeks in the cold. The quiet of the North leaves room for grief to breathe, and each step forward is taken with those you have lost walking beside you in memory
Cregan is handsome, ruggedly so. He is not the man you once envisioned yourself beside, but he will more than do. You find yourself drawn to his frost bitten cheeks and the fall of his long brown hair, to the heavy furs wrapped around him that make him seem warm and solid, inviting despite the cold. He stands nearly a head taller than you, and you cannot stop the blush that rises to your cheeks. You hope he takes it for the chill rather than the thoughts he stirs inside you
Cregan had never imagined himself wed to a Targaryen princess. Yet when he finally looks upon you, he finds it difficult to look for long or to look away. You are far more beautiful than he had ever imagined, your presence striking and unexpected
He surprises you with a feast not with flowers or the grandeur of the weddings you’re familiar with, but with music, hearty food, and people dancing without care. You quickly learn that Northerners know how to have fun and savor a good celebration, rough edged though it may be, warm in its own honest way
Your first dance with Cregan is nothing short of awkward but somehow, that only makes it perfect. It starts with a misstep, then another. He spins you a heartbeat too fast, and you laugh as you stumble, your foot landing squarely on his toes. He winces, then grins, the sound of his low chuckle rumbling through his chest as if the pain is a small price to pay. “I deserved that,” he murmurs, amused rather than annoyed
It isn’t graceful. It isn’t polished. But as he guides you across the floor, smiling down at you like this moment belongs only to the two of you, it feels right
You forget about what’s brewing in the south and relish in the feast, while simultaneously falling in love with your husband
The bedding ceremony comes around and Cregan’s timid at first. He’s unwilling to hurt you. Sweet and kind, Cregan is not rough for now
There’s a moment fleeting at this time but sure to grow, as his slightly crooked smile think forever could be lovely with him
★ aegon ii targaryen
The two of you have been betrothed since your fifth name day, bound by vows neither of you could understand, let alone refuse and doomed long before you ever learned the shape of the word choice.
It isn’t love at first sight. Not even close. In fact, he looks at you with open disgust when you are finally presented to him at his sixteenth name day tourney. Aegon makes a game of mocking your clothes, sneering at the cut of your hair and the colors you wear. He questions your intellect with lazy insults, delivered loudly enough for others to hear. You endure it with a practiced calm, privately amused by the irony of being judged by a boy so clearly deficient in the very wit he claims to prize. The challenge of Aegon excites you
There are not many meetings between the two of you before the queen suggests that you take rooms at the keep. The word suggests is a courtesy, nothing more. You are not thrilled by the idea, but refusal is not an option afforded to you. It is framed as convenience, as preparation for a future already decided. You accept with a practiced nod, aware that every choice you are allowed to make exists only in the narrow space where it does not matter
It isn’t until a month has passed since your arrival at the Red Keep that he finally decides to acknowledge your presence
At first, it is small things. A glance that lingers a moment too long, a hand brushing yours as he hands you something, a quiet word spoken just for you. In the months leading up to your union, there are fleeting moments when he is almost… sweet, almost affectionate, as though the boy who once sneered at you might, in secret, hold you in regard
He touches your wrist with casual familiarity, brings you small indulgences he believes you might enjoy, and, quietly but deliberately, spends more time in your company than with anyone else. These gestures are tentative, measured, as if he is testing boundaries as much as revealing them
Over time, you begin to wonder if there might actually be something like love between you. The moments of tenderness, rare and fleeting though they are, start to feel meaningful. You catch yourself hoping for his attention, craving the quiet intimacy of shared glances or casual touches. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you allow yourself to imagine a life where you and Aegon might be more than betrothed. You might even grow to be friends, confidants, lovers
And yet, even in these moments, you sense the weight beneath the warmth. Asubtle reminder that nothing is given freely, that his tenderness is still tethered to expectation, to duty, to the inevitability of the life that has been chosen for you both
At the very least, you can admit it to yourself, you are falling in love with him.
And in that admission lies both exhilaration and fear, for even as your heart leans toward him, you cannot forget the years of cruelty, the inherited expectations, or the inevitability of a crown that has chosen your lives for you. Love, it seems, may be possible, but only on its own uncertain terms
On his wedding day, he takes the white and silver cloak, heavy with its rough spun cloth made for winter chill, embroidered with twin direwolves and scattered with crimson weirwood leaves. He casts it aside without a second thought. The fabric slips from his hands like a discarded promise, pooling on the floor in a flash of pale ivory silk and red thread
His kiss is sloppy, too wet, and it reeks of alcohol. It’s uncouth in a way that makes heat creep up your neck for all the wrong reasons. It is not tender, it is clumsy and disgusting. You do not return it. Instead, you remain still, lips unyielding, enduring the spectacle with a patience that borders on defiance. You wait it out, letting the moment exhaust itself, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of your participation while the embarrassment lingers, thick and unavoidable, between you and the rest of the wedding patrons
Aegon gets further drunk at the reception
Far into his bottle of wine, his tongue loosens and his manners rot. The words slip out with a drunken sneer, low and ugly, wolf whore. He leans in close enough that you can smell the sourness of the wine on his breath, close enough to think the insult private. “Northern barbarian”, he murmurs against your ear, as though the whisper makes it clever instead of cruel
You’re sure that if your brother was able to join the festivities away from the castle, he would have killed Aegon
The chamber meant for celebration is cavernous and cold, the bed untouched except for you. Candlelight emits low as you sit on the edge of the mattress, the weight of silk and ceremony pressing down until it feels unbearable. When you finally lie back, the tears come quietly at first, then in earnest, staining the sheets that were meant to mark a beginning, not an ending
Sleep refuses you. Instead, your thoughts spiral, serious, dangerous thoughts. Of slipping away before dawn. Of trading titles and vows for the anonymity of the road. You imagine the feel of night air on your face, the freedom of motion, the mercy of distance. Each passing moment makes staying feel heavier, and running away less like cowardice and more like survival
It is nearly dawn when the knock comes. You stir from a thin, uneasy slumber as the door opens on creaking hinges, the sound careful, almost scared.
