‘TILL THE END

PAIRING: hayden christensen x pregnant!reader

FLUFF ❦

You’re glaring at your own feet like they betrayed you in the worst way imaginable. You felt humiliated, embarrassed and fat. And you swear to anything that's holy, it does not help you with your hormones that give you a true rollercoaster. While you're in your own thoughts, HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN crouched in front of you, big hands working carefully as he looped your shoelaces together. For the first time since your pregnancy you'd actually let him do that. You'd tried to go with sandals, something light, something easy to wear with no tying, zipping and all that shit you had in your closet. But when the pregnancy started to get more and more serious, when your belly was pulling you back from doing basic things, you had to let him help. Otherwise, how were you supposed to go outside, barefooted?

Your lower lip jutted out as you blinked down at him, sniffling softly, quietly. Hayden, of course, noticed immediately, like he always does, pausing after finishing the knot. He looked up at you, blue eyes warm with concern.

“…Sweetheart?”

Your lip instantly wobbled. “I can’t even tie my own shoes anymore.”

His brows lift slightly, lips twitching like he was trying so hard not to smile. “Well, yeah, baby. Kinda hard with that belly in the way.”

You sniffled harder. The audacity “My belly isn't 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 big.”

He exhaled through his nose; amused yet still incredibly soft with a patience of a saint “You’re literally growing a whole human in there, sweetheart.”

You crossed your arms, eyes still locked onto his as he kneeled before you. “But I wanted to do it myself, no help required”

Now Hayden definitely couldn't bite down his smile

He sat back on his heels, resting his palms against your knees, rubbing slow circles with his thumbs. “You want me to untie ‘em so you can do it yourself?”

You gasped. “Dont you dare”

He laughed, the sound deep and warm, adam apple visibly moving back and forth against his throat. The melody of it was so full of love you nearly melted into a puddle right then and there.

“Then what’s the problem, baby?” he asked gently, thumbs still stroking your skin.

Your lips twisted into a more advanced pout “Dont wanna talk about it”

Hayden tilted his head, fighting another grin. “You sure?”

You nodded firmly.

“…You sure sure?”

You shot him a weak glare before it completely fell apart, upon to you just sniffling again, reaching for him, arms looping around his neck as you practically collapse into his warm, solid chest.

Hayden had caught you like it was nothing. Like you don’t weigh anything at all. His hands smoothed over your back, voice dropping into that hushed, soothing tone he always uses when you get all teary-eyed over nothing.

“Aw, baby,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Hormones hittin’ you hard today, huh?” to which you just nodded into his neck, sniffling once more. None had really prepared you for such effects of pregnancy; constant mood swings, cravings, visits to the bathroom each five to ten minutes, having trouble sleeping...

He smiled. “You know I don’t mind tying your shoes, right?”

You squeezed him tighter, wanting to be as close as it's possible to him. “its the principle of it.”

Hayden laughed again, pressing another kiss to your hair. “Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl

Her soldier - part 1/2

Ben (Soldier boy) x Y/N F/Reader

Summary: 1940s setting, Teenage Ben is head over heels with the 5 year older Y/N. His dad didn't like women like Y/N hard working without a ring on her finger and a free spirit. In his free time he starts helping her out, but will she keep seeing him as a cute kid or will time bring other feelings in the mix?

Warnings: 18+ MDNI!, Slowburn, Implied Spice, talk of virginity, Losing virginity, age gab, Violence, Smoking, ...

Sorry wanted to cover as much backstory as possible in one part.

---

**Philadelphia**

It was always busiest near the Navy Yard.

Men came and went in uniforms—sailors on leave, officers grabbing drinks before catching trains south. Most of the bars on Broad Street didn’t ask questions, especially about age. That made The Red Lily a popular stop.

Low lights, too much smoke, the bitter tang of whiskey in the air. And behind the bar: Y/N.

Women didn’t work in joints like this. Not unless they had no choice. Or no shame. Or both.

That’s what people whispered anyway. Ben had heard it all, usually from his father’s friends. "That woman’s no better than a streetwalker," they said. "Tight clothes and cheap smiles. She’s not the kind of woman a good man settles down with."

But all men where drawn to the place of secret pleasure.

Ben didn’t see what they saw. To him, she was electric. She was the light that shine bright in the darkness.

She had a mouth like a sailor, arms stronger than half the men she served, and eyes that saw right through your soul. And when she laughed—really laughed—it sounded like she hadn’t in a long time.

He was sixteen when he first met her.

She’d been dragging two crates of beer from the alley behind the bar, cursing under her breath. The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up, hair pinned back messily, a streak of something dark across her cheek.

Ben was walking by, books under his arm, headed nowhere in particular. Specially not after he was kicked out of school... again.

“You need a hand?” he asked, already stepping forward.

She looked him over—tall for sixteen, a little too lean, sunburn on his neck. Too young to be of any real use. But there was something in his face. Eager. Kind.

“You any good at lifting?”

“I’m not bad,” he said, grinning.

That was how it started.

A Week Later

She handed him a few dollars. He blinked at it, confused. “What’s this for?”

“For helping me this week.” she said. “You’re here every day now, might as well make it official.”

“I—I didn’t do it for money,” Ben said, flustered, holding the bill like it might bite. Y/N shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “Doesn’t matter. You earned it. Get yourself somethin’ that ain’t war rations.”

He started taking the money. Slowly. Learned what a dollar could do. How to fold it right. How to save it. He swept floors, stacked crates, and kept his eyes on her even when he tried not to.

She called him “kid” until one late night, the bar nearly empty, just the sound of a jazz record crackling softly. “You ever think about leaving Philly?” she asked, elbow on the bar, a glass of something brown in her hand.

Ben swallowed, nodding. “I wanna join the Army.” Her brows lifted. “You?”

He straightened. “Yeah. But my dad won’t sign off. Says it’s for ‘real men,’ not dreamers. But I’ll be seventeen soon. And once I’m eighteen…”

He drifted off, unsure if he’d said too much. Y/N watched him for a long beat. Her lips twitched. “Well,” she said, lifting her glass toward him, “cheers to that, Soldier.”

He felt his face go hot. He grinned.

**Philadelphia, Winter, one year later.**

Ben would be eighteen in a few days.

Y/N didn’t forget—she never forgot. For months, she kept teasing him with smirks. "So, when you gonna trade the mop for a rifle, Soldier?" He’d always grin, scratch the back of his neck, and say, "Soon." But “soon” kept stretching further.

The truth was: he hadn’t signed up, not yet.

Not because he was scared. Not of boot camp, not of war, not even of his father’s scorn. He was scared of leaving her.

Y/N wasn’t some helpless damsel—God no. She’d survived more than most men ever would. But that didn’t mean she should have to fight alone.

Not after what that bastard did.

Tommy

Her last boyfriend—a mechanic with calloused hands and a temper that smelled like bourbon—hadn’t taken the breakup well. Ben was glad she dumped him after he had hit her one to many times.

After that he showed up more than once, shouting from the sidewalk, calling her names loud enough the whole damn block could hear. She never flinched, never let her hands shake.

But Ben saw the way she kept looking over her shoulder.

And that was enough to stay.

---

The bar was almost empty. Wind howled outside like a living thing, rattling the glass, echoing in the alleyways. Ben was mopping the back of the floor while Y/N cleaned behind the bar, both of them moving in comfortable silence.

She looked up suddenly. “So,” she said, casual, like it didn’t matter, “what are you planning to do with all that cash you’ve been hoarding? If you don't mind asking.”

Ben paused, wringing the mop. “Dunno,” he muttered. “Maybe something special.” She tilted her head, lips quirking. “Special, huh? That a code word for whiskey or a visit to the women a few blocks away?”

His ears turned red. “No,” he said quickly. “Not like that. I'd rather find myself a nice lady and wait for to settle than pay for it. ”

She chuckled, didn’t press. She knew when to pull and when to leave the line slack.

Ben went back to mopping, heartbeat still loud in his ears. He wasn’t gonna say it. Not yet. Not that every dollar he’d stashed away was meant for a future where she might see him as something more than the boy who swept her floors.

Then the crash came—shattering, violent.

The front window exploded inwards in a hail of glass and brick. Y/N flinched, dropping a bottle that shattered beside her feet.

Ben didn’t hesitate. He was out the door like a shot, glass crunching under his boots. He caught a glimpse of taillights turning the corner—too fast, too familiar.

The same damn car. Her ex. Ben stood in the street, fists clenched, chest heaving, the cold biting through his shirt. He didn’t chase it. Not tonight. But next time?

Next time he’d be ready.

When he walked back inside, Y/N was sweeping up the glass like it was nothing, but her jaw and her hands were bleeding. The glass must have hit her.

He took the broom from her without asking. They didn’t say a word for a while. He’d given up war for her. Because she was his battle. And he had no intention of losing.

The brick was gone. The glass swept. But the silence lingered, heavy and strange.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bar, knees together, one palm upturned in her lap. A thin trail of blood curved across her skin, glass having left its mark.

Ben kneeled in front of her with the first aid tin cracked open beside him. The alcohol stung, but his hands—those were gentle. Ridiculously so. He worked with care, eyes narrowed in focus like she was made of something rare.

“You’re good at this,” she whispered. He looked up, a smudge of blood on his knuckle. “Huh?”

She gave a soft, wry smile. “Tender. I wonder if you learned that from a pretty little girl?” His gaze didn’t flinch. “My mom," he said softly, he never spoke of her.

"Besides, you know, I only have eyes for you.” The room shifted.

She blinked, her smile faltering just slightly. Something tightened behind her ribs. There was a line—bold and simple—and it was not a line she wanted to cross.

Y/N waited for the punchline, the cheeky follow-up, the it was just a joke explanation. But he just looked at her. Looked at her like she was holy. Ben leaned in a little, eyes flicking from hers to her mouth.

She pulled back. The movement was small, barely a breath’s worth of space, but enough.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t… feel that way.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, confusion painting itself across his face. “What about everything between us? All the flirting… teasing?” She shook her head softly. “You mean the jokes? The laughter?”

He didn’t answer.

“That’s friendship, Benjamin.”

He flinched at the name. The one no one called him anymore. The one that made him sixteen again, not almost eighteen. Not a man.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she said, gently but firmly.

“I’m not a kid anymore.”

“No, you’re not. But Ben,” she sighed, “I do like you. I care about you. Just not like that.” His throat hurt, like he was swallowing glass.

“I’ll treat you better than any of them,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand, warm and firm. “That's not it. ” He stared at her hand on his. Then slowly stood up, the air colder now between them.

The wound on her palm was forgotten.

Ben stood there, unmoving. He looked at her like he was trying to memorize every line of her face, like if he just understood her expression, maybe the ache in his chest would make sense.

She only now noticed how tall he’d gotten in the last two years. He wasn’t that lanky boy with too-big hands and sleeves rolled up to the elbows anymore. His shoulders had settled broad and strong, the kind that filled a doorway. His voice had dropped a register—warm, firm, sure.

But the look in his eyes tonight was something else entirely.

He licked his lips like the words were too dry to say. “Is it because…” he paused, eyes falling to the floor, “because I have no… experience?”

Her brows drew in, caught off guard.

“I mean—” he rushed to explain, “I know most guys my age… they’ve had girls. In their beds. At parties. I just…” He shrugged, suddenly bashful. “I figured I’d wait. For the one that mattered.”

There it was. That truth, naked and soft in the middle of his chest. Y/N’s breath caught. She stood quickly, stepping toward him, eyes wide.

“No,” she said, almost pleading. “No, that’s not it. That’s not why, Ben. That has nothing to do with it.”

He looked at her, half-hopeful, half-lost.

“I think it’s… it’s cute, that you’re waiting for the one.”

He flinched. “Cute,” he echoed, quietly. A word that stung worse than it should have. "So I'm more like your kid brother?"

“Oh, Ben,” she sighed. “Don’t—don’t take it that way.”

“How else should I take it?” His voice cracked just a little. “You think it’s sweet, adorable. But you’ll never see me like them. Like the men who leave you bruised, and hurt. You rather have you face beaten up and cheated on than date a guy a few years younger?”

“That’s not fair—”

“I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you wouldn’t. But who said I won't hurt you?”

The silence wrapped around them. He didn’t look angry, not really. Just… wounded. Like something sacred had cracked in his chest and he didn’t quite know how to hold the pieces.

“I care about you,” she said, quieter now. “God, Ben, I care about you so much. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

“I already know who I am,” he said. “I’m yours.”

Her breath hitched. But she couldn’t say what she wanted to. Not now. Not when the right words didn’t exist.

She just stepped back. "Ben, I'm not the girl for you." She let him go.

---

Two Weeks Later

Y/N hadn’t seen him.

Not for thirteen days. Not since the night he’d left without looking back, heartbreak stitched across his broadening shoulders.

And then, on the fourteenth morning, there he was—just like always.

No fanfare. No words.

Just Ben, sleeves rolled, arms straining as he carried two heavy crates through the back door like he’d never left. She blinked from behind the bar, setting down her coffee. “You’re alive.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance her way. Just walked past and set the crates down where they belonged. Her smile faltered.

Something had changed. And it was her fault.

---

She didn’t get a chance to ask. Not then. Because an hour later, he walked in.

Tommy.

The guy who’d thrown a brick, bruised her arms, and spat at her name in the street. His swagger oozed entitlement, like nothing had happened, like he belonged.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, loud enough for Ben to hear. And then, without warning, he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her.

Y/N froze. Not responding. Not resisting. Just… enduring.

Ben was across the room, stacking a barrel near the back. He turned slowly, jaw clenched, eyes dark. Tommy caught it.

“Oh, it’s the boy again,” he sneered. “Still sniffing around like a mutt.”

Ben didn’t respond. Just went back to what he was doing. Focused. Calm. If Y/N wanted him rather than him he would behave, for her.

But the guy wasn’t having it. He strode over and shoved Ben forward, hard, slamming him chest-first against the barrel.

“Don’t ignore me, punk.” Y/N moved to help—fast—but she didn’t need to.

Ben whipped around, jaw tight, eyes burning, and drove his fist into the man’s face. A clean, sharp punch—one he’d clearly been holding back for months.

The man staggered and crashed into a table, toppling it sideways. Chairs scattered. Blood bloomed from his nose. He groaned, standing up, teeth bared. “You little shit—”

He lunged. But before he could lay a finger, Y/N stepped between them.

“Don’t!”

She wasn’t shouting. But her voice cut like a blade. “I’m done. You hear me? Get out of my bar. Out of my life.” He stared at her, stunned. “You’re choosing him? A goddamn kid?”

“Better than a coward who only feels strong when he's hurting someone smaller.”

