a long-requested tyrion blurb to test the waters, based on an ask sent by my 🐏 anon !!
table of contents; handmaiden!reader, oral sex (f!receiving), edging, fingering, overstim, possessive!tyrion (bro literally claims you)
unsought tears force themselves through the slits of your tightly-sealed eyes, hands alternating between scrunching the sheets and the mousey-gold head of hair that goads you through a second climax.
you’ve been with men. quite your fair share of them, actually. but never have they tended to your needs with such intricate and meticulous care.
“i’ve seen you with the lady sansa,” he says, lifting his face, probably for air. you whine at the loss of his tongue, but before you can get a word in, he’s replaced the tactile muscle with an equally skilled digit. “you’re new to her service, aren’t you?”
you nod, scarcely capable of lifting your head from his pillow. “you seem comfortable. content, even.” he crooks a second finger inside of you, bending it once it’s sunk to the knuckle. “do you like it?”
“yes, yes, please—”
“i meant your job.” he smirks, then pecks a kiss to your slick. “but thank you for the ego-boost, it’s much appreciated.”
you let out a breathy groan, his dexterous fingers stroking you slow and deliberate. “i do, milord.”
he hums at that, then dips his head back down, nose bumping at your clit when he drags the flat of his tongue through your puffy folds, damp with remnants of your previous release.
“pray tell, how would you like to work for the king’s hand?” he asks against your centre, causing your thighs to flex and twitch either side of his head.
“but— mmf! but you’re the king’s hand, milord.” you gasp when his tongue finds your cunt again, easing it open. his thumb meanders upwards until he feels you tighten around his palate, stomach hollowing beneath his splayed hand, and toys with the engorged little bud.
just as you feel your coil verge on unspooling, he retracts his mouth, grinning up at you like he intends to torture you like this forever. “indeed i am.” he says, manoeuvring his free hand to apply pressure to your sticky, puckered rim with the pad of this thumb. “how would you like to be placed on my service?”
you part your lips to answer him, only for a throaty moan to pour from them instead when he latches to your clit, pursing his lips around it to suckle and nip. the point of his tongue flicks and circles the swollen cluster, then licks heavily back down to where his thumb holds you open.
“does that sound like something you could get on board with?” then he laps at you again, allowing his question to linger, lathering you with a mixture of his spit and your own spent juices.
“i— gods.” you tug at his hair, sandwiching him between your quaking thighs. “is that why you sent for me, milord?”
“of course,” he smiles against your cunt, his five o’clock shadow itching at the sodden flesh. “why else?”
you peer down at him through a teary-eyed daze, mouth hung open as you pant and mewl.
“okay, i’ll admit,” he smirks, regarding you the way he does everyone — vain and charming. “i have wondered how you’d taste.” his green eyes flit to marvel at you, flourished and soaked and visibly throbbing for him. “but in my defence, i never would have expected you to actually let me sample you. most women would sooner arm wrestle the hound.” he lifts a finger to your clit again, rubbing her sloppily. lazily. and yet somehow it utterly debilitates you. “i have to pay for the luxury of cunt, you know.” then he raises his head to look at you. “i do hope you weren’t expecting gold for this.”
“no. . . only, i’d wish the chance to—”
“what? cum on my tongue again?” he frowns, puzzled, then presses his mouth to your centre again. you try to hold him there, but you’re much too weakened by his persistent feasting. “as i trust you’re aware, your position isn’t one that’s rewarded financially.”
his tongue greets you again, greedy and practiced. “but i can promise you that your time will be rewarded by other means. you’ll be just as happy with me as you are under the service of lady sansa.”
your toes curl when he shovels into you again, probing and delving. “m’lord, i—”
“it’s settled, then.” he decides on your behalf, hands kneading the flesh at your thighs’ apex, and he returns to his artful torment.
This is another star wars related ask,would you mind writing about Padme and reader as one of her handmaidens? It can follow any plot but there's such a lack of fics for her and I live the way you write women in yours. 🙏🏽
Mine
Padme x f!Reader
Summary: Behind closed doors, Senator Amidala is allowed to be only Padmé, and you are allowed to love her without hiding your hands.
fluff
Wc: 6464words
PS.: I’m sorry this took me so long to post. I was already halfway through the first version when I realized I really wasn’t happy with what I was writing. The original plot involved us, as the reader, taking Padmé’s place and almost dying, and the more I worked on it, the more I felt disconnected from it. On top of that, I realized the reader I had created didn’t feel as inclusive as I wanted her to be. She didn’t really leave enough room for people different from Padmé, including Black readers and readers with different body types. I’m not Black myself, but I really don’t like when my work feels like it can’t be read and enjoyed by everyone. I also couldn’t see myself in the version of the character I had written, and that made me want to step back and start again.
So, I’m sorry for the delay, but I didn’t want to just post something rushed or careless for such an amazing character. Padmé deserves better than that, and so do you.
By the time Senator Amidala returned to her apartments, the hour was late enough that even Coruscant seemed tired.
The city still burned silver and gold beyond the windows, endless streams of traffic cutting through the dark like restless stars, but inside Padmé’s private rooms the lights had been lowered to a softer glow. The formal receiving chamber had already been cleared. The tea service had been arranged. The screens had been dimmed, the heavy curtains half-drawn, and the dressing room prepared with the quiet precision that always came at the end of a long political evening. Everything was ready for her to become only herself again, or as close to herself as the galaxy allowed her to be.
You stood with the others when the doors opened.