He enters timidly. It is a version of him you do not recognize, a manner you had not known existed with Aegon. No swagger, no claim laid upon the space. He closes the door behind him
The mattress dips as he crawls onto the bed, slow and deliberate, keeping his distance. He does not reach for you. Does not speak. He lies there instead, a measured span of space between your bodies. In the quiet before sunrise, his restraint is louder than any insult
He is nervous, Aegon confesses at last. It is an unfamiliar sensation, he admits, this carefulness, this ache in his chest he cannot name. Love and respect are foreign feelings to him, places no one ever bothered to map. There were lessons in duty, in conquest, in indulgence, but none in tenderness. No one taught him what love could be
His voice lowers, rough with something dangerously close to honesty. He tells you he does not know how to be good at this, not yet. That everything he has ever been rewarded for is the complete opposite to what he feels now, lying beside you. Still, he says, he can see it, imperfectly. He can see himself learning. With you
the only time I feel I might get better // obi wan kenobi
★ pairing(s): obi-wan kenobi x reader
★ summary: it was everything you wanted…right?
★ warnings: angst & yearning
★ a/n: short and sweet kind of a sequel to when we are together. They’re so awkward lmfao
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
It was hot.
Then again it was always hot on Tatooine.
But today it was different.
The heat had gone above what the outdated thermometer in the hut could read and the old cooling system barely helped. The scorched earth was physically too hot to touch with even clothed feet and the visible mirage of heat distorted the landscape.
You were on the floor, stripped to your small clothes with a wet cloth covering your face. “We need to get a new system.”
“Agreed.” Shirtless and in his own small clothes, Obi-Wan was on the floor next to you.
“In the four years we’ve been on this rock. I don’t think the heat has ever been this bad.” You laughed half-heartedly.
It takes a moment for Obi-Wan to respond. “Four years?”
“Time flies.” You rolled your head to the side, taking off the cloth to grimace at him. He goes silent, the only sound is the rattling of the cooling unit on the precipice of exploding or hopefully chugging on and the labored breath between you both.
“Thank you.” He finally spoke.
“For what?” Your brow furrowed.
“Doing this with me.”
He rolled over on his side, long auburn hair falling around his tanned face. Beard still in tact but speckled with stray grays and whites. Head now propped up by his elbow. He glistened with sweat. “Thank you for being here with me.”
His eyelashes were a golden red, long, and thick. He had freckles on the bridge of his nose flushing out to dot his cheeks. A brilliant open ocean that shone under the rays of his eyelashes.
Your chest stopped moving. There’s a hitch in the back of your throat. An ache in between your thighs.
His lips were dry, in need of a salve.
You’re sure he thinks the same of yours.
He’s slow with his movements, making agonizingly steady work with your lips.
His breath was hot, scalding almost when he pulled away. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” You stood up from the floor, removing yourself from his bodily cage.
Obi-wan rolled onto his back, palms digging into his eye sockets quietly berating himself for what he just done. He thought that this is what you wanted, been yearning for. Certainly that’s what he has been feeling.
★ pairing(s): anakin skywalker x (f!)reader
★ summary: you and anakin had a falling out and now you’re forced to reconcile after a mission gone wrong.
★ warning(s): sexual content! graphic descriptions of wounds! blood! enemies to lovers?
★ a/n: enjoy :) this shit long af sorry lmfao title is from thunder by miss lana
␛ to masterlist
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
When you received the encrypted message this morning by Master Mace Windu, you were confused. Sent in the middle of the night with barely any explanation given other than a time and place to meet. It wasn’t unlike Mace to send abrupt messages at all times of the night, but it was strange to have no details given whatsoever.
You struggled with the message all day, going over and over in your mind what was going on, what could happen. You weren’t exactly the most obedient Jedi in the Order and there was recently an incident on Lothal where you had taken some of your men to quietly gather some intel of the Separatists who held Capital city.
Except it didn’t exactly happen quietly and a full blown incursion had broke out. General Kenobi and his fleet had to step in and evacuate you and your men.
While forever grateful for Obi-Wan saving your skin, you were forever guilty of your incompetence.
“There’s been an emergency.” Was the first thing that slipped out of Mace Windu’s mouth the moment you crossed the threshold into the meeting room.
“What emergency?” Silently relieved that this was not what you believed it to be.
“Master Kenobi has already been debriefed and will arrive later to discuss intimate details of the plan with you.”
“How secret of a mission is this that it’s just me and Obi-Wan? No reinforcements?”
“It’s not just you, Master. We’re waiting on one other.”
“Who?”
It was at that moment the doors slid open revealing Anakin, the third member of the small secret trio of the mission. His blood boiled, his jaw clenched, and his stomach churned at the sight of you standing at the other side of the room, avoiding his gaze.
Why? Why were you here? A million reasons as to why ran through his head and none of them sounded good.
“General Skywalker.” You smiled, trying to ignore the way Anakin’s hands curled into fists. Now you knew why you weren’t privy to who exactly was on the mission.
See, you and Anakin didn’t exactly get along. Once, years ago, but now it wasn’t possible for him at least, to be around you.
“What is she doing here?” Anakin’s voice dripped with annoyance.
Your heart panged at the slight but you swallowed it away instead, smiling at him. “Charming as always, Skywalker.”
“She, General Skywalker,” Windu snapped, pointing to you at the opposite end of the room. “Is a member of the Jedi Order and you are in no position to question on why a fellow Jedi is at any meeting. Do you understand?”
“But-“ Anakin started but was quickly shut down.
“Do you understand, Skywalker?” Windu’s tone didn’t allow Anakin to choose.
“Yes, Master Windu.” He grumbled.
“Good.” He pushed the green button on the dashboard, illuminating the room with the soft blue glow, map of Ajan Kloss. “We have reports of a disturbance in the force on the outer rim moon of Ajan Kloss.”
Windu motioned toward the small blue moon. “We have reason to believe that the Separatists are scouting the moon for a new base to begin expanding their efforts further out in the Outer rim.”
“So what is the plan?” You asked.
“Find the disturbance and hopefully stop the expansion.”