“You crazy bitch,” he snapped, wiping his nose. “You’d rather play house with a teenager? Fine. You’re nothing but a slut. A child abuser.”

Ben moved again, fury in his stride—but Y/N grabbed his arm. Her head shaking no. She turned back to Tommy. “If you ever come near me again, I swear on every name I’ve ever loved—I will call the cops.”

He hesitated. Then spat on the floor and stormed out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.

Silence returned, thick and humming.

Y/N stood there, breathing heavy. Still between Ben and the door. Then slowly, her shoulders sank.

Ben stepped forward. “You okay?” She nodded, not looking at him. But her hands were trembling. Her eyes finally lifted to his, her hand moving over his cheek.

"Thank you.... soldier."

**Philadelphia, Spring that same year**

They’d fallen into their old rhythm again—like nothing had ever broken between them.

Ben came in early, lifted the heavy stock, cleaned without asking. She poured his coffee just how he liked it, always before the bar opened, always before the real world could intrude.

They didn’t talk about that night anymore. The one with the fight and the shouting and her standing between him and the kind of man she swore she was done with. But things were different after that. Not in big ways—just in the quiet ones.

He watched her more protectively. She touched his arm a little longer when saying thank you. Neither of them said what it meant.

---

One morning, Ben lingered by the register longer than usual. She was cleaning glasses, humming low, when he finally spoke.

“Hey, uh…” He cleared his throat. “You think I could maybe… get a raise?”

She paused, one brow lifted. “A raise?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “My dad said I should at least be making double. Said I’m being used.”

It was a lie. A clumsy one. His father barely spoke to him anymore. Y/N frowned, glass halfway polished. “Ben… I can’t pay that. I barely make enough to cover my own rent.”

He winced. “Right. I shouldn’t’ve—” She stepped around the bar quickly, grabbing his arm. “Hey. I didn’t say no.”

He blinked.

“I said I can’t pay that much. But I can give you something. A little more. Whatever I’ve got to spare.” He looked down at her hand on his arm. Then at her eyes—soft, tired, but still kind.

“Thanks,” he said, giving a half smile. “That’s… that’s really kind of you.”

But guilt still hung on his shoulders.

After a beat, he added quietly, “Maybe I could find a second job. You know. For evenings, after I'm done here here. I just… I don’t wanna be a burden.”

Her face changed. “You’re not a burden, Ben. I just make enough for myself and I do appreciate your help but... ” He looked at her, and for a second, the air between them felt like that night again. Unspoken things. Uncrossed lines. "I get it."

“I just o do my part,” he said. “I know,” she replied. “You always had my back.”

And then she did something she hadn’t done in a long time. She reached up, and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. A touch too tender to be casual.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But neither of them said a word.

---

**Philadelphia, Summer **

Ben had picked up a second job two weeks after asking for the raise. It paid good money, enough for him to save. But more than that, the work gave him something else—distance. Time to think. Time to breathe.

The place was just a few blocks down. A brothel hidden behind a red-painted door, dressed up like a jazz club to fool the right eyes. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t safe. But it paid in cash and didn’t ask questions.

He worked the door mostly. Kept drunks out, broke up fights before they started. He didn’t look like the kind of boy you’d mess with anymore, and people listened.

And then there was Minny.

She was Y/N’s age. Maybe a little older. Red lipstick, lazy laugh, cigarette always dangling between her fingers. Minny was smart. Sharp-eyed. She liked to come outside for a smoke and talk to him, especially when the night was quiet.

“You’re sweet,” she’d tell him. “Too sweet for this place.”

He trusted her. Maybe because she never looked at him like he was a kid.

One night, he told her everything.

About the bar. About Y/N. About how she called him her soldier, About her troubled love life and how his dad saw her as cheap. About how it hurt when she didn’t look at him the way he looked at her.

Minny smiled around her cigarette.

“Let me guess,” she said. “She likes her men rough. Loud. With hands like vices.”

He blinked.

“She likes experienced men,” Minny said. “Women like that, like us..." Ben frowned but she just continued. "we don’t admit it, but we don’t want to teach. We want to be taken.”

Ben swallowed. His cheeks red.

"Would you like to learn?” Her lips curved. Slow. Knowing. “I could teach you,” she said. “Nice and slow.”

His mouth went dry. “What’s… what’s the price?”

She grinned wide, all teeth and mischief. “Oh, honey. For you? First lesson’s free.”

---

Weeks later

Y/N wasn’t looking for him.

She was just walking home after closing. Same route as always passed the red door. The sky a navy bruise above her, streets slick from earlier rain. She tugged her coat tighter around her ribs, cutting down the side street for once. Tired. Bone-deep.

That’s when she saw him.

Ben.

Tall, lean, head down as he followed a woman out of a building. Y/N slowed. Watched the red door swing shut behind them.

Her stomach twisted. That building. The girl had red lips, long legs, her hand brushing Ben’s chest like she’d done it before.

Y/N stood frozen. The ache in her chest blooming sharp, fast, ugly.And just like that, it made sense. Why he needed the money.

Why he stopped coming around as much. Why his eyes had started looking elsewhere. She turned before the tears could sting.

And for the first time since that boy walked into her bar with eager hands and dreams of becoming a soldier—she felt ... jealous.

---

The next morning, Ben came in quiet.

Tired. Under-eyed. His shirt rumpled, knuckles slightly bruised from God knows what. Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t let the strange tightness in her chest change the tone of her voice.

“Morning, soldier,” she said like always, handing him his usual coffee.

He smiled—faint, grateful—and sipped like it was the only warm thing in his life. She asked him, casually, “How’s the new job going?”

“Good,” he said.

That was it. No details. No mention of Minny or what he was really learning behind that red door. Just a tight-lipped answer that sounded more like a lie.

And then came the nights.

---

Y/N told herself she wasn’t checking. But she was. Every night after closing, she’d pass by the brothel on the way home, gaze hidden under the brim of her coat. Once. Twice. A third time.

And always—always—there he was. Sometimes handing the girl with red lips folded cash. Sometimes disappearing inside after a quiet word, like it was routine now.

And it burned.

Not just the thought of him with another woman. Well if she was honest that too. But the look on his face—gentle, soft, like she used to see when he brought her her favorite beer after a rough night. The look, that smile, used to be hers.

It was raining again. Cold and sharp against the sidewalk.

Y/N stood across the street under the eaves of a shuttered deli. Her hands buried deep in her coat. Ben stood out front of the brothel with that girl again. Talking. Close. She said something and laughed, touching his arm.

Then she kissed his cheek. Her red lips leaving a stain on his cheek. He smiled, slow and soft. Y/N’s heart stuttered. She turned on instinct—spun away fast, like the very sight had cut her.

She didn’t hear his footsteps until they were behind her. “Y/N—!” She didn’t stop. He chased her through the wet streets, calling her name until she finally snapped, “Let me go home, Ben!”

But he didn’t. She reached her apartment door, keys shaking in her hand, when he grabbed her shoulder and turned her around. “What were you doing there?” he asked, breathless, wet from the rain. "That is a dangerous alley to be in for a woman."

She laughed bitterly. “I should ask you that.” His face tightened. “It’s not what you think.”

“You sure about that?”

“She’s just a friend. At my new job.”

“Friends don’t take your money, don't lead you inside a brothel and, and... and kiss your cheek like that. Besides its none of my business who you fuck around with Ben!"

He flinched.

She scoffed. “That’s none of my business, right? I’m just your boss.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, voice cracking. “You never were just my boss.” She looked at him then—really looked. He was wet, shivering, bare in a way he rarely let himself be.

“I needed someone to talk to,” he said. “And I work there, I watch the door. And Minny, she.. I, I needed someone who wasn’t you, because you never let me in.”

She blinked.

“I wanted to know why I wasn’t enough,” he said. “Why I wasn’t man enough to you. So I... I...”

Silence stretched long between them.

And then she whispered, so quietly, “You were always enough. You are more than enough!”

He stepped forward.

The storm outside intensified as Ben closed the gap between them, his chest rising and falling with each breath, the rain dripping off his damp hair. The world felt muffled, contained between the two of them. There was something about the silence in the air, heavy with confession and unspoken emotions.

Ben’s words cut through the stillness.

“You never thought I was enough for you.?” He leaned in closer, his green eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite place. “Not enough to be with you, not enough to be with you.”

Y/N’s heart sank. She opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. She felt trapped in that moment, the rain pouring, cold between them, and Ben standing there—waiting.

“I work there,” Ben said suddenly, his voice steady but his hands shaking. “As a bouncer, at the brothel.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t form a response, so she just stared at him, wide-eyed, her mind racing. He took that as a cue to continue, his words spilling out faster now, raw and unguarded.

“I only slept with Windy twice,” he confessed, and the way he said it made her insides churn. “I didn’t know anything about women. I thought… maybe if I did this, you’d see that I wasn’t just some kid. That maybe, one day, you'd let me in. I thought maybe you’d see me differently, that I’d at least know something.”

Y/N’s heart twisted. She wanted to speak, wanted to tell him that he was so much more than that, but the words wouldn't come. She felt something deep in her gut—a kind of anger mixed with regret—but mostly… sadness.

“And Minny…” Ben’s voice dropped lower, hesitant now. “She said you’re a woman with experience. She said you need a man with experience, someone who knows how to take you, how to handle you, how to be the man you need.”

Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat. There it was—the truth, sharp and unforgiving. Minny had told him what he thought was the reason, the explanation he’d needed all this time. She’d put the idea in his head that she wanted someone like that—someone who could match her in ways Ben hadn’t been able to.

She played him.

For a second, the air around them felt heavy, crackled. Like a storm waiting to break. Y/N blinked, forcing herself to steady her breathing, to look him in the eye, to see the boy she had always known.

But this—this was new. This was him being something he wasn’t. Y/N didn’t know how to answer, but she needed to. She had to say something. Anything.

“I never needed someone like that, Ben,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I just… You don’t have to pretend to be something else, not for me, not for anyone.”

Ben stepped back, almost stumbling, and he ran a hand through his wet hair, frustrated. He wanted to argue, but the words felt foreign now. Everything felt too raw. His lips trembled as he tried to piece together the jumble of emotions.

“I wanted you to see me differently,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted you to see me as a man, not a kid.”

Y/N reached out, gently touching his arm, her fingertips cold against his wet sleeve. “Ben, you’ve always been more than a kid to me. I see you. I always have.”

He shook his head, the doubt still clouding his eyes. “Then why didn’t you ever…?” He trailed off, unable to finish. His vulnerability hung in the air like a weight neither of them could escape.

“I was scared" she admitted. “I was scared of what would happen if I let you in. What it would mean for us. I was scarred you'd learn I'm crazy or or I don't know, not what you want. Scarred you'd leave me like every man in my life had ever done!”

Ben stepped back again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I won't. Not now to ever.”

Y/N’s gaze softened as she took a step toward him. The rain poured down on them, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside them both.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

The rain kept falling, heavy and relentless, as they stood pressed against the door. The storm outside seemed to echo the tension between them, the weight of everything unspoken, everything unsaid, finally crashing over them.

Ben’s hands gripped her arms, holding her firmly, but there was a gentleness now in the way he touched her. His face was close—so close—and his breath was shaky, full of longing and uncertainty.

“Tell me what to do, Y/N,” he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know how to fix this. How to make you see me the way I see you.”

She reached up, her fingers trembling as they pressed against his lips, silencing him gently. His words died in his throat, his eyes wide, searching hers.

The world outside was muted—the steady rhythm of rain, the crackle of thunder, all faded in comparison to the intensity of the moment.

Her fingers lingered on his lips, the touch tender, almost hesitant, but there was something about it that grounded them both. Her heart raced, her pulse quickened, and she finally realized that everything that had built up between them—the fear, the desire, the confusion—was ready to spill over.

A flash of lightning lit up the dark street, and in that blinding moment, something shifted. The walls between them, the distance they’d tried to maintain, crumbled.

Ben’s gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, searching for permission, for some sign that she wanted this too. The question in his eyes was so raw, so vulnerable, it made her heart ache.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she stepped forward and kissed him.

His lips met hers with an intensity that caught her off guard, his kiss desperate and sure, as though he’d been waiting for this for so long. The heat of it spread like wildfire, and her breath hitched as his lips moved against hers, slow at first, then more urgent.

Ben pulled her hand to his lips, kissing her palm softly, his lips warm against her skin. She gasped, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine, and then he kissed each of her fingers, one by one, his mouth worshipping the delicate skin of her hand.

Her body tensed, her breath quickening, and before she could stop herself, a soft moan escaped her lips. The sound—raw, hungry—echoed in the space between them, only fueling Ben’s need.

In one swift movement, Ben leaned in, his mouth capturing hers once more. This time, it was more than just a kiss. His tongue swept against her lips, demanding entry, and she parted her mouth without thinking. The moment his tongue slid against hers, a gasp broke free from her throat, and she felt the world fall away.

Y/N opened the door blindly behind her, pulling Ben inside with her.

The kiss deepened, both of them losing themselves in the heat, in the urgency. The way he kissed her, like he couldn’t get enough, made her heart race faster. Her hands moved to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, matching the pounding of her own.

Y/N’s hands fisted in his wet shirt as she pulled him closer, her body responding to the magnetic pull between them. She moaned again, louder this time, the sound almost foreign to her, but it felt right, felt like something she’d been holding back for far too long.

Ben broke the kiss, both of them gasping for air, but his lips stayed close, brushing against her skin as his hands roamed to her waist, pulling her in tighter.

“I don’t know if I can stop,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. Y/N looked up at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. She felt like she was floating, drowning in the feeling of him.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she murmured, barely able to form the words.

His lips crashed against hers again, this time with no hesitation, no fear. The storm outside raged on, but it was nothing compared to the feelings between them.

The rain hammered against the windows as Ben followed Y/N to her bedroom, his heart racing, the heat of the moment making everything feel surreal. She tugged him toward her bed, her hands shaking slightly, but there was no hesitation in her movements.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her wet jacket as Ben shed his soaked clothes, the storm outside growing louder, more intense.

Every touch between them was electric, charged with all the emotions they had never allowed themselves to feel before. Y/N pulled him closer, her body pressing against his as she kissed him once more, desperate, as if afraid of losing him.

Ben gently guided her to the bed, the softness of the sheets contrasting with the urgency between them. He lay her down carefully, as if she were something precious—something worth protecting.

She wasn’t just overwhelmed by desire—there was something in Ben’s touch that made her feel seen, understood, as though they were both finally shedding their fears and their insecurities.

Ben kissed her softly, his lips trailing down her neck, her shoulders, his hands exploring her skin with a tenderness that made her heart flutter.