There were five of you waiting. Dormé stood nearest the wardrobe screens, already holding the carved box where Padmé’s hair ornaments would be placed for the night. Moteé and Ellé waited by the vanity with cloths, oils, and a basin of warm water. Teckla had set out the sleeping robe and slippers, pale blue and soft enough that you had once caught Padmé pressing the sleeve to her cheek when she thought no one was looking. You stood behind them all, hands folded, face composed, heart doing the foolish thing it always did when Padmé entered a room.
She looked beautiful, and you hated how predictable your own longing was.
Not because beauty was the only thing you loved in her. It was not even close. You loved the exhaustion she hid beneath posture, the sharpness of her mind, the kindness that survived politics like a candle refusing to go out in a storm. You loved the way she remembered the names of servants, pilots, clerks, and refugees when half the Senate forgot entire planets unless they were useful. Still, when she came through the door in a gown of deep bronze and smoke-gray silk, hair arranged high with gold pins catching the light, your breath forgot its purpose for half a second.
Anakin Skywalker came in behind her.
He did not step far past the threshold, because Captain Typho was already there and because even Jedi seemed to understand that Padmé’s private rooms were not theirs to enter without invitation. Still, his presence filled the doorway in a way you could not ignore. He was taller than most of the Naboo attendants, broad from war in a way that made even his stillness look restless, and the lightsaber at his belt seemed to announce that danger followed him as naturally as shadow. He spoke quietly to Padmé, his head bent toward hers, and something sour and childish twisted beneath your ribs before you could command it away.
“You will inform me if the Senate receives another threat” Anakin said.
“I will inform Captain Typho” Padmé replied.
Anakin’s mouth tightened. “Padmé.”
You lowered your eyes at the sound of her name.
You had said it a hundred times in darkness. You had whispered it into her hair, against her shoulder, into the quiet space between sleeping and waking when both of you were too tired to remember caution. In public, you almost never said it. In public, she was my lady, Senator Amidala, the woman whose earrings you removed and whose gowns you folded and whose hands you did not hold. Hearing Anakin say her name in a doorway where anyone could hear it should not have hurt, but it did, because he could do it carelessly and you could only do it like prayer.
Padmé’s face softened, but not in the way your fear wanted to imagine.
It was the look she gave old friends who worried too loudly. Fond, patient, a little exasperated, and utterly free of the hunger you knew so intimately because you had felt it tremble through her hands in the dark. You knew that. You knew the difference. You knew Padmé well enough to recognize every shade of affection she offered, and still your insecurity rose like smoke, ugly and impossible to hold. Anakin could stand beside her in Senate corridors with a saber at his hip and concern in his voice, while you loved her from three steps behind with your hands folded like a secret.
“I am safe for tonight” Padmé said.
“You almost make that sound convincing.”
“I was not aware I needed to convince you of my own safety inside my apartments.”
“You do not.”
“Goodnight, Anakin.”
He seemed to want to argue, but Padmé had already made that particular tone impossible to misread. After a brief hesitation, he inclined his head and stepped back into the hall. Captain Typho gave him a look that held the polite misery of a man who had spent the evening negotiating with senators, Jedi, and security officers, none of whom had done exactly what he wanted. The doors closed, and Anakin Skywalker disappeared from the room, but not from your thoughts.
Padmé turned toward all of you with a sigh that belonged to no senator.
“There” she said. “Now I am no longer anyone’s debate.”
Dormé smiled faintly as she came forward. “That is optimistic, my lady.”
“Let me pretend.”
Moteé moved first, careful hands lifting the outer veil from Padmé’s shoulders. Ellé took the jeweled clasp from the back of the gown, while Teckla knelt to unfasten the decorative cuffs at Padmé’s wrists. The room settled into the familiar choreography of undressing her from power. No movement was wasted. No one needed to ask where anything belonged. Every ornament had its box, every pin its place, every layer its proper handling, and all of you had performed the ritual enough times that it felt almost sacred.
You stayed near her hair.
That was often your task, partly because you had the gentlest hands, and partly because Padmé had once claimed that you were the only person who did not make her scalp ache after formal events. You had thought about that compliment for three days afterward, which was humiliating and entirely in character for you. Now you lifted the first gold pin from the braided structure at the back of her head and placed it into Dormé’s waiting box. Padmé’s gaze found yours in the mirror for one brief second, soft and knowing, before both of you looked away as though your hearts had not recognized each other across the room.
“Was the dinner as unbearable as expected?” Dormé asked.
“More” Padmé said.
“That sounds impressive.”
“Senator Orn Free Taa spoke for twenty minutes about unity before refusing to support medical aid for displaced families.”
Teckla made a small disapproving sound from where she was unlacing the lower layer of the gown. “Twenty minutes is very long for hypocrisy.”
Padmé’s mouth curved. “I nearly said the same thing.”
“You should have" Moteé said.
“I would have enjoyed it” Padmé admitted. “Unfortunately, the relief amendment needs more votes than my temper does.”
The others laughed softly, and you smiled because they did, but your hands remained careful and quiet in her hair. You removed another pin, then another, feeling the style loosen beneath your fingers. The weight of the evening came apart piece by piece. Padmé’s shoulders lowered. The line between her brows eased. Every time another ornament left her, another part of Senator Amidala seemed to retreat, leaving the woman you loved waiting beneath silk and paint and duty.
It should have comforted you.
Instead, it made the memory of Anakin at the door sting worse.
You told yourself it was foolish. You knew it was foolish, which somehow made it more humiliating. Padmé had never given you reason to doubt her. If anything, she had given you more certainty than the world was safe enough to allow, pressing kisses to your palms in secret, pulling you close behind locked doors, whispering your name with the kind of tenderness that could ruin a person for every other sound. Yet Anakin belonged to the parts of her life you could not enter openly, and that was where the jealousy lived: not in suspicion, but in envy.
He could worry aloud.
He could argue with her in corridors.