“Simple enough.” You nodded.
The door slid open once more, this time Obi-Wan quietly entered. Chin in his hand, circling the table evaluating every inch of the map.
“Master Kenobi.” You called out to him, smiling.
“General.” He nodded. “I’m happy to see you could help. Anakin and I both appreciate your help and expertise on this matter. Don’t we?”
Anakin grumbled, but nodded anyway.
“Thank you, Master.” You smiled at the older man before you. “I’m happy to help.”
“Good.” He returned your smile and looked over to Anakin a moment, placing a hand on his former Padawan’s shoulder before turning back to you. “We’re both happy to have it.”
Anakin huffed his obvious displeasure, loud enough for you to hear it. He was not happy about the situation and no doubt felt blindsided by Obi-Wan’s lack of keeping him in the know of what was going on. You didn’t care, he was any other Jedi on a mission to you and you weren’t going to let his bad attitude and anticipated harsh comments let you from successfully fulfilling your duties and Obi-Wan seemed to thankfully on the same page.
“I trust you three will do this properly.” Windu’s piercing gaze bore into you.
“Yes, Master.”
“Good, you two may go.”
Anakin followed you out, sighing heavily as the door slid closed.
You swallowed heavily, the pressure of his gaze into the back of your head made you face him. “I don’t want to do this either, Skywalker.”
“Good. Glad you agree.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t screw this one up like you did on Lothal.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Yeah, sure.” Anakin moved closer, his real hand wrapping around your upper arm. His lips brushed against the top of your ear, “Don’t get in my way.”
Anakin pulled back completely, letting you go and beginning down the hall away from you. “See you tomorrow, Y/n.”
Dawn was breaking when you arrived at the docking bay. Anakin was perched on a supply box, laughing at something one of his men had said.
There was a time you would be there with them, making him laugh. You swallowed hard.
“Where’s Obi-Wan?” Bag slung over your shoulder, you approached the men and Anakin.
Rolling his eyes, he jumped off the box. His demeanor completely changed back into seriousness and annoyance at your presence.
“Why?” Anakin hummed as he crossed his arms across his chest.
“Because I have to report to him.” You matched his bite.
“He’s on the cruiser.”
You nodded, pushing past him purposely bumping your shoulder hard into his own. Hoping that maybe your bag even hit him as well as you entered in the small jumper ship. Putting your things into a locker before jumping into the cockpit and starting the pre flight procedures.
“I’m flying.” Anakin’s voice entered the cockpit. Of course. Jackass.
“Fine.” You released the pilots controls, not wanting a fight so early in the morning. Instead, you commed to Obi-Wan letting him know of your departure and soon arrival.
You two avoided each other on the cruiser during the standard weeks journey. Waltzing your ways down abandoned corridors and choosing odd meal times.
All of your efforts proved to be in vain when Obi-Wan let you know that Anakin and you were to go solo into the jungle in hopes to use Obi-Wan and his men as a distraction.
“We should head south. Towards the river, there should be small villages along there.” Anakin pointed at the map.
“That’s almost a four day hike,” Sighing as you disagreed with him. “And completely off track.”
“The Separatists will be in those villages, Y/n.” He shook his head, “And whatever Sith scum is on this rock will be there too.”
It began to not rain, pour. Your hair was completely drenched and so was Anakin’s. Thunder rolled in and the fog began to settle.
“If we follow my plan, we won’t end up dead like the men on Lothal.”
That was it.
You had enough of Anakin Skywalker. “Shut up!”
You pushed him to the ground, jumping on top of him and straddling his body.
“What is your problem!?” He choked out. Quickly flipping you over into the dirt, the wind knocked out of your lungs with a huff.
“Get off me!” You wanted to spit in his face. You began to claw at his face, but he quickly grabbed your wrists and grounded them in the mud.
Thunder clapped above. You pounded at his chest, “Get off me!”
Another boom from the sky had him off you. “We need to make shelter!”
You reached for the map in your belt. Feeling for the tech, you found none but scraps. The map was completely destroyed. You reached for the com, it was of the same fate. There was no hope of trying to salvage the tech in your hand.
“You fucked us over!” Anakin shouted over the thunder and rain.
“Shut up!”
“You’re the one who got us in this situation. If only you hadn’t blown up at me, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
“I’m the one who got us here?” You scoffed. “Need I remind you that this was your idea?”
“My idea?” He pointed a finger at his face as his eyes narrowed at you. “You suggested that we divert completely!”
“And you suggested that we go this route! Plus-“
“Doesn’t make it my idea!”
“You didn’t let me finish!”
“And I won’t!”
“I have never met someone so infuriating, so narcissistic, and so downright arrogant as you in my entire life!”
“I’m infuriating?” He snapped back with venom. “Have you ever met yourself?”
“You’re so-“ You stopped short.
“So what?” It was only then that you realized that the chipped deep blue armor that wrapped around his shoulders were mere inches from your chin. His chest was mere centimeters away from your own and that he towered over you as his deep blue eyes glowered.
“Just forget it.” You sighed, stepping back, trying to escape his
“No, go on, I’d love to hear it.”
“No, Anakin.”
“I don’t even know how I used to put up with you!”
The brush moved above you. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
The dark ripple of the force electrified your nerves once more. “There, did you feel it?”
“Stop it, nothing’s there. Let’s keep going.”
“Anakin,” His name stopped him dead in his tracks, you hadn’t used it in years. “There’s something following us. I can feel it.”
“It’s just the storm.”
“Anakin.” You looked at him with eyes wide.
“Hello, Jedi.” Ventress hissed from above. Her lightsabers hissed as the sith ignited the two as she towered over you.
“I’m so glad you could make it.” Her lips twisted into a sadistic grin that made you twinge.
Anakin ignited his blue to your green.
Ventress cackled, raising her double lights over her head to make a slash at the both of you as she dropped to the jungle floor. A master in her own right with dueling two at the same time.
Anakin lunged forward first, his blue clashing with red. Purple illuminating their faces, you saw this as your chance to enter the fray. Your green went for her side, trying for a swipe at her rib cage. Ventress easily blocked your move.