His touch was both reverent and needy, as if he had waited a lifetime to get to this moment—and in some way, maybe they both had.

She closed her eyes, her breath shallow as she felt the heat of his body against hers. But then, when he moved lower, she stopped him, her hand gently on his shoulder.

“Ben… What are you doing?” Her voice was soft, uncertain, but she wasn’t pulling away. He looked up at her, his eyes full of that familiar intensity, but this time there was something else—vulnerability, an unspoken question.

He smiled, that mischievous grin she knew all too well, and then he whispered, “Lay back. Let me show you something.”

Y/N hesitated for a heartbeat, but then she relaxed, sinking back into the bed, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her while she felt his wet hair trailing the way his lips kissed her lower and lower, until his head was between her thighs.

--

Later that night, the storm had quieted, the thunder now distant and low, like the final heartbeat of something long chased. Rain still whispered against the windows, soft and steady. The room was dimly lit by the occasional flicker of lightning far off, casting silver shadows across the tangled sheets and the two bodies entwined within them.

Ben lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting lightly along Y/N’s spine. She was tucked against him, her bare skin warm and relaxed against his side, her head rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. Her fingers traced slow, lazy patterns across his chest—circles, stars, lines with no real destination. It was quiet in the way people grow quiet after sharing something that changes them.

She broke it first, her voice low and thoughtful. “Why didn’t you ever go?” she asked softly, her finger pausing over his heart. “You always talked about joining the army. You were going to be a soldier.”

Ben didn’t answer right away. His chest rose, then fell, and he turned his head to look at her, his damp hair curling a little at the edges. “You know why.”

Y/N looked up at him.

He exhaled through his nose and gave a small shrug. “I stayed for you.”

Her eyes searched his, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away. It wasn’t a line. There was no performance in the way he said it. Just quiet truth, raw and simple.

“I couldn’t leave you, not with the way things were. After... after everything... You weren’t some damsel, I know that. But you were hurting. And I couldn’t bear the thought of being gone and something happening to you.”

She laid her head back on his chest, heart aching, fingers still against his skin. “You shouldn’t have given up on your dream for me.”

Ben smiled a little, the corner of his mouth tugging up as he looked at the ceiling. “Didn’t feel like giving anything up. Felt like doing the only thing that made sense.”

She was quiet again, her fingers drawing shapes once more—slower now, thoughtful.

“You still could,” she whispered. “If you wanted it.”

He glanced down at her, brow furrowed. “What, join up now?”

“You’re still young. And strong. And stubborn as hell. You’d make a damn fine soldier.” Ben was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know if that dream still fits me, y’know?”

“You talk like you’re fifty,” she said, laughing softly. He grinned, pulling he in closer. “Feels like I’ve lived a lot in the last few years.”

Y/N propped herself up just enough to look at him, her hand resting on his chest, fingers splayed over his heartbeat. “Whatever you do, don’t do it for me, Ben. Not anymore. I care about you too much for that.”

His green eyes held hers. “And what if everything I want just happens to have you in it?”

That made her heart flutter—and ache at the same time. She wasn’t sure what the future looked like. The world was still at war, and they were two people who’d crossed a line they couldn’t uncross. But in that quiet, rainy moment, tangled in each other, she didn’t look away.

She leaned down and kissed his chest softly. "I promise I'll be here at home, waiting for you."

Y/N blinked, her lips still parted from the soft kiss she’d just pressed to his chest, her breath catching in her throat as Ben suddenly slipped from the bed in a rush.

“Ben?” she asked, pulling the covers up instinctively, the air around her cool without his warmth.

“Just wait,” he said over his shoulder, voice breathless, urgent—like he was afraid if he didn’t move fast enough, the moment might vanish. She heard the shuffle of clothing, then the creak of the floorboards as he made his way back to her side of the bed.

He was still completely bare, skin kissed gold by the faint flicker of the streetlamp outside, but he didn’t seem to care. His chest rose and fell with the weight of everything he was feeling, everything he hadn’t been able to say until now.

“I’ll sign up,” he said, voice low but certain, green eyes locked on hers. He was trembling slightly—not with fear, but with something bigger, heavier. “I’ll go. I’ll fight. I’ll do everything I said I would.”

She sat up a little, her brows furrowing, confused by the shift, her heart hammering.

“If…” he took a breath, then dropped to one knee beside the bed, the small velvet ring pouch clutched in his fingers. His hand shook as he opened it.

“If you do me the honor of marrying me.”

The ring wasn’t flashy or grand. It was simple. Modest. A delicate gold band with a single glimmering stone—likely one he’d saved for over months with whatever money he could spare. But in that small piece of jewelry, she saw every early morning he’d helped carry boxes into her bar, every heavy can he’d lifted without being asked. Every bruise he noticed on her arm before she could hide it. Every time he came to work with tired eyes and a quiet heart.

And now he was here. On one knee. Bare and open and honest. Asking her for something that scared them both.

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came.

Ben swallowed hard, his eyes searching hers. “I know I’m young. I know this is fast. But I’ve loved you since I was just a dumb kid carrying boxes. I loved you when I didn’t even understand what love really was. And I swear, if you say yes—I’ll come back. I’ll survive whatever hell they throw me into just to get back to you.”

Y/N looked down at him, at the ring, at the man he’d become— but after all these years still hers.

And for once, she didn’t think about what was proper, what was smart, or what the neighbors might say. She thought about how she hadn’t really slept the week he disappeared.

She leaned forward, cupping his cheek, and whispered against his mouth, voice trembling—

“Yes, Ben. Yes.”

His exhale was ragged, his forehead falling to hers as he wrapped his arms around her, both of them tangled up in each other again, the storm outside now just a hum. There were still things to face, still a world at war waiting for him—but for that moment, there was only the promise between them.

And it was enough.

For now

--

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I’m gonna pack my things (and leave you behind)

summary: You’re five years old when Darth Vader kills your mom. Or — so you think — your parents.

pairing: han solo x skywalker!reader (eventually), platonic skywalker family x reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: so many feelings, reader's anakin and padme's daighter, also she's a itty bitty haunted by the force, anakin and padme die but it’s not really explored much (yet), mentions of childbirth, nightmares, mentions of anakin’s demise on mustafar, one swear word i think

author's note: I know y'all want an update on the heir and the wolf and that the star wars fandom is as dead as pope francis but PLEASE HEAR ME OUT ON THIS ONE 🙏🙏🙏 this is for the 2 people that said they would read it lmao

divider from @saradika

You’re four years old when your mum comes back to your apartment on Coruscant with the happy news. 

She nears your room, where you're trying to screw back together a toy lightsaber that you somehow managed to dissect — tongue sticking out of your mouth, a concentrated pout prominent on your face. You’re really your father’s daughter, she ponders sometimes, thinking back to that blonde boy on the sand planet that managed to build a whole robot with scraps. The nurse droid, RO-N4, is dutifully watching your work, assuring that you don’t hurt yourself in the process and hinting at the pieces that should go back together; she raises her head when she sees that Padmé has returned. 

You jump up when you notice her, running to give her a big hug, almost making her lose her balance; but she’s used to it, and wastes no time in hoisting you on her hip. The robot stands up, ready to gently reprimand you, but your mother gingerly shoos her away with a smile. “Why don’t you go out with Threepio on a walk? I’ll stay here with her. We have something to discuss.” she winks at you, “Some serious girl talk to do, am I right?”

You giggle — that childish, innocent laugh that makes hours of relentless debates in the Senate worth going through — rubbing your cheek against hers. “Yeah! I have shoooo many things to tell you, mama!” 

The robots follow the senator’s suggestion, stumbling their way out of the door, and you soon go back to the area dedicated to your toys to show her your hard work. “Look, mama!” you’re basically jumping up and down in joy, holding up the pieces of the once toy lightsaber. “This is the cyber crystal–”

“Kyber crystal, sweetie.” 

“Ky-ber crystal. And then this is the one part of the handle with the switch–”

You could go on and ramble for hours, she thinks. She’d happily listen to all and any of your thoughts and wonders and never get tired from it. Soon enough, Padmé’s lying down on the soft sponge puzzle pieces of the playmat that serve to prevent any possible injury from falling over. We’ll need to change those soon, she thinks absentmindedly, she’s already grown out of the always-falling-over phase. 

She isn’t sure of how much time passes; at some point your ramblings slow and you scoot closer to her, sniggling in her lap. “Mama,” you mumble, yawning. “‘m so happy that you’re here. I missed you a lot today.”

Her heart breaks. A hand carding through your locks, she smiles sadly, “I know, sweetie, I’m sorry that mama has to work so much. But I promise it’s just so that once you grow up you will be able to live in a peaceful Galaxy, without ever worrying about learning how to fight like your papa.”

You perk up. “But I wanna be like papa when I grow up.”

She shakes her head, feigning her best scandalized expression. “How dare you? What am I, chopped liver?” she takes you in her arms and blows raspberries in your cheeks, making you squeal and thrash around. “Nooo! Don’t, mama, it’s ticklish!” 

“What about being a senator, mh?” she offers, not unkindly. “We can fight too, you know.” She puts on her best imitation of Palpatine and presses a matter of utmost importance, “Senator Skywalker, what do you think we should have for dinner as of today?” 

Your chuckle makes your little chest rumble against her belly. Your surname is not Skywalker — it is Amidala, often Naberrie when on Naboo, but never have your parents referred to you as that; they mostly leave it out when asked, avoiding the question but never stating either the truth or the cover-up. There’s still hope to change the Order, Anakin always says, that one day she can wear my surname without it causing a scandal. And Padmé believes him: and she believes that when the time comes, you’ll be rightly known as Senator Skywalker. 

Suddenly, you go quiet. “I want papa,” you whisper it like it’s forbidden — it kind of is, but you shouldn’t know that. Padmé’s heart breaks a little again. Anakin was sent out on a mission two weeks ago and hasn’t even been able to keep in touch ever since, making you miss him terribly. 

She laughs as softly as she can — she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. “No can do, sweetie. Papa isn’t due to be home in at least another three days, but I’m sure that once he’s here he’ll be elated to spend some time with you. Besides, you can’t eat papa for dinner.” she rests her cheek on her hand, patting the free space next to her. “Until he comes back, it’s just you and me. What would you like to do tomorrow? I have no Senate meetings.” 

You scoot closer, lying down on the spot she just patted, curling against her chest, “Can we see Ahsoka, then?” 

She chuckles a little quieter now. Her and Anakin still don't know how to explain to you that she left the Order a while ago and has no intention on returning to Coruscant any time soon. “Ahsoka’s away like papa, honey. But I’m sure that once she comes back, she’ll be just as happy as he will to spend time with you.” 

She smooths your hair back, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, pressing her hand up and down your back. She wonders how good of a sister you’ll be; and even if she knows you’ll be wonderful with the new baby, she still can’t bring herself to say it out loud. “How about I make some shaak meat and then get you prepared for a good bubble bath?”

You look up at her, pouting, “But I’m big now! Do I really have to bathe?” 

Padmé bursts out laughing. “You’ll have to clean yourself your whole life, sweetheart, to hopefully not smell like a bantha.”

You huff, glaring at her. “Papa barely even showers.”

“Papa stinks. He was raised on a planet with barely any water and still considers showers optional. Do you ever hear me tell him how I love his perfume? No, that’s because he doesn’t use any. You hear me sending him to sleep on the couch because he smells terribly, though.” 

You end up eating your dinner — vegetables included — without a fuss and going to take your bath like a champ. Somewhere along that timespan both the nurse droid and C-3PO came back home to be of help in cleaning the kitchen as Padmé prepares you for bed, lying down next to you and reading to you one of the stories in the hologram that Anakin bought on one of his last missions. 

MId-story, she notices you get eerily silent. She carefully turns her head, trying to understand if you’re already sleeping, only to find you more awake than her, eyes open wide. “Is… is everything alright, sweetie?” she asks, a bit bewildered– just a moment ago, you looked like you were about to fall asleep, and now you look like you’re ready to fight everything that could be thrown at you. 

“Mama,” you whisper it like it’s a secret, “I just remembered. How are they?”

She blinks, confused. “Who?”

“The twins,” you say, “Luke and Leia.” you pat her belly as if to state the obvious. 

She looks at you, horrified — she found out she was pregnant today, and no droid or doctor mentioned twins. “I– sweetheart, what?”

You lean your head, confused. “I saw them yesterday in a dream. They asked me about you.” 

Her heart almost stops. She laughs nervously, looking at you with wide eyes, expecting you to say something about the weird and absolutely not real dream that you had, but instead you just stare at her, completely serious. “What… what do you mean?” 

You frown. “If you don’t know, then I can’t help you. Nighty night.” you tuck yourself under the covers and curl above her chest once again, sighing happily. 

Padmé’s heart feels heavy. It’s happening again– you murmur something about having had a dream, say something even more alarming, then completely ignore what you just said and act like nothing happened. It’s getting worrying — Padmé managed to get you out of the Jedi program last year just because of her status as senator, but she is sure that this year, she won’t be as lucky. The quantity of midi-chlorians in your blood can’t be hid, unfortunately, and in probably less than a year she will be forced to give you up to the Temple. 

Anakin’s sure you will make a great Jedi, but your mother’s worried — and how can she not be? Her husband’s more away than he is at home, and with the war going on, it’s already a miracle he manages to visit Coruscant. The fact that you seem to possess your father’s horrifying ability to dream about possible futures doesn’t ease her worries. 

“I’m just worried about her–” 

“But why? She’s young, she’ll be trained–”

“She will, but I don’t want her to be haunted by the thoughts of possible futures and whatnot.”

It’s late. You’ve already gone to bed, shushed by Anakin’s stories and anecdotes from his latest mission, and even if this should be a carefree and happy moment because her husband has managed to come back home unscathed again– your mother just can’t get something out of her head. 

Anakin huffs and puts his hands on his waist, looking at Padmé like she’s crazy — there it is, where you got your attitude from. “I can always call one of the Temple guards and tell them that there’s a Force-sensitive kid here. They can train her until I can take her as Padawan; it’ll take, what? Six, seven years? Hopefully I’ll be done with the war by that time and will be able to focus on her as my padawan.” 

His wife crosses her arms, glaring at him, “I don’t want her as your padawan,” she grits out, “I want her safe, here, where we can have a decent relationship and she won’t be stripped away from my arms.”

He leans his head and raises an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, I can’t make her dreams go away. I don’t even know how to make my nightmares go. But at the Temple, they can teach her how to control them, how to use them for her own good– for the Order’s and the Republic’s own good–”

“You say that just because you wouldn’t have any problems in seeing her,” she sniffs, “you’ll be a welcome, familiar presence in the Temple — but it is known that they don’t let anyone outside of the Jedi enter.” 