He could be seen caring.
You could only stand behind her chair and pretend that your pulse did not change when she entered the room.
“Your hands are cold” Padmé said.
The room stilled for half a second.
It was not an unusual comment, not on its own. Handmaidens touched her constantly as part of service, and Padmé had always been direct about comfort. Still, you felt the attention of the others tilt briefly toward you, and heat climbed your neck beneath the collar of your uniform. You had not realized your fingers had brushed the skin behind her ear when you removed the last pin. You had certainly not realized that your hands were cold enough for her to notice.
“Forgive me, my lady” you said.
Padmé looked at you in the mirror. “There is nothing to forgive.”
You bowed your head and returned to her hair.
The others resumed their work, but you could feel Padmé’s attention lingering. She knew you too well. She knew the difference between your ordinary silence and the silence that gathered when something inside you had turned against itself. You were usually better at hiding it, but the night had been long and Anakin had said her name too easily. Your own jealousy embarrassed you so deeply that you wanted to cut it out before Padmé could find it.
Dormé collected the last of the hair ornaments and carried them to the cabinet. Moteé wiped the paint from Padmé’s mouth with gentle strokes, turning the senator’s composed red lips into something softer and more human. Ellé loosened the final hidden clasps, and the heavy outer gown slid away from Padmé’s body into Teckla’s waiting arms. Beneath it, she wore a pale underdress, simple compared to the layers that had covered it, and you forced your eyes not to linger at the curve of her bare shoulder.
You had seen more of her than this.
You had touched more of her than this.
Still, secrecy made hunger strange. It turned ordinary glimpses into luxuries and public restraint into a kind of ache. The exposed line of Padmé’s throat, the loosened fall of her hair, the place at her wrist where a bracelet had left a faint mark, all of it felt unbearable when you had to witness it beside others. You wanted to press your mouth to that mark and make her forget the Senate. Instead, you held a comb and waited for the room to empty.
“Will there be an early session tomorrow?” Ellé asked.
“Unfortunately” Padmé said.
“Then you should sleep tonight” Dormé said.
“I enjoy how all of you say that as though sleep obeys me.”
“It might, if you negotiated more firmly.”
Padmé laughed quietly. “I will try threatening it with a committee hearing.”
“That should frighten anything into submission.”
The laughter that followed was warm and familiar, and for a moment you let yourself rest inside it. This was one of the few places where Padmé was not completely alone. Her handmaidens were not merely attendants, not really, even though the galaxy loved to reduce women’s closeness to ornament and service. They were witnesses. They were guards. They were the keepers of pins, bruises, headaches, secrets, and exhaustion. They loved her in their own ways, and part of you was grateful that she had so many hands to catch the pieces of herself she could not carry.
But none of them loved her as you did.
The thought came uninvited, fierce and selfish. You pushed it down at once, ashamed of it. Love was not a competition. Padmé was not a treasure to be claimed from others. Still, your heart was not always noble, and it had spent too much time starving on crumbs to behave elegantly. Sometimes it looked at anyone who could stand near her without hiding and thought, why not me?
The work neared its end.
Teckla took the gown away to be aired and inspected for damage. Moteé rinsed the last traces of color from Padmé’s face and set the cloth aside. Dormé checked the night schedule one final time and murmured something about breakfast being moved half an hour later, because she had apparently decided to bully rest into Padmé by rearranging the universe around it. Padmé accepted this with a tired smile and only a mild protest, which told you she was more exhausted than she wanted anyone to know.
“I can finish her hair” you said.
The room shifted again, but only because everyone knew that was normal too. You often finished Padmé’s hair alone after late events. It was easier with fewer people, and the excuse had been used so many times that it had become almost invisible. Dormé looked at you for one beat longer than necessary, her gaze too perceptive for your peace. Then she nodded and closed the ornament box.
“Do not let her pretend she needs to read another report” Dormé said.
“I would never pretend” Padmé said.
“No, my lady, you would declare it necessary with great dignity.”
Padmé gave her a wounded look. “I am surrounded by traitors.”
“You are surrounded by women who know you.”
That answer softened something in Padmé’s face. You saw it because you were always watching for those little openings, those brief places where affection reached her before she could turn it into humor. She thanked them all quietly as they gathered the last of the evening’s remains. One by one, they left through the side door, taking silk, jewels, basins, and senatorial polish with them, until the dressing room felt larger and much more dangerous.
The door shut.
You listened for the soft confirmation of the privacy lock.
Padmé met your eyes in the mirror.
For several seconds, neither of you moved. The silence changed after the others left. It always did. What had been professional became intimate, what had been restrained became charged, and the air between you seemed to remember every touch you had denied it. You stood behind her with the comb in one hand and her loosened hair falling over your fingers, and for the first time all evening, you allowed yourself to look at her as the woman you loved.
Padmé’s expression softened.
“There you are” she said.
Your heart ached. “I have been here all evening.”
“No” she said gently. “You have been standing in the room all evening.”
You lowered your gaze to her hair, because it was easier than looking at the tenderness in her face. “There were others present.”
“There are always others present.”
“Not always.”
Padmé turned on the vanity stool before you could step away.
You had no time to rebuild the correct distance. She caught your wrist, not hard, never hard, but with enough certainty to stop your retreat. Her thumb brushed once over your pulse. The gesture was small, hidden low between your bodies, but it undid hours of restraint so quickly that you almost hated her for knowing exactly where to touch. You looked down at her hand around your wrist and felt your jealousy turn into shame again.
“My love” she said softly.
You closed your eyes.