You and Anakin fought hard as you slowly made progress pushing her farther and farther into the jungle floor. At one point, the green blade of your saber made contact with her leg and Anakin’s sliced up her arm.
You were making good progress and might even capture the with.
That’s until you came upon the ravine.
Ventress’s leg came up, her foot square in the chest of Anakin’s plate of armor and pushed hard.
Anakin fell.
He tumbled over the top of the ravine and into the pit of darkness, his frame shadowed by the rain and fog that enveloped the depth below.
“Anakin!” Your lungs screamed for air, your grip slipped, allowing for Ventress to slice open your shoulder, searing your robes and the skin underneath. You fell to your knees, completely at the mercy of the Sith.
“Oops?” Ventress laughed. “Looks like Skywalker won’t be making it home.”
Your head hung in defeat. Wet hair falling in a curtain around you, shielding your shame. You failed. You failed yourself. You failed Anakin. The only thing that awaited you was death that came in the form of her twin blades crossed over at your neck.
But the blow never came. The hum of her lightsabers ceased and the only thing left was the rain, thunder, and your heavy breaths. Then you descended into the pit, screaming in agony as debris fell onto your wound.
The ravine was just as clear as it was from above. Holding onto the seared wound in your shoulder, your search became frantic noticing the stream was shades of blood. “Anakin!”
His body was unnaturally situated in the shallow water. His eyes were closed as you knelt in front of him.
“Anakin.” You whispered above his unmoving form.
“Anakin! Please!” He was alive you could feel that but his life force was fading. You scanned his body, looking for the wounds that ran the river red. Then you saw his leg.
His leg was mangled, bloody, and almost snapped in half.
It made you nauseous to look at it, but you needed to stop the bleeding or he would die. There was no way this would heal properly without medical attention and weeks worth of time in a bacta tank.
Your frantic hands shed your belt, practically tearing the dark outer robes off your top, leaving only the thin tank top underneath left. The blue fabric of his pants were slick with his blood, dyeing the blue, black. With every second passed, the more his blood poured from his leg.
You couldn’t wrap the wound successfully without straightening it out. The thought of maneuvering the bone back into a straight position was gross and something you had never done before, but you had to get him out of this ravine and get help immediately and with the com broken it wasn’t likely to be found anytime soon.
His unnaturally bent leg made unpleasant noises as you slowly moved it back into a e position, thanking the force he was unconscious to feel the pain. You felt bad for the pain he would feel when he would wake up, if he woke up.
But you couldn’t think like that, no, you would stop the bleeding, find help, and he would be fine. Everything would be fine. You two would go back to Coruscant and the endless fighting would resume.
You traveled for hours with him on your back. Taking only a few moments to eat from a bush or drink from a stream. You tried your best to find the way you had once come. But it was proving difficult with the cloud cover and the haze of pain from your shoulder.
It was nightfall when you found a waterfall with a pool of water. Just behind the curtain of water was a large enough cave that would easily fit the two of you and then some.
You laid Anakin to rest on the floor. Immediately going for water to wash your hands and then his wound. It took hours to delicately clean the break and skin, you didn’t realize you had fallen asleep until you saw the light streaming through the water.
On the first day, Anakin hadn’t awaken. He laid silently on the cave rock floor. You hadn’t left his side, only once every few odd hours to get more water to clean his wound.
You were reluctant to leave him but you need to find food and find something better to bind his leg and maybe find a way to get to Obi-Wan.
On the second day you made a make shift bed for him to lay on made out of palm ferns that you tied on your back for an easier climb.
On the third day, you meditated. Hoping that you could reach out and contact Obi-Wan through the force, but you weren’t lucky enough to have a bond with him.
On the fourth day, a cold front came in. It wasn’t anything like the chills on Coruscant but it was a significant drop in the average temperature for Ajan Kloss.
On the fifth day he woke up.
“Y/n?” You thought that the hallucinations from lack of sleep, food, and proper hydration began when you heard his voice for the first time. But the voice persisted, calling your name again.
“Don’t move.”
“What happened?”
“Ventress.”
“Have you heard from Obi-Wan?”
“Would we still be in this cave if I had?”
“No.”
“Stop moving.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“Your leg almost snapped in half.”
“I know. I can feel it.” Anakin winced. “How long have I been out?”
“Five days.”
“How long do you think-?”
“I don’t know.” You unwound the scrap of red fabric that came from his robes. He tried sitting up again but groaned in pain when you poured water from a flagon you had made out of some hollow shell you had found at the edge of the river and onto the wound.
“Kriff!” He jerked his leg which only caused him more pain. “Fuck.”
“Sit still.” You wanted to slap his stupid face. “If you would just stay put, I could finish this faster and then you wouldn’t be in so much pain.”
“And you haven’t gone out and tried to find help?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I guess I should’ve let you die then!”
“No.” He looked down at your hands, watching as you worked on wrapping his leg with the freshly washed makeshift linens. “I’m sorry for what I said before Ventress.”
“It’s okay.” You brushed it off. It hurt but you weren’t going to stew over it. Silence fell over you again.
“We used to be inseparable.” Anakin uttered one evening when the rain came down. His back was currently propped up against the cave wall, watching you as you cut into some fruit you had found earlier that day. Your hair was drenched, and beads of water rolled down your neck and bare shoulders. Your skin glistened under the shimmer of the waterfall.
“A long time ago.” You huffed. It was annoying to hear him try to bring up the past between you.
“It was only four years ago.”
“Yeah, a long time ago.” You didn’t really want to have this conversation with him.
“We stopped talking.” Yeah no shit.
Sighing heavily, you put down the small shard of stone. You couldn’t quite understand why he was suddenly bringing this up right now. After all, it was he who stopped talking to you, leaving you to wonder for months what you had done wrong. It left questions burning at the tip of your tongue every time you were in close proximity of each other.
“Why?” Why? The gaul of Anakin finally got to you.
But after everything that had happened in the last week, it was as good as time as any to ask the question that had been itching at the back of your mind for. “Was what happened on Corellia that bad?”
“What?”