His shoulders drop, and he starts shaking his head. “Padmé…”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me that we have to give her up to the Temple, because I don’t want to and I won’t–”

“But we’ll have to, Padmé, they’ll teach her everything she’ll ever need and–” 

She bursts out crying. It might be the pregnancy, or the fact that she still hasn’t told him about it and it’s eating her alive, but she’s much more emotional than usual. “I don’t want them to take her away from me!” 

Anakin’s eyes soften, his posture breaks, “Oh, dear,” he mutters, pulling her in his arms and letting her cry out in his chest. “It’ll be alright,” he murmurs, lips pressed to her head, “we’ll find a solution for everything.” He still doesn’t know when or how, but he’ll try with everything he has to solve this situation to the best of his ability.

He had honestly thought Padmé was exaggerating when she said that you were having visions, probably thinking it was just baby babbling or something, but he is proven wrong that same night, when he is abruptly woken up by the sound of the door of their bedroom opening. 

“Papa?” you call out from the doorstep, voice sleepy. 

He manages to get himself out of bed — when he’s home, night duty is always on him, as Padmé already deals with it enough while he’s away — and, yawning, he walks off to you and kneels down to your level, sending a glance to your bantha plushie safely tucked under your elbow. “What is it, sweetheart?” 

Blank stare on your part, you look at him like a war veteran would. “You were being burned, papa.” 

He blinks and counts to five before accepting that it’s way too late in the night — or early in the morning, he has no idea — to deal with this type of shit. “Okay, listen– how about we go catch some fresh air outside, hm?” 

You let him pick you up without any protests, curling up in his arms as you whimper quietly. He drags his feet along the pavement of the apartment, sliding open the door to the terrace that overlooks the whole city; it’s like it never sleeps, always someone going around and about with their speeders, lights often left on in the apartments below. The night air sends a chill down his spine and he instinctively holds you tighter in hopes to shield you from the cold. 

“Mum told me about these dreams you’ve been having,” he starts slowly. 

You hum, pressing closer to him, the plushie squashed between you two. Your eyes look tired, almost older than you actually are, and his heart squeezes at the sight. “Papa, do you know Darth Vader?”

His heart skips a beat. He knows no Vader, surely not a Sith named like that, but the fact that you dreamed about it almost makes his knees buckle. He mentally promises himself to make some digging in the archives and reports for any Vaders that might be hiding out there. “I don’t, sweetheart. Do you?” 

Your brows furrow, your little hand patting the skin above his heart. “I don’t think I do.” 

He presses his lips into a thin line. “Well, what does he do in your dreams?”

Your frown deepens. “I never see him. But Obi-Wan’s afraid of him– or, or angry at him, I’m not sure. Maybe both.” 

His frown mirrors yours. You’ve never met Obi-Wan aside from a time or two when he was assigned as bodyguard to your mother, but that was years ago; you shouldn’t be able to remember him. “How do you know who Obi-Wan is, sweetheart?” 

You stare at him like he’s stupid. “Isn’t he a friend?”

“I mean, I guess he is, but you’ve never actually met him, have you?”

“Then I think I will.” you cuddle back on his shoulder like nothing happened. 

Yeah, we gotta send this one to the Temple, he bitterly thinks. The thought of your mother alone in this apartment after years of having you around makes him sad, but there’s no one else apart from the masters there that could help you — he would try to, if the war wasn’t stripping him of all of his free time. 

Anakin has no time to properly train you. As of now, he could manage to give you chopped notions and barely any principles; in the Temple, all the Jedi solely focus on the younglings’ training, a luxury he can’t afford right now. 

She’s still so young, Padmé’s voice rings in his head, I don’t want her to forget about me. 

Six years old might be already too old for a youngling, Anakin ponders, but five years old would be perfect. They still accept kids that age. 

Another birthday for Padmé, he decides, another birthday and then off to the Temple she goes. 

Except, he doesn’t know there’s no time for another birthday. Not for Padmé, anyways. Nor for him, too, some could argue. 

“Papa,” you mumble, “could you sing me that lullaby?”

He chuckles affectionately. “Aren’t you getting a little too old for that?” He teases, with no actual intent in ever stopping to sing Ghost Star to you. You could be forty and him on his deathbed and, if you asked, he’d still sing it for you. “Ghost star, wonder where you are; Ghost star, are you very far? All night long, I will sing your song, if you watch over me…”

You do end up properly meeting Obi-Wan. That is, unfortunately, after — for what you know — both your parents die. 

The air in the spacecraft is eerily still, as even C-3PO is stunned to silence. The tears on your cheeks have long since dried, and you keep fidgeting with a small, faintly glowing cube in your hands  — the only thing you managed to take with you when your mother loaded you into the spaceship directed to Mustafar. She’s — was, was, was — able to open it, but you still have no idea how to do it; your father promised he would have taught you to, but… well. He now never will. 

The cries from the med bay stopped a while ago. And while you’re still so young, you know that the silence means nothing good. You might not be a master of the Force, or know enough about it to understand fully what it means, but you’ve felt it — your mother’s presence slipping away in favor of two smaller ones. 

Finally, after a time that seems never-ending, Obi-Wan emerges from the door connecting the hallway with the infirmary, his expression full of sorrow. He looks surprised by your calmness, almost as if he had expected you to have gone crazy by now. “Hi,” he breathes lowly, tired and remorseful. How do you tell a kid her mother’s dead when just a few hours ago you had to break the same type of news about her father? 

After he understands that you’re not going to reply, he gets closer and kneels in front of you, taking note of the cube you’re holding in your hands — a holocron. Does she know how to open it, yet? “Hey, kid,” he tries as softly as he can, “I…”

“Mama’s gone, isn’t she?” You interrupt him. Obi-Wan almost stumbles; the look in your eyes is scaringly similar to the one Anakin had sometimes, strangely old for your age. “I felt her slipping away like papa did.” 

His lips are pressed into a thin line as he puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’m really sorry,” he says it even though he knows it won’t change anything. “We tried everything, but even the medical droid had no idea what to do.”

“Oh,” C-3PO mumbles as R2-D2 beeps sadly. “This– this is horrendous news.” 

You nod absentmindedly, like you’d seen it coming. “Are Luke and Leia okay?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Who?”

“The twins. Are they okay?”

As even Padmé looked surprised by the fact she was having twins, he wonders how in the world you knew and gave them names. Your mother left no names behind, and he had thought about just naming them after your parents, but if you already had names picked out… then it’s not his place to name your siblings, is it?

“They are.” C-3PO sighs in relief as R2-D2 lets out a happier beep. “Would you like to see them?” 

You nod timidly, almost stumbling as you stand up from the chair you sat in and taking Obi-Wan’s hand when he offers it to you. You’re still gripping on the holocron like a lifeline, its dim glow faltering every now and then. “Do you know what that is?” He asks, pointing at it as the door to the infirmary opens. 

You glance at it, unsure. “Dunno. Mama always played the hologram inside when I missed papa, but I tried opening it and it didn’t work.”

If Padmé managed to open it, then Anakin must’ve programmed the holocron so that the Force frequency needed to open it was small enough that she could play it; even if you were a prodigy like your father, though, it would be impossible for you to open it without directions or a minimal training. 

The nurse-droid your mother brought with her is feeding some milk to one of the twins when you enter — Obi-Wan guesses she might have had it with her the whole time, because he doesn’t remember this ship having such a thing as baby formula in its stocks. 

RO-N4 places the infant back in the cot with the other twin as soon as they burp, and since you’re still too short to properly look at them Obi-Wan has to take you in his arms for you to have a good peek. 

“This is Leia,” he murmurs softly, pointing at the baby with small tufts of brown hair. “She was born first.” He then points to the smaller, uglier and balder twin, “And this is Luke; he was born right after.”

You coo, pushing your index finger against Luke’s cheek. “They’re so ugly,” you state, not exactly with the intent of insulting them– just saying what’s in your mind. 

Obi-Wan chuckles fondly. “Well, I’m sure you were at least as ugly as them when you were this little. Pretty much everyone is.”

You turn to him, holocron still in hand, hesitantly nudging it to him. “Mister Obi,” you say, calling him with the nickname that later on will stick to him for pretty much your entire time spent with him, “do you know how to play this?”

He nods, taking the holocron in his hand and changing his hold on you so that he can use his other hand while still keeping you upright, “This is a holocron. It’s used by Force users to store information and files, and it opens if infused with the Force. Let’s see…” 

He concentrates on the cube, focusing a small amount of Force within it, then delicately twists the corners as it starts to glow steadier. Just as he expected — the smallest amount of Force that even Padmé could’ve been able to conjure up. The holocron starts to float, projecting a hologram in the dim-lit room. 

It starts with Anakin, clearly just knighted as a proper Jedi: he’s still a bit scrawny, his hair’s yet to grow after the braid and the small ponytail for padawans had been cut. He looks a bit embarrassed to be in front of the camera as a small baby’s cries echo in the recording. “Do I really have to do this?” He mutters. 

A laugh comes from the side, and the baby’s cries get louder — maybe closer to the camera. “Of course you do!” It’s Padmé’s voice, amused but clearly tired, stabbing directly into Obi-Wan's heart. That poor, poor girl… “It’s the only way she’ll stop crying, and since you’re mostly off-world, she’s mostly crying. This will solve a lot of my problems — even the droids are starting to go mad.” 

A pair of arms and a swoosh of a dress appear to the side, and suddenly a crying infant is trusted into Anakin’s hands. It’s you, his master realises, crying as if the world’s about to end, face all red and pudgy, definitely a bit less ugly than your siblings. Your father’s eyes soften in a way that makes Obi-Wan’s heart ultimately crumble. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, cooing and humming as he presses kisses all over your cheeks. He winces as your face contorts even more, “Now, c’mon, don’t look at me like that,”

“Please, Master, just sing the song!” It’s C-3PO’s voice in the distance, full of despair and anguish. “Another sob and the metal holding me together might just turn to rust!” R2-D2’s beeping seems to be of the same idea as him. 

Anakin huffs, glaring down at you with no real hostility. “You’re one hell of a spoiled baby, you know that?” 

Your cries continue nonetheless. He glares at the camera. “Padmé, I love you, but if anyone else ever sees this, I’m divorcing you,” 

“You would never,” your mother’s knowing voice is a mere rumble in the distance as Anakin settles to hold you tight to his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead before starting to sing. 

“Ghost star, wonder where you are; Ghost star, are you very far? All night long, I will sing your song, if you watch over me. Ghost star, hiding in the night, all your friends are all so bright… when the sky is clear, I can sense you near, looking down on me. Ghost star, silent in the sky, now I start to wonder why. Show me your light; I've waited all night. Ghost star, won't you sing with me?” 

He sings the lullaby multiple times until you’re completely knocked out, dismissing Padmé when she offers to take you back to your room, preferring to keep you close for another while. His stare as he looks at you is so tender that Obi-Wan can’t believe he just had to leave him to die.

Soon enough the recording restarts, the same banter and song again, but he lets it play. Every word is a guilt trip, every laugh a stab in his chest, and the image of Anakin with a baby happily sleeping against his chest might just be the end of him. 

By the time he finally shuts the holocron off both you and the twins are passed out; he tries to convince himself that the hole in his chest isn’t gnawing away at the last bit standing of his sanity. He looks at you, carding a hand through your hair, of the same tenderness as your father but with the same curl of your mother's, and decides here and there to never tell you about what really happened on Mustafar. Not that he really had the intention to do, as of now, but… you don’t deserve to know about Vader. Obi-Wan won’t let you live with the knowledge that your father killed both himself and your mother, no. 

And so, the lie about Darth Vader killing both Senator Amidala and her loyal guard, Anakin Skywalker, who lost his life fighting for hers, is born. 

can’t find the original account but I’m glad someone reposted this😭

could you maybe write early 2000s Hayden being interviewed by reader pleaseee? And they immediately connect together.

Maybe a Time Skip of them being married but this time reader interviews him and ewan for the obi wan Kenobi series.

🎀HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN X INTERVIEWER! READER🎀

a/n: hello there, I love the ideia, sound so sweet and wonderful imagine meet the love of your life doing you job... lol. .. hope you enjoyed ❤️❤️

💌As always my inbox is OPEN!

With the premiere of Revenge of the Sith, the final installment of the prequel trilogy, anticipation was at an all-time high. Fans were eager to see the story unfold, with emotions ranging from excitement to nervous curiosity. As part of the press tour, you were invited to interview Hayden Christensen, the Canadian actor who had brought the complex character of Anakin Skywalker to life.

Walking into the interview room, you felt a mix of nerves and determination. After triple-checking your questions, you decided to embrace a bit of confidence. When you finally stepped in, Hayden's warm smile immediately eased some of your tension.

His eyes flicked to your shirt, a pink tee with a playful design: a heart encircling an image of Anakin kneeling before Palpatine. The corners of his lips twitched upward.

"Nice shirt," he commented with a gentle tease, his voice light but intrigued.

You matched his smile, settling into your seat. "I thought it was important to represent my status as an unapologetic Anakin defender," you quipped, a playful edge to your tone.

His brows lifted, and he leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "Oh, so you're an Anakin apologist?" he asked, his voice laced with mock curiosity.

"Absolutely," you replied, crossing one leg over the other and folding your hands in your lap. "As far as I'm concerned, he's never done anything wrong. He’s misunderstood."

Hayden's laugh was warm and genuine, a sound that filled the room and made you momentarily forget your nerves. "That’s quite the take," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Though I think there are a few Jedi who might beg to differ."

You grinned, leaning into the banter. "Well, they’re entitled to their opinion, but I stand by mine. Anakin had his reasons, and I’d be happy to debate it."

Hayden chuckled again, his relaxed demeanor making the conversation flow effortlessly. "I might take you up on that sometime," he said, a glimmer of playfulness in his tone.

"Careful," you teased. "I’ve come prepared. My notes are in the bag."

His smile widened. "Now I’m nervous."

The back-and-forth felt natural, as if you were old friends rather than strangers meeting for the first time. By the time the interview officially began, the chemistry between you two was undeniable, leaving both of you with lingering smiles long after the cameras started rolling.

“What can you tell us about the movie?” you asked, leaning forward slightly, your voice filled with genuine curiosity. “Everyone is so eager to know more about how Anakin became the most iconic villain in the galaxy.”

Hayden took a moment, his eyes drifting as if recalling the weight of Anakin’s journey. After a brief pause, he began, his voice steady but thoughtful.

“Anakin’s downfall is… one of the most tragic stories in the galaxy,” he said, his words deliberate. “He was a hero, a Jedi—a man who loved deeply and passionately.” Hayden hesitated, as if lost in thought for a moment, before continuing, his voice dipping lower. “But that love, combined with the temptation of power and revenge, consumed him. He made choices—terrible choices—that led him down a path he couldn’t escape.”