That was the voice she used only behind locked doors. Not the queen’s voice, not the senator’s voice, not the polished softness she offered friends and allies. This voice belonged to rooms with unpinned hair and bare feet, to mornings where she stole five more minutes beneath the sheets, to nights when she fell asleep with her forehead pressed between your shoulder blades because there was nowhere else in the galaxy she felt allowed to be tired. Hearing it after a night of silence made you want to fold around her and confess everything ugly inside you.
Instead, you tried to smile. “I still need to finish your hair.”
“My hair can wait.”
“It will tangle.”
“Then we will survive a historic crisis.”
You laughed despite yourself, and Padmé’s face brightened at the sound. She tugged gently on your wrist until you came closer. You let yourself be drawn between her knees, still holding the comb because letting it go felt like admitting how badly you wanted your hands free for her. Padmé looked up at you, face bare and hair half-unbound, and you hated every person in the Senate who had seen her tonight without understanding that this was the version of her worth worshipping.
She studied you carefully. “You were quiet.”
“I am often quiet.”
“Not like that.”
You sighed. “Padmé.”
“There” she said. “You say my name as though it costs you something tonight.”
You looked toward the window. “It costs me something every night.”
Her hand loosened slightly around your wrist. “Does it?”
You regretted the answer before you gave it, but there was no point lying now. Padmé could read you too well in private, and you were tired of making her guess around the shape of your hurt. The truth was not noble. It was not fair to her, either. But it had sat beneath your tongue since Anakin’s voice in the doorway, and every attempt to swallow it had only made it sharper.
“Only when others say it freely” you admitted.
Padmé understood at once.
You saw it move through her face: surprise first, then realization, then a sadness so tender it made you want to apologize. She released your wrist only to take your hand properly, threading her fingers through yours with a familiarity that still felt impossible after all this time. You loved her hands. You loved their strength, their elegance, the tiny callus at one finger from writing too long, the way they could sign legislation, hold a blaster, cradle your face, and tremble only when she trusted you enough not to pretend.
“Anakin” she said.
You looked down. “It is foolish.”
“It is human.”
“It is ugly.”
“No.”
“It is” you insisted, though your voice stayed quiet. “He is your friend. He was worried for you. He has done nothing wrong by caring.”
Padmé watched you. “And yet it hurt.”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
She did not speak immediately, and somehow that made it easier to continue. You turned the comb over in your free hand, running your thumb along the smooth back of it because you needed something to do with the wanting. Padmé waited with the patience she rarely had for senators and always seemed to have for the parts of you that embarrassed you most. That patience was dangerous. It made honesty feel less like falling and more like being held.
“He can stand at your door and say your name” you said. “He can argue with you in the hall because he fears for your safety. He can be seen walking beside you, guarding you, knowing you, and no one questions whether he belongs there. They may gossip about many things, but they do not question that a Jedi has the right to protect a senator.”
Padmé’s thumb moved over yours. “And you think you do not.”
“I think I do not get to show it.”
“That is different.”
“Sometimes it feels the same.”
Her face softened further, and you hated that you had put hurt there. You wanted to take the words back, not because they were untrue, but because Padmé carried enough already. The last thing you wanted was to become another weight in her hands. She had the Republic, Naboo, war, diplomacy, death threats, and endless men who mistook kindness for weakness. She did not need your jealousy over a Jedi who had only stood in a doorway.
“I do not think you love him” you said quickly.
Padmé’s brows lifted.
“I need you to know that. I am not accusing you of anything. I am not doubting you. I know what you feel for him, and I know what you do not feel. That is not the part that hurts.”
“What hurts, then?”
You looked at her, helpless against the question. “That he can be obvious.”
Padmé’s breath caught a little.
There it was, the real wound. Not that Anakin might take her from you. Not that Padmé might look at him with the private warmth she saved for you. It was the brutal simplicity of public permission. He could be worried loudly. Dormé could fuss. Typho could command guards. Senators could claim her time, journalists could call her name, allies could touch her elbow to guide her into rooms, and all of them existed in the visible architecture of her life. You loved her from hidden passages, from locked doors, from hands that became formal the moment footsteps approached.
“I am sorry” Padmé said.
You shook your head. “Do not.”
“I am sorry.”
“It is not your fault.”
“But it is still something you endure because of me.”
You knelt before you could think better of it.
The movement was familiar enough to be disguised as service if anyone entered, but both of you knew it was not service now. Your joined hands resting between you, the hem of her underdress brushing your knee. Padmé’s eyes darkened with immediate concern, and you almost smiled because even now, even in the middle of your insecurity, she was ready to worry about whether the floor was too cold for you. You lifted her hand to your mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles before she could speak.
“I endure nothing because of you” you said. “I choose you.”
Padmé’s expression trembled.
You kissed her hand again, softer this time. “I choose this. I chose it when I first understood what we were becoming, and I choose it every time the door locks behind us. I would rather have you in secret than have all the galaxy empty of you. But sometimes, when I am standing three steps behind you and someone else gets to say your name, I remember that I am not as graceful about pain as I pretend.”
Padmé slid from the stool to kneel with you.
You made a small protest, instinctive and useless, because the floor was cold and she had been on her feet all evening. She ignored it with the serene defiance of a woman who had once ruled a planet and still refused to obey sensible instructions when love was involved. Her hands came to your face, and for one breath she only held you there, forcing you to accept the full weight of her attention. Bare-faced, tired, and serious, she looked less like a senator than a vow.
“You are the person I want at the end of the night” she said.
Your eyes burned.
She brushed her thumbs gently over your cheeks. “Not him. Not any guard, senator, friend, or Jedi who gets to speak more freely than you do. When the speeches are finished and the gown comes off and the doors close, it is you I look for in the mirror. It is your hand I wait to feel in my hair. It is your voice I want to hear when I am too tired to be Senator Amidala.”