“Corellia. Plo and Obi-Wan took us to Corellia to help locals from the Pykes. We had tried to help annex them from the spice lords. We got split up and you and I were sent alone and then we had um-“
“Yeah, I remember Corellia.” He stopped you before you could finish the sentence, knowing full well what you were about to say.
“After that,” You continued. “You stopped talking to me. You started to act different around me, like you do now…I just didn’t understand. I still don’t understand.”
Anakin was silent for a long time. His head turned and he watched as the waterfall gushed down. “I remember when we were barely seventeen and you had training with Plo every morning from sunrise until noon but this time he was called away for an emergency on…I think it was Kijimi?”
“Where are you going with this, Anakin?”
“Let me finish.”
“I-“
“Just listen.”
“Fine.”
“Obi-Wan offered to train you himself when Plo was gone. He trained you hard for two weeks and I watched all of it. I sat behind the Uneti tree and watched you guys fight. It was like a sort of dance. I had never seen him and you flow so easy before. It was mesmerizing.”
“Okay? I don’t understand the point of this whole story?”
“Can you just be quiet? I’m trying to explain myself in the best way I can and you’re being rude.”
“That’s thick.”
“Whatever. Look, I just got nervous around you.”
“Nervous? Anakin, I thought we were closer than ever after Corellia and your explanation is that you became nervous?” Your eyebrow arched. Stars, he was dumber than you remember.
“You know what? Forget it.”
“No. I’m sorry, finish.”
He sat there in silence for a moment as he eyed you out of the corner of his eye, watching as you moved to sit next to him; propping your back against the wall, mirroring his position. Clearing his throat, his eyes fell to his hands, “I-I wasn’t freaked out. I was jealous and standing there only days after Corellia watching you two train in such fluidity I realized right then and there.“
The silence was loud as he looked back down at you. His eyes searched yours with a look you hadn’t seen since you were seventeen.
No. He couldn’t. This couldn’t be the reason to why your friendship had fallen apart.
The silence settled again in the cave as you watched him. “Anakin…”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pity me.” He swallowed “You rejected me.”
“I didn’t reject you.” You weren’t even awake when you had left him laying in bed alone. You had thought it was for the best. You didn’t want Plo or especially Obi-Wan finding the two of you wrapped up in the sheets together. “I didn’t think it wise to stay and you took me leaving as rejection. You were the one who ignored me for months! You are not the victim here, Anakin!”
He fell silent, looking out at the undulating gushing water. It was moments before you spoke again.
“I liked you too. Once.”
“I know.” He smirked. “You were obvious.”
“I know.”
“It was endearing.”
“I didn’t quite grasp the concept of no attachments at ten.”
“I still don’t.”
You shrugged and stared at the raging waterfall, unwilling to meet his gaze.
“Do you…” Anakin’s voice trailed off, lingering in the air, allowing for the pounding water to take over the conversation until he was brave enough to finish it.
“Do I what?”
“Do you hate me?”
“No! Oh my stars, no.”
“So you still like me?”
“No.” You were telling the truth, you missed him sure, but it wasn’t love anymore. “I do not.”
“But you did once.”
“I was ten.”
“Ten, twenty, a hundred. Love just doesn’t die.”
“Wow, you’re a real poet Skywalker. A shame your flowery words of endearment will never be heard upon the ears of lovers.”
“Look, you are smart, funny, strong, and you paid attention to me. I just had misplaced my admiration into childish fantasies that had led me astray until I had found balance again.” He sighed. “And I don’t hate you. You hate me though.”
“I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.” That was all it took for Anakin to finally kiss you. Press his own to yours, in a fervor that was everything and nothing you had to said to each other.
His lips were warm.
Chapped.
“Anakin-“ You moaned into his mouth. It was electric, like the wire from all those years ago was plugged back into its socket.
He hummed into your mouth, his fingers were still entangled in your hair. Grasping at the base of your skull, pulling at the tendrils. Your lips moved in perfect sync as he began pulling you towards him, trying to position you on his lap.
“Your leg.”
“I don’t feel it.”
“Anakin.” You bit your lip. It wasn’t right. “We can’t.”
“I might die.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I might never see the light ever again. Might never feel the warmth of another person ever again.”
He pulled you to him again, kissing you with all of the pent up anger, guilt, and want the past four years had built.
His warm hand slipped under your shirt, fingertips caressing the slick, sweaty skin that was a sea of goosebumps from the contact. Skating up your rib cage to find your breast.
Moaning into his mouth, you forgot what it was like to be touch, no caressed by him. It felt so wrong but that’s what must’ve been so good about it.
You retracted from him, pulling your shirt off completely. Baring yourself to him. His lips found your nipple, sucking lightly at the sensitive tip, your head rolled back in pleasure.
You could feel him at you clothed core, your hips rocking against his hard cock.
“Fuck.” His breath was hot against your skin but never relented. “If you keep doing that I’ll cum.”
“Then fuck me.”
His tip was swollen and leaking with pre-cum when you helped him with his pants. You wanted to take him in your mouth but wanted him inside you more.
“Fuck.” He moaned deeply as you sank your wet cunt onto his pulsating erection. You couldn’t help but moan out in pleasure yourself as you felt him bottom out in you.
With careful undulating rolls you moved on top of him.
It was by no means romantic, this clash between you. Needy and primal, it was a release of everything. Every quick slash of the tongue. Every glance and every subliminal touch.
“I know about you and Obi-Wan.” Anakin’s fingers entwined within your hair, tenderly caressing your scalp as he braided small sections with your head laid on his bare chest.
There was no reason to deny what he said. You hummed against his skin.
“Do you love him?” He continued to play with your hair as he quietly whispered. There was no malice, no jealously, no discontent behind his question.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The next few days continued as they had prior to what happened between you and Anakin. There had been no mentions of you having sex and none of Obi-Wan.
Anakin’s leg wasn’t getting better but it wasn’t getting worse. Which you took as a good sign.
“I’m going to get more food.” You were running out of the little supply you had previously gotten and he needed as much energy and nutrients as possible.
“Okay.”