"But do you really believe he had a choice?" You asked.

There was a heaviness in his tone, one that hung between you both for a beat. He exhaled softly before adding, “I’ve always believed the Jedi Council failed him in many ways. They never fully trusted him, never gave him the tools to handle his emotions or the support he needed.” Hayden shrugged lightly, his expression tinged with regret. “Anakin was born into a difficult life, forced to grow up too fast. Maybe, if the Council had been kinder—had truly helped him—things could’ve been different. But… we’ll never know.”

You smiled at his insight, admiring the depth he brought to his portrayal of Anakin. “It’s clear you’ve thought a lot about him,” you said warmly. “But now, I have to ask… what do you and Anakin have in common?”

Hayden chuckled softly, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, we both have a bit of a temper,” he admitted, a teasing glint in his eye. “Anakin was impulsive—always acted before thinking—and I guess I can relate to that at times.”

You raised an eyebrow, playful. “Hot-headed Hayden? I don’t buy it.”

“Hey, it happens,” he said with a grin, holding up his hands in mock defense. “But I think, more than that, we both crave freedom and adventure. Although, I’ll admit, Anakin’s version of freedom was… a little extreme.”

“And high speeds,” you chimed in, your tone light and teasing. “I saw those photos of you at the car event. Looks like someone enjoys life in the fast lane.”

Hayden laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Guilty as charged,” he said, nodding. “There’s nothing like the rush of being behind the wheel. It’s probably the closest I’ll get to feeling what Anakin did in his starfighter.”

“Do you think you’d win a podrace like him?” you asked, tilting your head curiously.

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not a chance. Anakin was the only human who could pull that off—he was a prodigy. Me? I’d probably crash before the first lap was over.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Well, let’s hope you stick to Earth racing then. Losing you in a podrace would be… a real shame.”

Hayden laughed along, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll take that as a reason to play it safe.”

The interview was filled with lighthearted moments, each exchange flowing effortlessly. When the time was up, the producer gave you a subtle signal to wrap it up.

Hayden frowned slightly, his lips tugging into a boyish pout. “Oh, it’s over already? Just when we were getting to the good part,” he said, his voice soft but teasing. “You should interview me more often.”

“Maybe we can arrange that,” you replied with a mischievous smile, giving him a playful wink.

Who would’ve guessed that years later, you’d be interviewing him again—not as the star of Revenge of the Sith but as the love of your life. After all, life had a funny way of surprising you.

Now, almost two decades later, standing at the premiere of the Kenobi series, you smoothed the hem of your dress and glanced toward Hayden, your husband of fifteen years. As he and Ewan McGregor approached for your joint interview, Hayden caught your gaze, his eyes lighting up with the same warmth they’d held all those years ago.

Here’s an improved version of your oneshot, with more fluid dialogue and an emphasis on their chemistry and love:

Hayden couldn’t stop smiling, his blue eyes following your every move as you adjusted your microphone. When you glanced over, he mouthed a quiet, “I love you.”

You grinned softly, your heart skipping a beat as you turned to face him and Ewan. “Hello, Ewan, Hayden,” you began, your voice warm and professional. “I think this reunion of Obi-Wan and Anakin has been the most anticipated moment for fans of the saga.” You paused, glancing between them. “How did it feel to put on those costumes again and dive back into the story?”

Ewan tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s a good question,” he said with a nostalgic smile. “It’s funny, really. Even though decades have passed, the moment we put on the Jedi robes and started training, it felt like no time had gone by—like we jumped straight from Revenge of the Sith to Kenobi.”

You leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “So, wielding a lightsaber is like riding a bike? You never forget?”

“For this guy, yeah,” Ewan replied with a teasing grin, nodding toward Hayden. “He grabbed a saber, and it was already spinning and twirling all over the place.”

You laughed, playfully joining in. “Show-off,” you teased, winking at Hayden.

Hayden threw his head back with a laugh, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Honey, now you’re too much,” he joked, his tone light and affectionate. Then, with a smirk, he added, “But I won’t deny it—I might be the best at lightsaber fighting.” He paused for effect, his grin widening. “Except when I’m battling our daughters. Somehow, they always win.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the mention of your kids. “They beat the Chosen One? Impressive. I wonder how many midichlorians they’ve got.”

Ewan chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, while Hayden gave you a knowing smile.

Later in the interview, you absentmindedly rubbed your arms, trying to warm yourself against the chill in the studio. Hayden noticed instantly. Without hesitation, he stood, slipped off his jacket, and draped it over your shoulders before returning to his seat.

You shot him a grateful smile. “Thanks, love,” you murmured softly.

His response was a quick wink, his eyes lingering on yours before turning back to the conversation.

“But seriously,” you said, steering the interview back on track, “what everyone wants to know is—will we get a fight as epic as Mustafar?”

Ewan and Hayden exchanged a knowing look before breaking into amused smiles.

“Well,” Ewan began, “we can’t say much, but I will say this: there are some very intense moments.”

Hayden leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to create intrigue. “You’ll be surprised when you see it.”

You guided the rest of the interview effortlessly, the atmosphere light and friendly. It was obvious to everyone that the three of you shared a genuine bond. Ewan, after all, was the godfather to your eldest daughter and a regular presence in your home.

As the interview wrapped up, you smiled warmly at the pair. “Finally, would you like to invite the fans to join you on this new adventure?”

Ewan was the first to respond, his grin wide. “Obi-Wan’s story isn’t over yet. We’re excited to have you join us on this next journey.”

Hayden nodded, his voice sincere. “Bringing these characters back to life was a dream come true. Every moment on set was unforgettable. We can’t wait for you to watch Kenobi on Disney+ starting May 27th.”

As soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Hayden was out of his chair and at your side in seconds. He pulled you into a warm embrace, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Oh, baby, you were incredible,” he said softly, his hand resting at your waist as his thumb gently stroked over the fabric of your dress. “Thank God you interviewed me all those years ago.”

You smiled, your heart full. “And I’m so glad I did.”

“Absolutely,” he murmured, tilting your chin up to press a lingering kiss to your lips.

When he pulled back, his gaze fell to the plush Anakin and Obi-Wan dolls peeking out of your bag. “Are those for the kids?”

You nodded, amused. “Of course. They’re going to love them.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. “Are you sure I’m not the one who’s going to end up stealing them after they go to bed?”

Hayden laughed, nudging you lightly. “Guilty as charged” he admitted with a laugh, his eyes shining with love and mischief.

As you left the studio together, hand in hand, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the life you’d built—a love story that started with a simple interview and had grown into something extraordinary.

   EX-CONVICT!BABYDADDY!RAFE x FEM!READER

WARNINGS .ᐟ unprotected p in v, breeding kink if you squint, heavyyyy angst, rafe being an asshole (as per usual), brief mentions of guns/police raid and drugs

NOTES .ᐟ guys, i need him so bad, like actually. based on this concept from my silly little brain. dad!rafe stays in my mind 24/7, but this is me we're talking about, so of course, i had to put a lil spin on it. also this turned out way longer than i meant it to, woah

After almost four years, you were finally starting to feel like you were getting your shit together. You were living in a nice house in a nice neighborhood where everyone knew everyone—the kind of place where people literally asked their neighbors for cups of sugar. You had a stable job that allowed you to live comfortably and provide for yourself and your daughter, and you had a big St. Bernard, lovingly named Moonshine after you'd watched one too many episodes of Moonshiners, that provided a sense of safety and security when the nights were cold and the paranoia started to creep into your mind.

Being a single mom was not easy, and it definitely hadn't been a part of your life plan, but then, you met Rafe Cameron—the ever charming, sweet talking man that he was. He swept you up and made you feel like the only girl in the world, like nothing else mattered as long as you were by his side, so when you found out you were pregnant, you were over the moon at the idea of starting a family with him.

But Rafe Cameron was a liar. He was selfish and manipulative, and he turned your life right on it's head.

You could still remember the day the police kicked in the door of your apartment, bursting in with guns drawn, pointed directly at you. You were eight months pregnant and having a gun pointed at you—at your baby—made you physically ill.

They had raided the apartment and found copious amounts of drugs. Your heart dropped, and you immediately felt like an idiot. How had you not known? You knew he made more money than he realistically should have, but the thought never even crossed your mind that this could be the reason. You were heartbroken and angry. Angry that he had lied. Angry that he put you in this position. And, angry that he was leaving you.

Rafe was arrested, and eventually charged with possession with intent to distribute due to the amount of drugs they found, which resulted in a five year sentence. You were sad and angry, not only because you were losing the man you always thought was the love of your life, but also because now, you were alone, and your daughter wouldn't know her father for the first five years of her life.

This anger and resentment festered, mixing with longing and a deep, aching sadness. You couldn't bring yourself to answer his calls or letters, let alone visit him. You didn't know who he was anymore. The man that you saw sporting handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit at his trial was not the same man you fell in love with, and you wouldn't pretend like he was.

You had known Rafe's release date was approaching, but you were under the impression that you still had a little over a year to plan on what you were going to do when it finally came. That's why you were so unsuspecting when you went to answer the harsh knock at your door.

It was a Thursday night, and you were cuddled up on the couch with Moonshine, who was practically the size of you. A horror movie was playing on the TV before you, one you'd seen practically a million times, and every few minutes, your gaze would flicker to the baby monitor on the coffee table that displayed the feedback from a camera in your daughter, Rhiannon's, room.

You jumped a little at the harsh sound of a knock on your front door, the horror movie already having you on edge. You could be paranoid sometimes, especially being a single mom, so realistically, you knew you shouldn't have been watching it so late at night, but they were your guilty pleasures that you couldn't indulge in the light of day because of your toddler.

Moonshine immediately jumped up, a low growl escaping his throat as his hair stood on end. Your brows furrowed at his odd behavior, pausing the movie and unfurling yourself from your comfortable position. Your steps were soft on the hardwood, your socks cushioning the sound as you padded over to the front door, patting the dog's head comfortingly as you unlocked the door, completely unaware with what would greet you on the other side.

As you opened the door, the cool night air hit you, carrying with it the faint scent of cigarette smoke. You blinked in surprise, expecting to see a neighbor, but instead, you found yourself face to face with Rafe Cameron.

Your eyes widened, the air knocked from your lungs as you took him in. He was changed, broader and more imposing, his muscles flexing under his tight black t-shirt as he crossed his arms. His hair was buzzed, his chiseled jawline sporting stubble that made him look older, more mature.

He looked so different, but still, somehow, the same. You were hit by a wave of emotions—longing, love, sadness, but most presently, anger. Who did he think he was showing up unannounced in the middle of the night after all these years, especially looking so unapologetic and devastatingly handsome.

His piercing blue eyes bore into yours, captivating and dangerous like a wave pulling you under when you least expected it. "Hey, baby," he greeted, his voice low and smooth, like honey dripping off his tongue. The term of endearment fell from his lips without any semblance of warmth as he stared at you with an intensity that made you want to shrink in on yourself.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, your jaw clenching and grip on the door's edge tightening. You shivered a little as the cold air bit at your bare skin, barely registering the low growls of Moonshine behind you due to your tunnel vision on the man standing before you.

He smirked confidently, knowing the effect he had on you—the effect he always had on you. His eyebrow arched as he took in your appearance, his eyes lingering on your bare thighs, courtesy of your pajama shorts. "Aren't you going to invite me in, sweetheart? It's been a long time." He took a step forward, his broad frame filling the doorway intimidatingly.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to step back and let him intimidate you into getting what he wanted. You craned your neck to look up at him, his close proximity looming over you, making him seem even taller and more imposing than he already was. "And whose fault is that?" You managed to say, despite the pit in your stomach—a mix of dread, anxiety, and strangely, desire.

Rafe's gaze sharpened, his eyes glinting dangerously. He uncrossed his arms and braced one hand on the doorframe beside your head, leaning in closer. It made your breath catch in your throat, but you held firm. You couldn't let him see that he was getting to you. "Let me in," he clenched his jaw. His anger at you for abandoning him in there had been bubbling up, and your defiance was bringing it to the surface.

A light flickering on in the house across the street caught your eye. Old lady Flanigan had a habit of making everyone else's business, her business, and she was a nasty gossip. Unless you wanted people talking, you either had to let him in or get him to leave, and one of those would be a nearly impossible feat. "Rafe, you can't be here. You can't just barge back into my life after all this time," you told him firmly, your own eyes blazing with a fiery intensity.

"And why not?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. His body was practically vibrating with pent-up anger, his muscles taut as he leaned in closer, his breath fanning across your face. "Did you ever think about me? Did you ever think about what you did to us?"

"What I did?" You scoffed, anger bubbling up inside you at his accusation, blaming you as if he wasn't the one that went to prison and left you alone. "Are you fucking kidding me?" The old woman across the street was now shamelessly watching through her window, and you knew you had no choice but to let him in before her nosey ass called the cops on the strange, clearly out of place man lurking in the neighborhood.

He followed your eyes, looking over his shoulder to the nosy neighbor, his expression darkening. Without another word, he pushed past you, entering the house and forcing you to step back.

Your jaw clenched at his blatant disregard or respect for your wishes as you gently closed the door behind you. Moonshine barked, baring his teeth at the intruder, clearly sensing the tension and jumping into action to protect his family. "Moonshine, stop," you told him firmly. You were proud of him, but you didn't want his barking to wake Rhiannon. The last thing you could deal with right now was Rafe and a crying toddler. You could only focus on one temper tantrum at a time.

Rafe's eyes narrowed as he watched you control your dog, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His gaze then swept the interior of your home, taking in every detail as if memorizing it. "Nice place," he commented flatly, turning back to face you. "Where's my kid?"

You took a deep breath, your gaze hard at him calling your daughter his kid, like he had any right. He didn't even know her name or that she was a girl. "She's asleep," you told him, crossing your arms over your chest.

His piercing eyes bore into yours, unyielding. "Her name." he demanded gruffly.

"Rhiannon," you informed him hesitantly, your gaze darting to the monitor on the coffee table, making sure she was still asleep.

His expression flickered briefly, a flash of something softer, almost vulnerable, in his eyes before it was quickly concealed. He nodded once. "I want to see her." It wasn't a request. His posture remained tense and coiled, ready to react to your response.

You huffed, running a hand through your hair and heading to the kitchen with him hot on your heels. Maybe you wanted to busy yourself. Maybe you wanted an excuse not to have to look at him. Maybe you just wanted to walk away from him, to assert some kind of power. Either way, your next words were spoken with your back to him. "I told you. She's asleep. It's the middle of the fucking night, Rafe, what did you expect?"