You tried to look away, but she would not let you.
“Padmé.”
“I know what Anakin feels” she said. “Or what he thinks he feels, perhaps. He is young in many ways still, and the war has made everything in him urgent. I care for him. I worry for him. But I do not want him, and I will not let your heart suffer under a shadow that does not exist for me.”
The reassurance struck deep, not because you had doubted her, but because she had understood the shape of the fear completely. Padmé did not dismiss it. She did not make your jealousy into a joke or scold you for feeling small beside a Jedi. She simply named the truth and placed it in your hands, steady and warm. You wanted to believe yourself above needing such comfort, but the relief that moved through you was too immediate to deny.
“I know” you whispered.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then let yourself know it tonight.”
That undid you more than the reassurance itself.
You leaned forward and rested your forehead against hers, careful, almost reverent. Padmé’s hands slipped from your cheeks to the back of your neck, drawing you closer until the distance between you became only breath. You had kissed her many times before. In the dark, behind screens, between meetings, once in a supply alcove with her hand pressed over your mouth because you had laughed at the worst possible moment. Yet this almost-kiss felt different.
“I hate that I cannot stand beside you as myself” you admitted.
Padmé closed her eyes. “So do I.”
“I hate calling you my lady when I want to call you mine.”
Her fingers tightened at your neck. “Say it now.”
You pulled back enough to see her face. “Mine?”
Padmé’s mouth softened. “Again.”
“My Padmé.”
Her composure broke in the smallest, sweetest way.
She kissed you first. There was no hesitation in it, no careful political restraint, no ghost of the evening’s performance. Her mouth found yours with the hunger of someone who had been forced to watch you hold yourself apart for hours and had run out of patience with distance. You answered too quickly, too honestly, one hand sliding into her loosened hair while the other caught at her waist. The comb fell somewhere on the floor, forgotten at last, and Padmé smiled against your mouth as if she had won.
You did not care that she had.
The kiss deepened slowly, not rushed but full of everything you could not show outside these rooms. The sourness of the evening loosened beneath it, though it did not disappear completely. Perhaps it never would. There would always be doors, titles, footsteps to listen for, names swallowed and touches interrupted. But Padmé kissed you like secrecy was not shame, like hidden things could still be holy, like love did not become less real because the world was too foolish to be trusted with it.
When she drew back, both of you were breathless.
“You dropped the comb” she said.
“You distracted me.”
“I am not sorry.”
“You never are.”
Padmé smiled, and the sight of it made something inside you settle. You reached down blindly, found the comb, and rose from the floor with her after a mutual, undignified struggle that made her laugh into your shoulder. That laugh was yours, at least for tonight. Not because you owned her, but because she gave it to you freely, because no senator or Jedi or guard stood close enough to hear it. You held that knowledge carefully, letting it soothe the raw place Anakin’s easy concern had left behind.
Padmé sat again at the vanity.
This time, when you stood behind her, there was no team of handmaidens, no careful mask, no need to make your hands impersonal. You began combing through the loosened waves of her hair, slow and gentle, working out pins and tension and the last traces of the night. Padmé watched you in the mirror with an expression that would have ruined you completely if you had seen it two years ago. It still ruined you now, but at least you had learned to survive the tenderness.
“You know..” she said “Dormé knows.”
Your hand paused. “What?”
Padmé met your eyes in the mirror. “I suspect she has known for some time.”
The blood left your face so quickly that Padmé turned on the stool in alarm.
“Breathe” she said.
“Padmé.”
“She is not going to betray us.”
“That is not the point.”
“It is partly the point.”
You stared at her, caught between panic and a strange, absurd embarrassment. Of course Dormé knew. Dormé knew everything. Dormé knew when Padmé had skipped meals, when Typho was hiding injuries, when Senate aides were lying, when you had slept badly, and probably when the weather would change before the sky itself did. The idea that she had watched you and Padmé orbit each other behind the fragile veil of secrecy made you want to hide in the wardrobe until the war ended.
Padmé’s mouth twitched.
“Do not laugh” you said.
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“You are failing.”
“A little.”
You covered your face with one hand. “I will never look her in the eye again.”
“That will make it more obvious.”
“This is terrible.”
“My love, she once found your earring in my bed.”
You dropped your hand. “She what?”
Padmé had the audacity to look almost amused. “Several months ago.”
“Several months?”
“Yes.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“I thought you might throw yourself from the balcony.”
“I am considering it now.”
Padmé laughed properly then, and although you were still mortified, the sound pulled you back from panic. She reached for your hand and tugged you closer again, pressing a kiss to your palm in a gesture so intimate that your embarrassment had no choice but to soften. Dormé knew, then. Perhaps others suspected too. The thought was frightening, but beneath the fear there was something almost gentle. Your love had not been as invisible as you thought, and maybe invisibility had never been the same thing as safety.
“Dormé wants me happy” Padmé said.
“She wants you safe.”
“She knows those are not always separate things.”
You looked down at her. “I do not want to endanger you.”
“I know.”
“Or your work.”
“I know.”
“Or the people who protect you by knowing too much.”
Padmé’s expression sobered. “I know.”
The room quieted again, but this silence was different from the one earlier. Less sharp. More honest. You could feel the danger of what you were, but you could also feel the shape of the life you had made inside it, small and hidden though it was. Dormé’s knowledge did not make the secret safe, exactly, but it made it less lonely. Perhaps Padmé had been right. Perhaps you did not only endure because of her. Perhaps there were others who, quietly and without naming it, had been making room for you to love her.
You finished combing her hair.