“Please don’t do anything stupid.”
“Would never dream of it.”
You looked back once more before descending the rock and into the jungle floor. Purple fruit hung from low bushes that proved edible and somewhat sweet. Which was good enough for your empty stomachs.
You plucked a few into your makeshift satchel you had created from scraps of Anakin’s robes. It wouldn’t be enough if you were expecting to be here longer, so you moved deeper into the jungle. Hoping to find a piece of meat of any kind at this point.
You felt it first. A movement in the overgrown brush. Then you saw it.
A figure, no, it was definitely a man moved through the jungle alone. Whacking his way through the brush with looked like a vibroblade, as he tried to navigate the tricky, uneven floor.
“Obi-Wan?” Maybe you were tired, hungry, and downright delirious at this moment but for a fleeting second, the auburn hair was one thing it was the white and tan armor that was unmistakable.
“Obi-Wan!” The fruit dropped from your hands and squashed into the mud below, but you didn’t care. Obi-Wan had stopped his pursuit through the flora and spun around.
“Y/n?” His eyes widened and he dropped the vibroblade to the muddied ground. You sprinted towards the Jedi Master and practically jumped on him, wrapping your arms around his body. The warmth he radiated was comforting and familiar. He was sweaty and smelled a bit but you were sure you were ten times worse.
Obi-Wan’s mouth found yours as he brought your body closer to his in desperation and happiness.
He pulled back from your body but his arms were still wrapped around you. His cerulean eyes searched your face and his hand came to caress your dirty, sweaty cheek. He wasn’t sure you were really real.
“Yes, it’s really me.” You half laughed, half sobbed.
“You’re hurt.” His fingertips gingerly graced the surface of your wrapped shoulder. You had forgotten about your wound.
“I forgot.” You laughed through the tears, looking down at the disgusting unkept wrappings.
“You forgot?” He laughed, shaking his head. “I guess you’re okay then?”
“I’ll live.” You smiled, kissing him once more.
“Where’s Anakin?”
You hesitated, worried at how he would react to the news of Anakin almost dying and his leg needing extensive medical attention.
“Anakin is injured.” His eyebrow raised at the news. “Badly.”
“What happened?”
“Ventress.”
“Where is he?”
“A few clicks from here.” You began moving back towards the waterfall. “I can’t move him. Not by myself. He needs medical attention now or he’ll lose the leg.”
“I’ll com Cody.” Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed as he calmly talked to the Commander, detailing the extent of Anakin’s injuries and of yours.
You led him to the cave, detailing the events of Ventress and everything in between. “I cleaned the wound twice a day. I ran out of cloth so I washed and reused what I had, but it was running water. The bleeding has stopped and has begun to scab over but his leg is damaged badly, Obi-Wan. It’ll be weeks in a bacta tank before he can walk properly again.”
Stepping into the cave with Obi-Wan, Anakin was just as you had left him but now he was smirking at the sight of you two.
“Took you long enough.”
You were evacuated from Ajan Kloss.
The team was a sight for sore eyes. Anakin was brought to the medbay immediately, induced into sleep he floated around the bacta tank with his mangled leg suspended.
With relief, you found your quarters after a quick check up, proper meal, and a long shower.
Wrapped up in a blanket, you were sitting in the window ledge. Watching the stars go by, waiting for the jump to hyper speed.
Reflecting on the past few weeks had brought peace. Happy with the loose ends now tied.
When Obi-Wan entered through the door with two cups of steaming tea, the uneasiness of guilt and embarrassment found you. He was so good to you, giving you the world and happiness. He didn’t have to know what happened.
“Hi.” You smiled.
“Hello.” Obi-Wan reciprocated, handing you the mug. “Are you alright?”
You hummed. “You?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine.”
“Thank you for saving me.” You leaned your head on his shoulder, your eyes threatening to close from the lack of sleep catching up to you. You felt safe here next to Obi-Wan and for a moment you thought about what Anakin said, pondering for a moment before letting your body fully sink down. “Again.”
“Of course.” He kissed the top of your head, then leaning his cheek on your hair. Letting the quiet envelope the two lovers.
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␛ to masterlist | want more anakin? check out this!
pairing(s): luke skywalker x (f!)reader, din djarin x (f!) reader
summary: you hitch a ride
warning(s): none
a/n: okay wow it’s been like two years since i’ve updated this story lmfao better late than never lol oops
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✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Luke Skywalker woke up early to an empty bed. Hanna city was blanketed with fog and a blue tinge as the sun had just began to rise but hadn't quite peaked over the mountains yet. Stretching his limbs with deep blue eyes still closed, he patted the mattress beside him, searching for the body of his fiancée. His hands found nothing but the cold silken imprint of you body.
That was odd.
He always woke up hours before she did for his meditation and training.
"Y/n?" He called out from his spot, still lying in bed.
There was no response.
Luke peered up at the clock that was built into the wall across from the bed; the white numbers blinked 4:45.
"Honey?" He tried again, but the apartment was completely silent. There was no low hum coming from the fresher and the holonet wasn't on. A bad feeling creeped up inside him as he threw back the covers to investigate where you had gone at this ungodly hour.
As he rose out of bed in a flash, the hair stood all over his body. He only got this feeling when something was wrong. Like the forces way to warn him for the incoming torture that he was about to endure.
Before he was able to pass out of the door into the living room, his deep blue eyes glanced to the long ornate dresser. There was no red blinking glow of the tracker that he had placed there only last night.
Where was the tracking fob?
"Y/n?" He tried again.
Again, no answer.
It was then that he spun on his heel and practically ran to their shared walk-in closet. His breath hitched at the sight of clothes, of all kinds strewn over the floor with empty hangers littering the racks of her side.
He unconsciously reached a hand to the shelf above his side, blindly patting the wood for his now missing duffle bag.
Kriff!
"Y/n?!" This time he wasn't expecting an answer. He knew there would be none.
Luke strode out of the closet and over to her side of the bed. Looking for the DL-18 blaster that she always had strapped to her thigh during their wartime escapades. With an outstretched hand to grasp the handle, a shiny kyber crystal sat upon a tissue stopped him midair.