He followed you into the kitchen, his presence overwhelming in the small space. The air felt charged, thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. "I don't give a fuck what time it is," he growled, his voice low and intense. "I've missed four years of her life already."

You rounded the kitchen island, planting your hands on it as you turned to face him, feeling more comfortable with the counter between you. Not because you were scared of him but because, despite yourself and despite your anger, you longed to touch him and have him touch you. "And whose fucking fault is that, huh?" You asked angrily, echoing your earlier words that he had ignored.

Rafe's expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he stared back at you. The muscle in his jaw clenched as he ground his teeth together, trying to rein in his anger. "Yours," he bit out. "You left me in there," he accused.

"You left me out here!" Your voice raised slightly before you caught yourself, letting out a hard breath. The only way you could keep yourself from getting sad, from crying over the loss of the only man you'd ever truly loved, was getting angry at him.

"You think I wanted to go to prison?" He hissed, rounding the island and backing you against the counter. "You think I had a fucking choice?"

"You did have a choice," you said sharply, bracing your hands on the counter behind you as you stared up at him. "You chose to deal drugs, and you chose to keep dealing even after you found out I was pregnant. Prison was just the consequence of all your shitty choices."

His hand came up, slamming on the cabinet beside your head, the sound making you jump slightly. "And what about you?" He seethed, his chest heaving as his breath came in short, angry bursts. "What about your choices, huh? You could've waited for me."

"I did what I had to do," you said, glaring at him. You weren't quite sure what else to say. You had to protect yourself, your own feelings, and your child. You couldn't have stayed in touch, sick with worry every night while you soothed a colicky baby all by yourself. You had to forget him; it was better that way, easier.

"What you had to do," he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm and the faintest hint of hurt. "You moved on pretty quick, didn't you? Found some new dick to warm your bed, is that it?"

"Fuck you," you spat, the words stabbing you like a knife to the heart. You hadn't been able to bring yourself to even look at another man since he went away. You told yourself it was just because of Rhiannon, that you were focusing on raising her and being the best mother you could be, but deep down, you knew it was because your heart would always belong to Rafe.

"Is that it?" he repeated, his face inches from yours. His voice was low, his eyes searching yours for something. "You found some other man to replace me?"

"Maybe I have," you said stubbornly. You knew you were being petty, wanting him to hurt like you hurt, but you also knew you were a shit liar, so there was no way in hell he would actually believe you. "Maybe I have moved on."

His other hand shot out, gripping your chin roughly as he forced you to look at him. "Bullshit," he growled, looking down at you, his blue eyes darkened. "I can see it in your eyes. You haven't moved on to shit."

You stared up at him defiantly, your chest heaving with anger, which only intensified when you felt the wetness between your thighs. Even after all this time, all it took was a look and a simple touch to get you so wet, and as much as you hated it, you couldn't deny that something about his post-prison appearance—how rugged and large he was—made your knees week.

His hand tightened on your chin as he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a brutal, demanding kiss. It was clear he was angry, punishing you for the words you'd spoken, and you knew you should've pushed him away—yelled at him and told him to get the fuck out of your house—but you didn't.

Instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as you kissed him with an intensity that matched the war going on within you—the jumbled mess of love and hate that he had brought up within you.

He groaned into the kiss, his hands gripping your face roughly as he devoured your mouth. He pushed you further back against the counter that was now digging into your lower back, his body pinning you in place. You could feel his anger, his frustration, his desperation, and it only fueled your own emotions.

The kiss was raw and charged with a passionate mix of need, longing, and pure, unbridled anger, both of you trying to show the other that this wasn't a surrender of power or giving into the other and accepting blame. The kiss itself was an argument, a fight all of its own that didn't require words.

He hands went to your hips, lifting you onto the counter and stepping between your parted legs. Tearing his mouth from yours, he began kissing along your jawline and down the column of your throat. His lips were hot and insistent, his teeth nipping at your skin as he continued to mark you.

You panted, your chest heaving for an entirely different reason now as you let out soft gasps and breathy sounds of approval, your head falling back against the cabinet behind your head. You had forgotten how good he was with his mouth, always knowing exactly how to drive you wild.

He took advantage of the exposed column of your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the counter. You let out a low moan, your nails raking against his buzzed scalp. As sexy as he looked with a buzzcut, you wished you could run your fingers through his hair, tugging on it slightly everytime he touched you just right.

"Mmm," he hummed against your skin, his voice a low vibration that seemed to go straight to your core. He kissed his way back up to your mouth, his hips pushing forward to press his hardness against your core. "Did you forget how good I am, baby?"

You internally rolled your eyes at his cocky tone, like he had won. "God, do you ever shut up?" You asked, sounding less annoyed and effective since you were still breathless from his kisses.

His hips thrust forward again, making an involuntary whine fall from your lips at the feeling. "Not when I'm right." He smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His smirk was as frustratingly handsome as it had always been, and it made you want to smack him and kiss him all at once. "And I am."

"Don't be a dickhead," you glared at him, his arrogance and your own unyielding need for him only heightening your frustration. You were desperate and aching for him, but you refused to give in and beg him like you wanted to.

"Then quit acting like you're not soaking wet for me." His grip on your thighs tightened, calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh. "I bet if I slipped my hand into your shorts, I'd find you drenched and ready for me, wouldn't I?"

His smug tone infuriated you and turned you on all at once. "Shut up, Rafe," you demanded, balling your fist into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer, so you could press your lips to his, forcing him to shut up and quit pissing you off.

Your grip on his shirt loosened, hand sliding down his hard, muscular chest to his waistband. You had always seen the trope of guys working out their frustrations in prison movies, but you didn't know that was actually a thing. Your fingers fumbled with his belt as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, sliding it along yours in a way that had you moaning against his lips

He groaned low in his throat as you finally worked the belt buckle open, sliding the leather through the loops and dropping it to the floor with a clank. His hands immediately slid up your thighs, hooking into the waistband of your shorts and pulling them down your legs—with the help of you awkwardly shifting to lift your ass enough to do so.

He discarded the garments to the floor with his belt, his palms running along your bare thighs as he parted your legs wider, opening you to him. His calloused fingertips brushed against your center, feeling your slick folds, making you gasp into his mouth. "Told you," he grinned against your lips, finding it in himself to be a complete dick, even when he was about to be inside you.

"Asshole," you mumbled, fingers deftly popping open the button of his jeans and unzipping them. You hooked your fingers in his waistband, shoving his pants and underwear down as he had done to you.

He kicked his pants and boxers off the rest of the way, stepping between your thighs again. His hard cock was flushed, the tip glistening with precum. He gripped himself at the base, rubbing the head through your slick folds teasingly. "What was that, baby?"

Your breath caught in your throat. "Just put your dick inside me before I kill you," you threatened him, though you both knew you wouldn't do anything, not really.

He chuckled lowly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "You want it so bad, don't you?" He teased, his tip nudging against your entrance but not pushing inside. "Beg for it, baby. Let me hear how much you need my cock." He didn't need to be angry when he could punish you like this. He knew begging was the last thing you wanted to do, but he also knew that you'd do it.

"Don't piss me off right now, Rafe," you gritted your teeth, the feeling of him against your entrance making you dizzy with desire.

"Or what, baby? You'll what?" He pressed against you again, the tip of his cock pushing inside just slightly before pulling back out. "Tell me what you'll do if I don't give you what you want." He was pushing your buttons, knowing exactly how to make you snap.

You practically whimpered at the feeling of him pulling out. "Fuck- fine, please, Rafe," you panted, furious with yourself and him that you were giving into him. "Please just fuck me already."

The confident, victorious smirk that instantly appeared on his face had you wanting to slap him. "Now was that so hard?" He condescend. Your annoyed retort died in your throat as he finally pushed into you, making you moan, your head falling back against the cupboard at the feeling of him inside you after so long.

He groaned as your tight heat enveloped him, his fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he started to move. His body tensed, using every ounce of his self control not to cum on the spot. Four years of fucking himself in his hand was nothing compared to the way you were squeezing him right now.

One hand moved up to your mouth, muffling your growing moans and whines. "Shh," he cooed. You were thankful for it. You knew you had to be quiet, but the way he was pounding into you made it nearly impossible.

"Did you miss me, baby?" He leaned down, breathing hotly against your neck as he nipped at your throat. "Did you lay awake at night thinking about me stretching you like this?" He flexed his hips, driving deep inside you.

You nodded, letting out a muffled "mhm" against his palm as your back arched into him. He felt so good, better than you'd remembered, and you hadn't had sex in four years, so you were so worked up.

"Good," he purred, his teeth scraping against your skin as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. "Because I missed you too, baby. Missed this tight little cunt wrapped around my dick." The hand on your thigh dipped down between your legs, his calloused thumb rubbing circles on your clit.

You gasped against his palm, your eyes rolling back at the mix of sensations. You were already so pathetically close, feeling that familiar aching deep within you.

He could feel your weepy cunt starting to flutter around him, and he was more than glad that you were so close so quickly because he didn't know how much longer he could hold back. "Gonna cum inside this pretty little pussy, baby. Gonna get you pregnant again, and this time I'm not gonna miss a damn thing"

His words turned you on more than they should have, snapping that coil inside you and sending you over the edge. You tensed around his dick, feeling your orgasm wash over you as you cried out his name.

"Shit, baby," he groaned, burying his face into your neck, his facial hair tickling your skin as he pushed himself deep inside you, painting your insides white with his release. His breath was hot against your already heated skin, a thin layer of sweat coating both your bodies as he slowly softened inside you.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you tried to catch your breath, his hand falling from your mouth to brace himself on the counter. You couldn't believe that after all these years of promising yourself you wouldn't let him back into your life, you had so easily opened your legs and even let him cum inside you—because clearly that worked out so well for you last time.

He stayed buried inside you for a moment, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of finally being home where he belonged. He eventually pulled out, his softening dick slipping from your tender cunt.

You had to tell him that he couldn't stay, that it would confuse Rhiannon to wake up to a strange man in the house, but you didn't know how, not after what just happened.

He stepped back, allowing you to get down from the counter. A silence fell over both of you as you got dressed, neither one knowing what happens now. He finished buttoning up his jeans, his eyes flicking up to you as he ran a hand over his buzzed head. "So... what now?" He asked gruffly, breaking the silence.

"You can't- you have to go," you told him, pulling your shorts back up and crossing your arms. It seemed unfair to say such a thing after sharing such an intimate moment, but you needed to think of your daughter. She didn't even know who Rafe was.

"You're kicking me out?" He echoed, as if he couldn't believe it. "After... that?" He gestured vaguely, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, both of you finding yourselves right back where you started. "You cant just... be here. Rhiannon doesn't even know who you are." The words seemed cruel as soon as they left your lips, but they were true. You wished they weren't, but they were.

"I know. Fuck, I know that. Don't you think I know that?" He was frustrated, your words like a slap to the face. "But goddamn it, I want to know her. I want to be a part of her life."

"I'm not saying you can't be, but... she's four, Rafe. She's old enough that you can't just walk in and call yourself her father," you told him firmly. "It's going to take time. I don't want to overwhelm her."

"Time?" He asked incredulously. Deep down, he knew you were right, that you were doing what was best, but he was so angry at himself, and instead of facing that anger and acknowledging that this was his own doing, he was taking it out on you. "I've already missed four fucking years. First steps, first words, first everythings."

"I can't keep going in circles with you, Rafe," you ran your hand through your hair, utterly exhausted. "You do this my way, or you don't do this at all." It hurt you to be so cold. You wanted Rhiannon to know her father, but she was just a kid. She wouldn't understand why her dad just showed up out of the blue, and you didn't know how to explain it to her.

He stared at you, his face unreadable. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then, he spoke, his voice low. "Alright. Fine. Your way. But you better not shut me out again. I'm not gonna miss anymore. Understand?"

You nodded, thankful that he was going to stop fighting you on this. "Do you have a-a number or something?" You asked, unsure how long he'd been out, if he got his phone back and was able to pay the bill or if he bought a burner. You didn't even know where he was staying.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's the same as my old one," he said gruffly, clearly annoyed by your previous ultimatum.

"Right, okay," you nodded, your fingers drumming against your upper arm. You two stood in silence for a long moment. Rafe didn't want to leave, and you didn't want to tell him to.

Rafe's gaze fell to the floor, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. "Can I see her before I go?" He asked softly. "Just... just to see her."

There was a shift in his demeanor, a vulnerability about him that told you he really did care about Rhiannon, even if he'd never met her. "Yeah," you found yourself nodding, turning to lead him to her room. As you entered the living room, you could've sworn Moonshine was giving a disapproving side eye. "Don't judge me," you mumbled.

He followed you down the hallway, his heavy boots thudding on the floor. He paused in the doorway of Rhiannon's room, looking in on her sleeping form. She was curled up on her side in a princess toddler bed, her little arms wrapped around a stuffed cat. Rafe's expression softened as he took her in.

His eyes swept over the room, the nightlight plugged into the wall illuminating the space. The walls were painted a light shade of pink, toys strewn about. A small bookshelf sat tucked in the corner, various children's books inside, some sitting on the floor in front of it.

He stepped into the room, moving closer to the bed. He crouched down, his eyes fixed on Rhiannon's sleeping face as he reached out, his large hand gentle as he brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "She's so little," he murmured softly, almost reverently.

You leaned on the doorway, a small, sad smile pulling at your lips as you watched the exchange. You found yourself wondering what life would have been like if Rafe never got locked up, your heart aching as you thought about sharing all of Rhiannon's firsts with someone, bickering over whether she would've said mommy or daddy first. The wobbly first steps, the soothing and band-aid applications after she scraped her knees. What would it have been like to share those moments with him?

Rafe's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "She's beautiful." He turned his head to look at you, and you saw the sheen of moisture in his eyes. He blinked it away quickly, clearing his throat as he stood, masking his emotions as he always had. "I should go."

You hesitated, for a moment wanting to throw everything you'd said out the window and tell him to stay, but you knew you couldn't. You just nodded, letting him push past you. You didn't move from your spot, even after you heard the front door open and shut. You simply closed your eyes, leaning your head against the doorframe as a few tears rolled down your cheeks.

My heart can’t take this 💞

10 Times Drew Starkey and His Actress Girlfriend Had Fans Swooning

Drew Starkey x actress!reader

word count: 2k???

masterlist

fluff, soft drew and i’m literally melting

1. The Subtle Hand Hold

At a high-profile red carpet event, Drew and Y/N stood side by side, looking effortlessly glamorous as they posed for photos. As the flashes went off, Drew subtly brushed his pinky against Reader’s. Fans watching the livestream noticed the soft touch immediately. Just a few seconds later, Drew quietly interlaced their fingers, giving her hand a comforting squeeze as she smiled up at him.

livestream comments:

@fan1: Did y’all see the way Drew just HAD to hold her hand? My heart can’t take it.