Then you set the comb aside, gathered the soft sleeping robe from the chair, and helped Padmé slip into it. The act was familiar, but no less intimate for its repetition. Your fingers brushed her shoulders as you drew the fabric into place. Padmé turned toward you before you could tie the sash, and the look in her eyes stopped you where you stood. She seemed calmer now, but tired in the way that reached beneath the body and touched the spirit.
“Come to bed” she said.
You glanced toward the door by instinct.
Padmé touched your cheek. “No one will come in.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I gave instructions not to be disturbed.”
“You give those instructions often.”
“And yet you still look guilty every time.”
You smiled faintly. “I am a handmaiden. I am trained to look useful, not comfortable.”
“Then I will retrain you.”
“That sounds ambitious.”
“I have negotiated with worse opposition.”
You laughed softly, and Padmé took the sash from your hands to tie it herself. Then she led you away from the vanity and into the adjoining sleeping chamber, where the bed had been turned down and the balcony doors sealed against the night chill. The room was simpler than most people would expect, though nothing in Padmé’s life was truly plain. Pale fabrics, carved wood, a small table stacked with reports she was not supposed to read, and a vase of flowers from Naboo that had begun to droop at the edges. It was not public enough to be grand or private enough to be free, but it was the closest thing to sanctuary she had on Coruscant.
You removed your outer handmaiden robe while Padmé watched.
That should not have made you nervous. She had seen you in every possible state of dress and undress, had touched scars and softness and places you had once believed no one would ever look at gently. Still, there was something vulnerable about undressing after a moment of insecurity. It felt like admitting you wanted comfort, not merely passion. It felt like stepping out of the last layer of usefulness and standing before her as someone who needed to be wanted back.
Padmé opened her arms.
You went to her.
There was no drama in it. No desperate collision, no whispered confession too sharp to survive the air. You simply stepped into her embrace and let her hold you, your face turning naturally into the warmth of her neck. Padmé’s arms wrapped around your shoulders, firm and familiar, and the last of your composure left you in a silent breath. She smelled like clean skin, faint flowers, and the oil Moteé had used to remove her makeup. Under it all, she smelled like herself, and that was enough to make your eyes sting again.
“I am sorry I let it sit inside me” you murmured.
Padmé’s hand moved over your back. “I am not angry. I just wish you had told me sooner.”
“I did not want to sound ungrateful.”
She drew back slightly. “Ungrateful?”
You kept your face near her shoulder. “For what I have.”
Padmé was quiet for a moment. Then her arms tightened, and you knew you had said something that hurt her more than you meant it to. She guided you back just enough to look at you, her face serious in the dim light. There were moments when Padmé’s gentleness was almost stern. This was one of them.
“You do not need to be grateful for being loved” she said.
You tried to answer and could not.
Her voice softened. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“No” she said, kissing your brow. “Let yourself know this too.”
You closed your eyes beneath the kiss.
Padmé drew you down with her onto the bed, not with urgency but with the familiar exhaustion of two people who had survived another day of being careful. You lay facing each other, close enough that your knees touched beneath the blankets. Her hand found yours again. It seemed to keep doing that tonight, as though she wanted to make a lesson of it. As though every time you remembered someone else speaking freely at her door, she would answer with touch.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The silence was full but easy now. Outside, traffic moved in distant streams, and somewhere far below, Coruscant continued to devour itself in light and noise. Inside, Padmé’s thumb traced slow circles over the inside of your wrist. You watched her face in the dark and thought, not for the first time, that the galaxy did not deserve her. Then, more selfishly, more humanly, you thought that perhaps you did not either, but she had chosen you anyway, and maybe love required you to stop arguing with the gift.
“Will he be there tomorrow?” you asked quietly.
Padmé did not pretend not to understand. “Anakin?”
“Yes.”
“Probably” she said. “The Council assigned him to the security rotation for the week.”
You nodded.
Padmé shifted closer. “Does that hurt?”
“A little.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
The simplicity of that almost made you laugh. It was such a Padmé answer: direct, sincere, practical with tenderness tucked beneath it. You loved that about her too. You loved too much about her. You loved her until every version of yourself before her felt unfinished, and every version after her felt impossible to imagine without this secret room and this hand around yours.
“It hurts less now” you said.
“Good.”
“I still may glare at him.”
Padmé’s mouth curved. “Discreetly?”
“I am a professional.”
“Of course.”
“I can glare with great discretion.”
“I have seen you do it.”
“You deserved it that time.”
“I did not.”
“You tried to attend a committee session with a fever.”
Padmé sighed. “A minor fever.”
“You nearly fainted into Senator Organa.”
“That would have secured his vote.”
You stared at her.
Padmé’s composure lasted three seconds before she laughed. You laughed too, softly enough not to carry, and the last bitterness of the night finally loosened into something you could bear. This was what Anakin did not have. The thought came suddenly, not cruelly, but with a quiet clarity that settled your heart. He could stand at the door and say her name. He could worry in public and be assigned by the Jedi to her side. But he did not have this: Padmé in the dark, wicked with exhaustion, laughing against your pillow because you were the one allowed to scold her like someone she came home to.
That did not make the secrecy easy.
It did make it real.
Padmé’s laughter faded into a sleepy smile. “There you are again.”
You touched her cheek. “Here I am.”
“Stay this time. Please”
The word was soft, but not fragile. You knew she meant more than tonight, though tonight was all either of you could promise safely. Stay through the morning if the hall remained quiet. Stay in the room hidden behind the senator’s life. Stay even when others said her name freely, even when duty hurt, even when fear made you small and jealousy made you ashamed. Stay not as a servant grateful for crumbs, but as the woman she reached for when all the doors were closed.
You kissed her gently.
“I’m staying” you whispered.