Hands trembling, he reached out and gently grabbed the ring with his real hand, as his bionic one grasped the tissue with neat handwriting.
Turning the kyber crystal ring in his hand, he read the short but effective note written in Gwyn's handwriting.
‘I need to go. I’m sorry.’
His heart felt like it had been ripped in two as he read the words over and over again, until the message had fully sunk in.
She's gone.
And it felt like entirely his fault.
Balling up the tissue in his hand and grasping the ring in his other, he pulled on his discarded pants from the night before and grabbed the black robe that hung from the door, and flew out of the room and into the apartment.
"HAN!" He screamed as he slammed the door open. "HAN!"
Practically flying down the hallway to his twins apartment, tears began to stream down, staining his flushed cheeks with salty drops.
Luke's bare feet skidded to a halt in front of their apartment. The hand with the crumpled note banged loudly on the maroon and golden front door. "HAN!"
His banging continued on the door, trying desperately to wake the couple up.
After what seemed like forever, the maroon door slid open to reveal Leia in a white silk dressing gown.
"Han isn't here!" Leia yelled back at him in annoyance as she rubbed her chocolate eyes and looked up at her brother. His hair stood in all directions and his once sparkling ocean eyes, were dullen and stained red with waves of tears streaming down his cheeks. Her tone became soft with her brothers distraught appearance, "What happened?"
His hand opened up to reveal the engagement ring sitting in his palm.
"She's gone."
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The seedy cantina was dimly lit with blue neon panels on all of the surrounding walls. The sleek silver bar, encrusted with yellow lights along the perimeter of the circular bar, held dozens of smugglers, bounty hunters, and alcoholics.
You were currently hunched over the bar with a bottle of something you didn't quite know in your hand, with the duffle bag securely between you legs and blaster strapped to your thigh. Your eyes scanned the crowd, looking for someone with at least a trustworthy face, but it was proving to be hard, especially in this place.
"I hear you're looking for passage somewhere." A deep voice spoke next to you.
You came face to face with your brother.
"Han?" You slipped off of the seat.
"Hey kid." Han Solo smirked down at his little sister.
"I-I thought you were on a job!" You poked a finger in his hard chest as you sat back down on the stool, securing the bag back between your legs.
"Yeah, I was." Sighing, he situated himself on the empty stool next to you. "I just got back from Coruscant."
"Where's Chewie?" Looking for their tall and hairy friend.
"Talking to some Twi'lek." He pointed his thumb behind his head towards a secluded table. Chewbacca was leaning back in his chair against the wall, laughing at something a pink female Twi'lek had said.
"Typical." You laughed lightly and took another swig of the bitter alcohol.
"Why are you here?"
"I'm mad." You said truthfully.
"Mad at who?"
"Everyone. Everything."
"So you ran away?"
"So I ran away."
"What about Luke?"
"What about him?"
Han sighed deeply and ran a hand though his hair before he laughed. "You're stubborn, you know that?"
You smiled solemnly as you tipped the bottle towards him and took another sip.
"What's with the tracking fob." Han pointed to the small silver tracking fob that was currently clipped to your belt.
"I don't know," You looked down at it. "it gave me an excuse to leave."
"Where does it take you?"
"Arvala-7."
"Never heard of it."
"Neither had I before yesterday." You laughed reminded of the conversation had with Luke just yesterday. The two siblings sat in silence as you finished the rest of the drink.
Chewbacca, finally done with the pink Twi'lek, made his way over to his old smuggling partner and encircled his long furry arms around you.
"Hey Chewie." You smiled into the warm Wookie, wrapping your own arms around what you could of him. He groaned in response as he ruffled your hair. "So can you two take me?"
"Are you sure?" Han looked down solemnly at you. You only held his gaze, letting him know you were dead serious about your decision. "Alright kid, we will."
"Don't tell the twins."
"Look I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb." The two siblings laughed.
"And no questions asked."
"No questions asked."
"Where are we going?" Chewbacca groaned.
"Arvala-7." Han answered his co-pilot.
"Never heard of it."
"Neither had I until twenty minutes ago." Han smiled.
"Let's go." You placed the empty bottle on the counter and grabbed the duffle bag, getting up from the stool and began to make for the exit.
"Woah, woah, woah. Slow down." Han reached out and grabbed you shoulder to stop you. "What's the rush?"
"It's now or never Han. What happened to no questions asked?" You didn't even look at him before shaking free of his grip and starting for the exit once again. Han and Chewie looked at each other with puzzled looks before shaking their heads and following you.
Opening up into the empty streets of Hanna City, the orange glow of the sun just began to peek through the tall buildings. You breathed in the crisp morning air as you felt the way the blaster rubbed against your thigh and your hand clamped around the bag, creating callouses on the soft palms; made you feel like yourself again. The freedom ran through your veins for the first time in five years.
"This way, kid." Han and Chewie were standing to your right as they waited for you to follow.
The old trio stepped into hanger seventy-two. A golden circle of light shown down upon the Millennium Falcon, illuminating the piece of junk in a halo. Han smiled to you as he opened the hatch to the ship and climbed on in.
However, confliction rose within. You hadn't even thought about Luke and how it might affect him. You were glued to the floor, feet staying firm at the bottom of the ramp. How would it affect the rest of your friends?
How would it affect Leia?
Ben?
Chewie?
Han?
You weren’t so sure you’d come back at all if you stepped on the ship.
"You coming?" Chewbacca poked his head out as he groaned to you.
Closing your eyes and inhaling the fresh air, you gripped the handles of the bag harder.
I need to go.
Or I'll regret it.
You opened your eyes and descended up the ramp.
No going back now.
The millennium falcon hadn't changed one bit as you entered the old Corellian light freighter. The sheen of the black floor held your reflection as you tread carefully through the winding corridors of the ship.
The old dejarik table was still situated in the corner of the large hold. Walking over, you pressed a finger against the on button, the holo figurines were still in their place from Chewbacca's game from all those years ago.
Powering it off, you walked further down towards your old bunk room. Pressing lightly on the button, the door slid open revealing the small bedroom.