Padmé closed her eyes and tucked herself closer, her forehead resting beneath your chin. You held her carefully, one hand moving into her unbound hair, the other resting over the place where her heartbeat lived steady beneath your palm. Tomorrow would return with all its complications. Anakin would stand in some corridor with concern in his voice. The Senate would ask Padmé to become stone and silk and strategy again, and you would stand three steps behind her with your hands folded, wearing secrecy like part of your uniform.
But tonight, she was warm in your arms.
Tonight, when the city watched itself and the doors stayed locked, Padmé Amidala slept against you as if you were the safest place she knew. You let yourself believe it, just for a while. You let yourself have the sweetness without punishing it into sourness. And when her fingers tightened in your robe before sleep fully took her, you held her closer and remembered that hidden did not mean unloved.
knight!ghost x handmaiden!reader who can't keep their hands off of each other in corridors and secret staircases, who have to pass each other ten times a day as they both fulfill their castle duties but by the middle of the day ghost can't stand it anymore. He sees you hanging laundry just outside the servant's quarters and he sneaks up behind you, big hands engulfing your hips as his mouth swallows your gasp of surprise. knight!ghost who stares a hole through your tight, full bodice all night during the banquet as you pour drinks and pretend not to notice. knight!ghost who sneaks every night by candlelight through the dark underground corridors of the castle to get to your room, to climb into your tiny bed and press his face into the back of your neck. knight!ghost who has to ride into town the next day to help the king investigate the suspicious dissapearance of one of his lords, the same lord who had gotten a little too drunk and a little too handsy with you at the banquet.
nahhhhh ure just the gothotd profile i was looking for 😔 i wasnt finding people that can actually take jokes and freaky and shit and whatever and not taking everything too serious about the fandom 😭
(ugh my brain is fried after school and gym today i feel like my grammar is sucking but anyways)
bro rhaenyra and emma both are so hot i gen can't and i feel so UGHW HSJSHSH to rhaenyra
when she cries i cry when shes mad im mad when she breathes i breath u me me u we
i wish i was her handmaiden.....👅👅👅👅👅👅
even if we didn't have an affair just braiding her hair would cure me oh my fucking god
my crush on her is getting bigger than my crush on jon
ALSO CAN I HAVE AN ANON TAG? I ALREADY KNOW IM GOING TO INTERACT A LOT BC U'RE FUN 🥳🥳🥳🥳
HAHA I GET THAT!! honestly this is the first fandom i’ve ever been knee deep in & it’s fun but i don’t take it very seriously 😭 like none of this is real just like calories. it simply doesn’t exist to me! ALSO UR GRAMMARS FINE CMON
HER HANDMAIDEN YOUR BRAIN UGH imagine being her favorite. I’m done. braiding her hair and though you can’t see it her eyes fluttering shut at the feeling…. 👅👅 her being so soft with you i’m so nauseous omg. her telling you to do something in that quiet voice reserved only for you but cupping your jaw to make sure you’re listening while she talks…. heavy eye contact… an “alright?” at the end of her command & your pupils are dilated & your brain is fried so you nod AND SHE NODS BACK AKA MIRRORING YOU SHE IS SO SICK AND TWISTED i need her.
AND YES YOU MAY HAVE AN ANON TAG !!!!! ANY TAG YOU WISH !!! basically you can choose any emoji (granted it’s not taken) or nickname yourself or i can give you one, just lmk!! thank you for saying i’m fun angel 🥳🪽
okay, but can i get some headcanons about obi-wan being in love with padme’s handmaiden and when he comes back from utapau to find order-66 has been issued and the jedi temple burned? i just imagine she would be so relieved her jedi was okay and it would be so fluffy and sweet bc obi-wan would’ve already thrown caution to the wind in terms of his affections, seeing as the whole jedi temple was burning and the order falling to ruins.
omg i love this idea so much. thank you for sending it in, anon. also i’ll gladly take any head canons requests or requests for fics should anyone have them! i’m drowning in my own ideas.
⋆ ⊹ *
his heart would be aching with the silence of the force, how all it’s beautiful chaos suddenly becomes overwhelmed by the sort of static feeling that takes over. it’s unnerving and the feeling of impending doom, the fall of everything he knew, felt like a collapsing star whose pain slammed inside his chest with every heartbeat and every breath he was now lucky to still be taking.
but then on his way to speak to padmé about anakin, he sees you and the static ceases and his heart relaxes, if only a little bit.
you, on the other hand are just as terrified and afraid for the life of your beloved as padmé is for anakin. you see the smoke coming from the jedi temple and you can’t believe the story anakin told of the jedi rising against the republic, against the senate.
obi-wan wouldn’t do that to you would he?
when his ship lands, your hand immediately find the blaster hidden in the folds of your dress, padmé’s safety being the first thing that comes to mind. but when obi-wan steps out of the ship, coruscanti sunlight shining in his auburn hair and illuminating his freckled, golden skin as he removes the hood of his woolen jedi robe, the weight on your heart that had been causing all of its aches and pains for the past few hours was relieved, if only for a moment, as you ran to him.
he would scoop you up in his arms, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around, enveloping you in all that was him as an “oh, my darling...” falls from his lips softly, meant for your ears and your ears only.
a habitual sense of secrecy would creep over him. but then he would remember the smoke rising from the jedi temple, of cody and his troops turning on him and blasting him and poor boga into the water on utapau, and suddenly he didn’t care anymore. his order was no more, or was, at most, a tiny fraction of its already dwindling self. his home within the order and the council was gone. you were his home now. you and padmé and, maybe, anakin were all he had left.
once he sets you on your feet, your silks and chiffons coming to a rest once more, you revel in his closeness for a mere moment before your worries and questions would fall from your lips, tears forming in your eyes, as you pull away from your place on his chest just enough to search his lovely, star-speckled irises for the truth.
the stars seem dimmer than usual, you notice.