Everything was as you had left it.
The photo of you and Han, younger on Corellia sat on the ledge of the tiny window. Your first blaster, a stolen EE-3 carbine rifle stolen from a Stormtrooper when you were twelve, was still propped up against the dirty off-white wall. The turquoise and white blanket that you had once bought off a trader on Tatooine, laid on top of the small single person bunk.
You dropped your things onto the bed and all but ran out of the room and down to the cockpit, where Chewie and your brother were prepping for the flight.
You situated yourself down in your regular seat from behind the co-captain's chair. Nostalgia washed over you, a warm and normal feeling.
"Ready?" Han and Chewie both turned around to look at you.
You didn't know that the smile on your face could grow any larger than it was, but it had. “Ready.”
Han's hands guided the ship out of the hangar and into the sky. Hanna city grew smaller and smaller as the Millennium Falcon climbed higher and higher in the atmosphere.
Before you knew it, you had flown out of the atmosphere and made it into space.
"Welcome home." Chewie groaned.
You smiled at them, guilty, but real. Han punched the hyperdrive and they were finally off to Arvala-7.
summary: a glimpse in the life of anakin’s best friends three years after mustafar
warning(s): angst lol
a/n: this is kind of a part two to my anakin story. i have been absent apologies i started school again and a part time job :,) plus the holidays was a horror. idk if this is good or not it’s just been on my mind. title is from the 1975. 
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Tatooine
16 ABY
The binoculars clicked as you scanned the barren wastelands of Tatooine. The binary suns already beginning to dip beyond the horizon and the desert chill billowed through your sand colored robes.
Where was he?
You couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling that he had been found.
By him.
By Vader.
Goosebumps spread across your skin, your hair standing at attention in fear. This couldn’t be the end, you wanted to reach for the force, for comfort, for calm.
Three standard years had passed somewhat quietly and without much incident. The child was doing well, growing steadily in the peaceful home just over the mountains.
The anticipation of danger without knowing where Obi-Wan was and the looming threat of him and his Empire had washed any sort of safety.
Through the binoculars, a spot that was moving at rapid pace rose just above the horizon
A speeder, not of your own came across the desolate sand and rock.
Faster and faster it sped towards you. Glimpsing one last time into the binoculars before completely discarding them in your robes, your breathing hitched and your hand reached for the blaster hidden in your belt.
You didn’t raise to aim but you waited with a finger on the trigger. The speeder got louder and closer. Barreling towards you at unprecedented speed.
A figure with a dark hood and a heavy pack was now identifiable. Sighing you slipped the blaster back into the hidden holster, crossing your arms over your chest. Waiting.
“You scared the living stars out of me!” You huffed. “You know that?!” 
Obi-Wan Kenobi didn’t say anything as he powered the speeder down.
“You could’ve commed!” Your hands found your hips. Disappointed and mostly anxious. “Where were you and what is this?”
“Mos Eisley.” Obi-Wan sighed as he gracefully slid off the speeder. He nodded towards the faded-brown speeder. It wasn’t by any means a brand new speeder, it had blaster marks and sand erosion but it was nicer than the old piece of junk you two had salvaged from the Jundland wastes.
“We had a perfectly good one.”
“This one is faster and actually a two seater.” He countered
“We don’t have the credits Obi-Wan!”
“I’ll pick up a second job.”
Always the negotiator.
Huffing you left the older man with the speeder, vanishing into the hut to continue the dinner that was boiling on the stove. Rations again.
Stirring the pot of rice, you lost yourself into the swirls of brown and white. Letting the steam envelope your fear. Only did a warm hand on your waist, trying to squeeze by in the small surroundings pull you out.
“Excuse me.” You hummed as his hand dragged off your waist.
The hut was small, enough space for the two of you but none for a third. The entrance of the home opened to the living room, where in one corner was a makeshift bedroom that was concealed by a blanket you had found. You shared the bed. He had tried for the first cycle on Tatooine to sleep on the small, uncomfortable couch before you finally offered the other side of the bed.
The other corner was a small dining table with two chairs. The kitchen was a step up and had a window into the living space and only one bathroom that was old and needed work.
But it was home.
You ate in silence, feeling guilty of your outburst from earlier.
“I’m sorry for my reaction earlier. I was harsh.”
“It’s alright.” He gracefully spooned the soup into his mouth without another word. Obi-Wan cleared the plates and cleaned the dishes, humming a soft tune.
It wasn’t until you had both showered, hair still damp and covered in the blankets of your shared bed, you finally broke the silence.
“I checked on him while you were gone.” Your finger delicately traced the small constellations of freckles on his warm shoulder. “I wasn’t sure if you had or not.”
Obi-Wan shifted. “Thank you.”
“He’s so big now.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I can feel him in the force.” You could feel the buzz of the young boys force. Powerful and strong. You didn’t have to reach in to feel him.
“He’s very strong.” Obi-Wan shifted once more, his entire body now facing your own. His large, calloused hand reached into your hair, his thumb wiping away tears you hadn’t know had fallen.
“You feel it too?” You whispered.
“Yes.” He smiled bitterly. “I can feel his presence even now. I’m worried about his strength and what would happen if…”
Obi-Wan trailed off, unable to say the name out loud. Afraid to bring forth the man in existence right then and there in your shared bed.
“Vader.” You whispered for him.
He nodded, his hand still entwined.
Silence enveloped you once more. The blue light of the moon shining through the slotted windows and onto your faces.
“I’m scared.” You admitted, holding his gaze. “Lonely.”
He said nothing in return. His deep blue eyes scanned your face.
After three years, you had shared a last name. Paraded as a married couple to neighbors. Held hands through the market. Light touches as he brushed by. Held you sometimes at night.
But nothing more.
Obi-Wan’s hand untangled from your hair and down the slope of your neck. His thumb caressing the contour of your collarbone.
You thought he was going to kiss you. Finally slot his lips onto your own and maybe even take you right then.
But his hand completely withdrew from you, leaving the warm skin now bitter cold.
“Goodnight, y/n.” He turned over, his bare back now facing you.