“oh, obi-wan i was so worried! it’s not true is it? the jedi haven’t turned against the republic, have they? please tell me you’re not a traitor, obi-wan, please!”
he would quell all of your fears with a soft kiss to your forehead of comfort and trust, rather than a lightsaber to the chest like you feared. you would realize the new holes that littered his cream jedi robes, the metallic smell of war mixing with the clean, heady smell of him and you would instantly understand... palpatine turned on the republic, and the clones on their jedi commanders, and that anakin, oh anakin, had turned into a darker version that he was not- or at least not wholly.
“don’t worry, darling. my allegiances are still to the republic, to you and to padmé.”
he would then explain everything to you and to padmé, your hearts breaking as one as you learn of the truth of anakin’s deeds, of palpatine’s manipulation, of the fall of your beloved republic and democracy into tyranny.
padmé’s disbelief would break your heart too. she loved anakin more than life itself, you knew- just as you loved obi-wan. and you could only imagine the conflict she was feeling, between trusting her love and trusting her friend.
when padmé confirms what you and obi-wan already knew, that anakin is the father of padme’s children, you could see it in his eyes, that obi-wan could not and would not kill him-something which you’d try to convince padme of and console her with and when she still wouldn’t believe him, she would storm off to prepare to go to mustafar, leaving you behind to say goodbye to obi-wan.
he would instantly become soft under your touch as soon as you’re alone, the sadness in his eyes becoming a little more noticeable as it seeped into his irises, blocking out the shine of the beloved stars that always seem to hang in them elegantly.
he would press a kiss to your lips, soft and sweet as ever, as though he’s trying to console you with his lips as opposed to his words, in the way he knew melted your heart.
“i promise it’ll all be okay. i promise.”
the words would be said in between a flurry of kisses as obi-wan pulled you into him, his hands finding purchase in your hair, the back of your dress, anywhere that he had memorized would bring you as close to him as possible.
its then that you tell him that anakin is on mustafar on business from senator palpatine that would effectively end the war. and it would dawn on you both that he is going to kill the separatist leaders once and for all so that palpatine could take full and unquestioned power of the senate, of the galaxy. and that padme was heading there in what you were sure would be less than an hour.
you would ask him what he was going to do after things were all sorted out, now that order-66 had falsely marked all jedi for destruction as traitors of the republic. you would beg him not to leave you behind.
“darling, i would never leave you behind. not for all the stars systems in the galaxy. you understand me? never.”
“you’re far too precious to me, sweet one.”
he would wipe away the tears that would start to form in your eyes with gently calloused fingers and soft pillowy lips. he would reassure you that harm would not come to padme for he was going to sneak onto the ship that would take padme to mustafar and do all he could to protect her. to protect you.
“should all go wrong, darling, i promise i will return to your side, and we will find a way to create a future for ourselves. together. i will leave whatever remains of the jedi order for you, and we will be together, my love.”
“promise me, obi-wan?”
“i promise, my darling. just stay alive for me, and i will return to your side. all will be alright.
+ ˚ ⋆ ⊹ * · .
i am reserving the right to write a fic on this because i may incorporate it into one of my upcoming mini-series.
send in some requests for head canons or fics here! and check out my masterlist
pt.3 ghost x handmaiden!reader during the manor's summer solstice festival, both two drinks past tipsy and unafraid to sit next to each other at one of the tables, surrounded by the music and the dancing of the villagers. At first just pinkies touching as your palms lay flat on the wood, but by the end of the night you're fully in ghost's lap, whispering in his ear until he's had enough of your squirming and warm breath in the evening's breeze. He's about to carry you off to his quarters when
some other servant girls pull you away, quickly adorning you in a golden poppy crown and a garland of braided wildflowers before pulling you to the center of the field to dance. He watches you perform the well worn steps with the other women, summoning a good omen for the upcoming harvest and thanking god for the longest day of the year, your eyes sparkling as they crinkle with joy. Soon the music slows to something low that vibrates through ghost as you approach him, dragging him up to dance with all of the other couples, this time pulled close together and moving in one current around the field as the air thickens with the implications of the dance's origins. An ancient fertility ritual, the perfect excuse as he practically kneads into your hips, working his grip down to your ass. You keep one hand firm on his chest in a pathetic attempt to reach his shoulder while the other is on his jaw, tracing the strong lines that surround such a soft mouth. Eventually the heat of your heavy breaths against each other melts into kissing as your bodies inch impossibly closer together between leather and linen. You can feel him hard against your stomach, and he actually almost cries when you finally reach down to faint traace the outline of it. You run together in the encroaching darkness, recklessly flying downhill to the castle, laughing with your hands entwined until you crash throuhg the door of his quarters. Half of you lands on the bed so he manhandles you all the way up to the pillows, big hands desperately searching under your skirts. When he finds your dripping heat you gasp, blood pounding as he finally reveals that devilish smirk. He quickly licks his fingers clean before succumbing to your pleas, thrusting into with one harsh motion that splits you open. He has to wrap his lips around your tongue to quiet the sounds you make, but eventually he gives in as his heavy grunts turn into panting moans. Before you can even register, one sharp push into the deepest part of you sends you burning over the edge. He fucks you through the eternity of it and then some, shushing you teasingly when it becomes too much. After countless waves of ecstasy you can feel his bulky arms start to shake, so you tell him you love him and he immediately comes, spurting hot into you as he grits curses in your ear. "Fuck, love," is the only thing you can make out as he rolls off of you and mumbles into your shoulder. Breathing hard, he finds your hand beside his and squeezes it without looking up at you, but you know what it means.