@couplegoalsfan: Power couples don’t need to be over the top. Drew and Y/N’s quiet love speaks volumes.

@obxbesties: THE HAND HOLD. I’m not okay. Someone hold me like Drew holds her.

JonathanDaviss✔︎ reposted the video: “Smooth, Starkey.”

2. “She’s My Rock” Moment

During an interview with Entertainment Tonight, Drew was asked about balancing his hectic schedule. He didn’t hesitate to credit his girl, saying, “Honestly? She’s my rock. I couldn’t do any of this without her support.” The interviewer smiled as Y/N looked visibly moved, her hand instinctively reaching for his.

youtube comments:

@fan4lif: When a man knows his queen is his foundation, that’s real love.

@readerfanclub: Drew calling her his rock while she looks at him like he hung the stars? BRB sobbing🥹

@itsmeari: Find someone who talks about you like Drew talks about Y/N.

ChaseStokes✔︎ reposted the clip “We all need a Y/N in our lives.”

3. The Matching Outfits

At the premiere of one of Y/N films, the couple turned heads in subtly coordinated outfits—Drew in a navy suit with a matching pocket square and Y/N in a sleek navy gown with intricate beading. Fans noticed how their looks complemented each other without feeling forced.

tiktok comments:

@fashiondaiy: Drew and Y/N’s stylist deserves a raise. The coordination is impeccable.

@fanpage14: You know you’re in sync when your outfits slay together. Power couple vibes!

@obsssedfan: They don’t just attend events; they OWN them.

Even the film’s director commented, “Forget the movie; people are here for them.”

4. Drew’s Protective Side

At a fan meet-and-greet, a fan jokingly asked if they could get a solo picture with Y/N. Drew, standing just behind her, playfully crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I’m not chopped liver!” he teased, earning laughter from the crowd. He then added, “But okay, I’ll allow it. Just take care of her, alright?”

madelyncline story replays:

@fan12: Drew pretending to be jealous is the cutest thing ever. Protect her at all costs!

@teamdrewnreader: Y/N’s biggest fan is Drew, and it shows every time.

@fangirl: The way he says, ‘Take care of her.’ STOP, I CAN’T.

MadelynCline✔︎ add to story a video of them “Drew’s protective big bad boyfriend energy is unmatched.”

5. Caught in the Act

A behind-the-scenes video from a press junket showed Drew fussing with Y/N’s hair. She was talking to a reporter, oblivious to Drew as he smoothed a stray strand. When she finally noticed, she laughed, “Are you my stylist now?” Drew shrugged, grinning. “Just trying to make you look perfect for the camera.”

interview comments:

@fanxoo: Imagine having a man who cares about you looking flawless. Drew, you’ve set the bar.

@perfectionpair: The way he fixed her hair like it’s second nature. We love a supportive king.

@flawlessfan: He’s her biggest cheerleader and her impromptu stylist???

Rudy Pankow joked in the comments, “Drew’s available for hair tips, folks. DM him.”

6. “We’re a Team” Speech

On another red carpet, a reporter asked how the couple manages the pressures of fame. Drew replied, “We’ve always said we’re a team. Whether it’s in life, on set, or handling the craziness of this industry, we’re in it together.” Y/N smiled up at him, echoing, “We make each other better.”

twitter comments:

@teamgoals: They’re a team, and it shows. Nothing but respect for this duo.

@couplpower: When love and partnership go hand in hand, you get Drew and Y/N.

@relationshipency: If they ever break up, love isn’t real.

Jonathan Daviss reacting to this clip of them “I’m crying, and I’m not even in this relationship.”

7. The Inside Joke

During a group interview for Outer Banks, Drew referenced an inside joke between him and Y/N. When the interviewer asked what it was, Drew smirked and said, “Oh, it’s just something silly. She knows what I mean.” Y/N chuckled, shaking her head, “He’s never letting that one go.”

youtube comments:

@whatthejoke: Okay, what’s the joke, and how do we get in on it?

@insideteam: I need to know what this joke is. The curiosity is killing me!

@investigatorfan: Drew and Y/N’s inside jokes are now my life goal.

Chase added in the interview “Inside jokes are for couples, but they’re letting us suffer. Rude.”

8. Y/N’s Name Drop

During a fan Q&A, someone asked Drew about his favorite on-set memory. Without skipping a beat, he launched into a story about working on a film with his girl. “Honestly, every scene she’s in is a masterclass. She’s insanely talented.” His face lit up as he spoke, and Y/N playfully nudged him, “Stop, you’re making me blush.”

comments:

@obssessedwithlove: Drew bragging about Y/N is the content I signed up for.

@favoritefan: Every scene? Every single one? He’s her biggest fan, and we love to see it.

@lovestoryfan: Man, if someone doesn’t hype me like Drew does Y/N, I don’t want it.

@stanning: He said EVERY scene. He’s down bad, y’all.

9. The surprise kiss

At a red carpet event, a reporter playfully asked Drew what his favorite scene from Y/N’s recent movie was. Instead of answering, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, then said, “Every scene you’re in.” Y/N laughed, covering her face as the crowd behind them cheered.

live comments:

@kissmefan: Drew’s surprise kiss. I’m not okay, you guys.

@forevertogeher: The most adorable and unexpected moment ever. Someone hold me.

@screamingan: This man loves her so much, and it shows every second.

@obsessedforeer: I’m gonna rewatch this clip until I can no longer function.

@dreamcouple: Somebody give these two their own rom-com.

MadelynCline✔︎ reposted on her story, “Okay, even I screamed when I saw this live.”

10. Couple Q&A Video

In a casual Q&A posted on social media, the couple answered fan questions. When asked about their favorite things about each other, Drew didn’t even pause before saying, “Her laugh, without a doubt. I’d do anything to hear it.” Y/N blushed, laughing softly, which only made Drew grin wider.

Y/N, laughing softly, replied, “And I love how he never takes life too seriously. He keeps me smiling.”

youtube comments:

@cutecouple: They’re too cute. My heart is bursting.

@lifegoal: This is what real love looks like, y’all.

@lovereal: Their energy together is so pure. I’m rooting for them forever.

Madison Bailey commented, “Adopt me??”

During a joint interview with Outer Banks cast members—Drew Starkey, Chase Stokes, Madelyn Cline,Jonathan Daviss and Y/N. The interviewer couldn’t resist diving into what fans truly wanted to know: Drew and Y/N’s dynamic as Hollywood’s “It Couple.”

Interviewer: So, Drew, Y/N, you two are pretty much the internet’s favorite couple right now. How does it feel to be labeled the ‘It Couple’ of Hollywood?

Y/N laughed, looking slightly flustered. “It’s surreal, honestly. I mean, we’re just two people who love each other and happen to work in the same industry.”

Drew, ever the charmer, leaned in with a smirk. “She’s being modest. I feel lucky every day to be by her side.”

Madelyn immediately chimed in, laughing. “Ugh, they’re like this all the time. It’s both heartwarming and mildly infuriating.”

Chase nodded. “No, but seriously, the love these two have? It’s not just for show. It’s real, and you can feel it even when the cameras aren’t rolling.”

Jonathan added with a grin, “We’re all kind of their biggest fans. They make us believe in love again.”

Interviewer: Drew, you’ve been very open about how much Y/N means to you. Fans are constantly swooning over your sweet moments together. How do you handle all the attention?

Drew glanced at Y/N, his expression softening. “Honestly, it doesn’t feel like something I need to ‘handle.’ Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. The attention is nice, but at the end of the day, it’s just us.”

Y/N reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “He’s too good to me,” she said with a fond smile.

The interviewer turned to the cast. “Okay, be honest—what’s it like working with these two? Any cute or funny stories?”

Madelyn grinned. “Oh, plenty. They’re so supportive of each other. I remember one day on set, Y/N had a tough scene, and Drew showed up with her favorite coffee and snacks, like the ultimate cheerleader.”

Chase laughed. “Yeah, and during breaks, they’ll have their little moments—like Drew fixing her hair or Y/N making sure he stays hydrated. It’s cute, but also, where’s our care packages, Drew?”

Jonathan nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! But in all seriousness, their relationship sets such a positive tone on set. It reminds us to cherish the people we care about.”

The interviewer smiled. “It’s rare to see such genuine love in the industry. What do you hope fans take away from your relationship?”

Y/N paused thoughtfully. “I think we just want to show that love can be kind, supportive, and fun. It’s not about grand gestures; it’s the small, everyday things that matter.”

Drew added, “Yeah, we hope people see that real love doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be real.”

honestly i love it 😭💗

More teen!dean please ?

⋆˙⟡ milkshakes & car dates,

summary. skipping school with dean is always a great idea

pairing. teen!dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 895

notes / warnings. teen dean!!! that's the warning

The school day drags like wet paint.

Your math teacher’s droning on about parabolas or something equally tragic, but all you can focus on is the folded piece of paper tucked into the corner of your notebook. Ink smudged in the corner, slightly torn — unmistakably written in Dean Winchester’s messy, all-caps scrawl.

WANNA DITCH LAST PERIOD? I GOT THE CAR & A KILLER MIXTAPE

You glance up. Two rows over, he’s slouched in his chair like he owns the school — that cocky grin barely hidden behind the tip of his pen. When you meet his eyes, he winks.

You nearly drop your pencil.

Dean Winchester is trouble wrapped in a leather jacket and dimples. He doesn’t do straight A’s or science fairs. He does engine oil and motel beds and smuggles candy into class like it’s contraband. He’s also the only person who’s ever made you laugh so hard you snorted soda through your nose — and then offered you his flannel to wipe it off.

You don’t even remember agreeing to date him. It just sort of… happened. Between one prank war in history class and that time he walked you home in the rain with only his jacket and zero umbrella. He never actually asked, just kissed you one day after detention and said, “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”

And honestly? You are.

“You sure your dad won’t freak?” you ask as you slide into the passenger seat of the Impala, the vinyl still warm from the sun.

Dean smirks, throwing the car into drive with one hand, the other already reaching for the cassette deck. “He’s in another state and doesn’t know what day it is. We’re golden.”

The Impala purrs to life, and so does the music — loud and unapologetic, something with guitars and drums that make your heartbeat speed up even more than it already is.

“Where are we even going?” you ask, half-laughing, wind tossing your hair as he rolls the windows down.

Dean shoots you a look. “You ever had a chocolate shake from that diner off Route 17?”

“No?”

“Blasphemy,” he says, slamming a dramatic fist on the steering wheel. “Guess I gotta change your life.”

And weirdly… you kind of think he means it.

The diner is straight out of a movie: neon signs, checkerboard floors, waitresses who call you “hon” like it’s your actual name. Dean orders two shakes, extra whipped cream, no hesitation. You try to pay. He blocks your hand with a french fry.

“Not a chance,” he says, grinning. “My girl doesn’t pay.”

Your girl. Your stomach flips.

You sip your milkshake, cheeks warm, watching the way the sunset paints gold into his eyelashes. He’s telling some ridiculous story about Sam trying to iron a flannel while wearing it, and you’re laughing so hard you almost choke on your straw.

Dean reaches over, wipes whipped cream from your lip with his thumb, then licks it off like it's nothing. Like it’s not the most casually intimate thing anyone’s ever done to you.

“You’re staring,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

“No I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it mid-air, winks. God, he’s annoying. And you want to kiss him so bad.

He leans in just a little. “You gonna kiss me or just keep drooling over that shake?”

You raise a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Winchester.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you swear it vibrates all the way to your spine.

It’s dark when he parks the Impala outside your house. The porch light is still on. Your heart’s racing.

Dean walks you to the steps, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He’s quiet, but not in a bad way. It’s like the night slowed him down a little. Let him breathe.

“I had fun,” you say softly.

He shrugs, eyes soft. “You always make it easy.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that buzzes with something new. Something gentle and real and teenage and too big to name. He reaches out, tugging a lock of your hair behind your ear, then just lets his fingers rest there — along your jaw, like he wants to remember how your skin feels.

“You make me wish we didn’t have to leave,” he says, like it’s not a big deal. Like it doesn’t make your heart ache in a way you don’t have words for.

You lean up, brushing your lips against his. It’s slow. Soft. Barely-there at first, until he kisses you back like he means it — like he doesn’t want the night to end either.

When you finally pull away, breathless and warm, he smiles like he’s just won a bet.

“Best. Shake. Ever,” he says.

“You didn’t even finish it.”

He grins wider. “Didn’t need to.”

You laugh, swat his shoulder, and turn to head inside. But he calls your name — soft, unsure, almost shy, and when you glance back, his voice catches a little.

“Hey… you think about the future? Like, what happens after this?”

You pause. “Yeah. You're there, without a doubt.”

“You too.” His hands are back in his pockets. “Just… makin’ sure we’re on the same page.”

You are. Even if you don’t know what the page says yet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say.

He smirks. “Not if I see you first.”

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

Shoutout to whoever decided to give him that hair cut

ೀ spoiled. ( part one )

📞🕯️🎀 ₊˚⊹♡ “ baby , can you call me back ? i miss you … it’s so lonely in my mansion … “ 🧸🪽🍬

pairing: ellie williams x rich fem!reader

synopsis: the mansion you live in is getting too cold , the silence is way too silent , and not even reruns of sex & the city can help … long story short , you’re feeling lonely . wonder if you can think of someone in your contacts that can help and warm you up , a certain classmate perhaps ?

warnings: girly reader , kind of desperate loser ellie , bratty spoiled rich reader so don't read if that annoys you , allusion to smut , actual smut will be in the second chapter , this is dirty so mdni as usual !

an: i wrote this such a long time ago and it wasn't supposed to be two parts but well now it is !! i will start writing the second part if u guys want to so don't be shy in my inbox. not proofread unfortunately ♡

A perfectly manicured hand rests on the fluffy white and silky smooth duvet. the Egyptian cotton, to be exact, is nothing but lavish, a sanctuary of indulgence in the realm of your own private luxury. Then, you tap your nails atop it, and the fabric crinkles. You gently sigh, but it's more so a grumble, and reach over for the ‘Dunkin’ cup standing on your wooden bedside table. It perfectly matches every single one of the furniture in your extravaganza of a walk in closet, and the bed-frame as well. You take a slow, indulgent sip out of the icy cold drink, take an ice cube out with a straw, and gently suckle on it. You place the drink back on the table, shifting your gaze back over to the flat screen television.

Carrie forgave Mr. Big again, and now she’s seen frantically pacing around the streets of New York City in her shiny Manolo Blahniks. You arch your brows, humming in high pitched amusement. you have the exact same pair!

Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda always seem to bring you a sense of comfort. Usually, your bed brings you a sense of comfort as well, and so does an icy drink with specifically eight cubes of ice. Your room smells like French vanilla, a tinge of cinnamon, and the sweetest pie you’ve never learned how to bake. Most of the time, you’d bask in the scent and feel nice, and cosy, and your nose would scrunch and your nostrils would flare out, then you’d open your favorite food delivery app and order a nice ol’ package of nine chocolate chip cookies. Then, you’d pop open a bottle of champagne and indulge yourself in the sweets deliciousness.

But your appetite is less existent than snow in the middle of August.

You’re also freezing cold, fuzzy socks and all — goosebumps rising on your skin and feeling sharp like Japanese knives.

Your best friend of a white home cat, Toodle, elegantly extends his supple frame, his lithe form gracefully ascending to nestle within the cradle of your neck. His bell gently dingles, he yawns and mellifluously meows. Right now, it sounds more like an old mans groan.

“I know, Toots… m’bored too. And cold, Jesus…” you mutter towards Toodles, who, in his usual aloof manner, closes his eyes and surrenders to the soothing hum of his purring. You puff some air out of your mouth, brain wheels turning as to find out what’s the cause of this blue mood. The air conditioning is completely turned off, you’re sure of it, and the fireplace crackles with warmth. Your entire moisturized body is covered up by a ridiculously expensive thick blanket, and it’s not the short VS nightie that makes you feel freezing, you’re convinced of that. For some reason, the frosty sensation persists. You smack your lip-glossed lips before bumping your head against your mountain of pillows, emitting a low grunt of exasperation.

You don’t know the reason for your boredom, or for this bum mood, because albeit you’ve seen this episode about a gazillion times, it never fails to entertain the shit out of your brain.

Maybe it’s due to the fact that you’re entirely alone (except for Toddles, of course, can't forget him) in a 10,000 square feet mansion. or perhaps it’s because the only lit room inside the mansion is your own.

But then you roll your eyes, because your parents are always away (at St. Tropez this time), so feeling alone isn’t a new and strange concept.

Alas, being alone isn’t the same as being lonely.

Your face twists at the depressing thought, ew. You’re not lonely, just… bored, and unamused, and the icy drink isn’t sweet enough and Carrie’s getting on your last nerve, and the 1,000 dollar blanket is starting to itch the hell out of your hyper-sensitive skin.

Which is why you get up from the bed in a moment of eureka, landing your feet against the fuzzy carpet and slide them into your Ugg’s. “Uh huh!” you chirp, you finally got it.

You’re experiencing an old friend of a feeling called (drumroll…) — anxiety, over your unfinished chem project! It must have masked itself in the form of frigidness and discomfort and loneliness.

But the project isn’t even due till next week, and you rarely get stressed over college stuff unless they’re due the next day and you’re sitting, staring down at your laptop screen, trying to communicate with it through telepathy or something of that sort.

Somaybeit’snotanxiety and maybeyou’rejustloney.

You shake away that uneasy and irritating thought, and sit your pretty butt down on the rolling chair. You click your shiny glittery pen (that always sheds some glitter onto your hand) and open up the thick as brick textbook.

You read the first question out loud.

The correct formula for aluminum nitrate is…

Valentino’s Lòco Toile Iconographe shoulder bag in hot pink?

Nope.

You shake your head, you have got to focus. You place your chin atop your palm and click the pen once more.

Al(NO2)3? or maybe it’s Al(NO3)3…

or maybe you’re so far off you need to close the book shut and throw it out of the window. You’ve always sucked at chemistry.

Which is why you were assigned to be tutored by that auburn haired, green eyed, slightly sullen, tatted up girl who went by "Ellie" — or "El", but you didn't know her like that.

Ellie, is the one who stuttered out your name as she realized you weren’t paying attention to her tutoring, as you had your gaze fixated on the black ink etched on her forearm, a half-covered flannel and a canvas of delicate veins. A bug, adorned with intricate botanical details, unfurled its wings across her skin.

“S’uh… A moth, with ferns around it n’stuff. It’s kind of faded now though”

Her voice was raspy and husky, and she stuttered out your name. Usually, you’d hate it when people got nervous around you. It made you feel odd, ostracized, and you always insisted — you were so damn sweet, there’s nothing to be nervous about. You wore sweet perfume, sweet as goddamn cherries and cupcakes, and your voice was soft and you always smiled brightly, and so what if your purse cost more than a college tuition?

But her nerves didn’t annoy you. In fact, you found them charming, and you found her sweet. You found that all of her “Uhhh” ‘s, and her “Mhhm” ‘s, all of her stammering and her lack of ability to keep eye contact with you to be… infatuating.

Then there was that rich voice, and those eyes, that smile, those hands, those damn toned arms, those biceps and the haircut, the way two short strands of hair always framed her face perfectly and her scent — that you could tell was just a cheap cologne, but mixed with her unique fragrance, proved nothing short of intoxicating.

It was also the fact that she seemed to damn know everything — and that she was always ahead of you, and that her face always bore that coy little smirk when you got a question wrong (which you seemed to get more often than not), and that she would grab your Swarovski pen out of your hand and scribble down the answer for you, just to explain it in detail later.

The way she licked over her bottom lip and bit as wrote down.

With her long fingers and all.

When she spoke, her breath smelled of mint and the faintest tinge of weed, which made you think of how lovely it must be to be able to transform into a damn joint just so she could place you in her mouth and suck —

now you’re sticky, and god now you really are distracted, and not by a cute purse or the sound of rain pouring down on your window. Toodles stretches his tiny limbs and you hear his bell faintly dingle again. He climbs down from your princess bed and jumps up to sit at your lap. You caress down his white fur and he purrs.

You wonder if Ellie likes cats.

You know she likes pussy.

You have got to get a grip.

You massage your temples, attempting to focus on the written down questions again, but the words and the numbers seem to mix into a cacophony of odd symbols and letters, and you’re still so goddamn cold.

Albeit your eyelids droop down slowly, eyes spazzing out of focus, the assignment must be done today.

“Just, finish the damn work and go to sleep. Yup.” You mumble to yourself, a habit you picked up as a result of being alone for most of your childhood, and having to opt for the help of imaginary friends to keep you comfort. Alas, you’re older now and only have yourself to talk to.

You try and follow your command.

The problem is, you don’t know jack shit.

You wish Ellie was here, with her hair sticking to her forehead and your pen in her hand and her old chuck’s glued to her feet, as she sits down on the spare chair aside you with her jaw resting on her knees.

You wish you could hear her faint chuckle as you get another question wrong.

As a tutor, of course.

Not even as a friend, because she’s not.

Definitely not as a lover, obviously, because that would truly be so far fetched from reality — although… right now, you can’t help but think of the way her eyes fall down to your chest as a crimson blush creeps up her cheeks.

And you keep thinking about the time you purposely let your bra strap cascade down your shoulder, just because you wondered how she’d react — Which was with averting her gaze to the side and clearing her throat. Now you think of the time you wore an extra short mini skirt, not that different from the rest of them although a bit tinier, and how you kept rubbing your thighs together just to see whether she’d notice or not, which she did…

You groan and slap your palm against your forehead.

Then, you stare at another question and then at your phone. Toodles chimes in with a high-pitched meow.

“Oh my gosh Toots, so true! I should text her the questions, duh”

You’re not delusional at all, by the way.

So you send her your address.

In the meantime, you make sure your studying environment and your room are as tidy as possible. You grab your sparkly pink pen and place it near the textbook, and you grab a matte black pen for Ellie as well, a thoughtful gesture.

You also apply some strawberry scented moisturizer on your body, and spray your sickly sweet perfume on your pule points.

You slip your feet out of your slippers, and you wear your favorite heels. However, you keep your little nightie on. You’re supposed to feel comfortable, this is your house after all, and the heels — are just a courtesy, you are expecting company, and opening the front door with house slippers is entirely rude, and the silky robe… It’s long enough and proper. Ish.

You stare at your reflection down the mirror, and for some reason, you feel utterly nervous. You’re all dolled up for a person who isn’t a stranger, but who also isn’t a friend. When you coat your lips with some minty gloss, Toodles stretches his tail upwards and meows.

“Psh. Do not judge me, Toots. This is normal, I do this all the time”

Which again is a total and complete white lie, because if it was a regular friend coming over, you wouldn’t have even bothered to fix up your makeup, and you’d barely even get up from the comfort of your own bed.

As a matter of fact, not many people come by your house at all. You have your fair share of friends, but you’d much rather hang out by the mall or at one of their mansions, yours always feels just, utterly suffocating — as giant and spacey as it might be. And sure, you’ve had hook ups before, but you always went rigid when they tried to slip past your panties, and you were always… dry, as an autumn leaf.

Ellie makes you feel anything but dry.

Physically — you shake your head and try getting rid of the thought by giving yourself some good old whiplash.

You find yourself pacing around your room, until you manage to cascade downstairs as soon as you hear the bell ring. With each step you take, your heel taps the lavish ceramic pavement.

“Stay”, you gesture towards your fluffy feline companion, who responds with a squinting of his eyes. “Don’t freak out our company”

You look at Ellie’s face from the intercom’s shiny screen. You look at it so hard you nearly forget to press on the button that’s purpose is to let your tutor-guest in. A couple of strands of her auburn bangs stick to her forehead. Ellie scratches her eyes with the back of her hands and she straightens up her spine. As she waits for the gate to open, she puffs some air from her cheeks. She attempts to fix her eyebrows with the tips of her fingers, and seems to be murmuring something underneath her breath.

You’re not the best at lip reading, but your gut tells you she just whispered a “Hi”, and added your name, then — “Hey” adding your name once more.

It’s absolutely impossible for her to not be aware of how stupidly and irritatingly cute she is.

You press on the button and clear your throat. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t practice your greeting in front of a mirror as well. Your robe cascades down your shoulder, you fixate on it and contemplate pulling up the fabric.

Toodles meows once more.

Yup. You should keep it down.

It takes Ellie a good five minutes to walk the full distance from the front gate to your huge white door.

Then she knocks three times on the wood, and you squeak like a mouse although you really were fully prepared.

Your tutor wears a blue flannel with a white undershirt tucked beneath. The first button is opened, revealing a tiny piece of her pale skin. Below, her legs are covered with tight skinny jeans with a tear on the knee (you’re not sure if she fell or if it’s done purposely so), and to your surprise — no Chuck’s, but Doc Martens.

Noted. She has more than one pair of shoes.

When you greet Ellie with a cheerful — yet ever so relieved and breathy “Hi”, you kiss her on the cheek like you do all of your friends, and you can smell that cheap cologne again.

Amber, citrus, musk, lavender.

There’s a hint of actual Ellie in the mix as well — smoke, herbs, sweat… did she run here?

When you hug Ellie you focus on her scent.

When you hug Ellie she focuses on absofuckinglutely nothing — Her body goes rigid and stiff and she doesn’t hug you back until two way too long seconds pass, and she finally manages to place her hand on your waist.

But she doesn’t hug or squeeze, she rests it there.

Then she coughs.

“Hey”

You take a step back and you can tell she’s a bit flushed, or flustered — but you take it as her just running. You lean your hand against one of the thick pillars. Her orbs travel frantically from your eyes down to your… legs, that are completely bare and smooth and shiny, then they run down to your feet, which are covered with heels…

You think she might say something about it, about you, how ridiculous you look, so you’re washed up with self consciousness and shyness which is something you rarely get to feel, unless you’re with that damn girl for some reason.

Then her eyes hyper-focus on… the ceiling?

You grant Ellie a half smile and you really yearn to break the silence — but she’s ahead of you. Again.

“It’s… you have a really high ceiling” she says, then immediately glues her eyes on to the floor.

“Uh, shiny floor…” she chuckles so freaking awkwardly, grazing the bottom of her left legs doc’s on the floor so it squeaks. Immediately, Ellie apologizes.

“Shit, sorry, my shoes fuckin’ muddy. I uh, ran here”

You gingerly smile and furrow your brows. You theory has been proven correct. “You ran?”

“Walked, like, not ran ran”

There’s the tiniest droplet of sweat on Ellie’s forehead, which she wipe’s swiftly and clumsily with the back of her hand when she notices your eyes scan it. Oh, she ran ran alright. You do feel a little bad, picturing Ellie’s shoes hitting below her ass as she runs through the streets of your city, with a packed and awfully heavy mauve backpack — smacking against her back with every step she takes. You almost pout, you’re still leaning against the pillar and you smack your lips together — gloss and all, out of habit.

“Could’a given you a ride, y’know” you light sweetly. Ellie’s scarred eyebrow arches up in response. “You have a license?”

You so want to shove her shoulder playfully, but you’re convinced it’ll make her go absolutely rigid again. Physical contact bricks her up — noted.

“Why is that such a surprise?” you flash her a teasing smile. She smiles back at you.

“S’just, thought you’d have a personal driver. Can’t really imagine you driving that monster of a Rover back there —“

You nod in complete amusement. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Ellie teases, followed by a throaty chuckle. “Plus, took you more of a passenger princess type of girl”

And that sentence shouldn’t make you stutter the way you do next. It shouldn’t, but it does. You back away slowly and Ellie follows your footsteps.

“T-that’s, awfully presumptuous” you chirp. Her boots stomp on the floor and your heels click clack. “Plus, I don’t drive that Rover. My car’s in the garage with the rest of ‘em” you say matter-of-factly.

Ellie scoffs impishly behind you. You walk up the stairs and she follows suit. She’s confident when she teases, you think, which is a tad different than her usual awkward self, but if only you knew she nearly slipped down one of the steps as she noticed the tiniest, delicious, most precious piece of your flesh that was just exposed behind you as a result of your incredibly short nightie.

“Psh, so presumptuous”

As you walk towards your room, Ellie walks behind you although she has more than enough space to walk besides you. You get the feeling that she's nervous, even after her teasing and all, and you don't have to wonder why too much. Your house is huge, intimidating, filled with strange sculptures and paintings by obscure artists regular people have never even heard of. You don't have just one living room, you have three, and in each and every one of them stands a different technology piece of some sort. Also, your heels cost more than her outfit, could be more worth than the entirety of her damn closet, and most importantly — you're walking with a pink robe and some heels on.

When you reach your room, Ellie awkwardly smiles and straightens her muscular back. Then, she holds on to the straps of her backpack.

"First of all" you sigh, and now it's your turn to feel coy. "Thank you for coming over so late. I know it's like, absolutely ridiculous, and you know, you don't get paid for this so...", you flash Ellie an endearing smile, the apples of your cheeks rising sweetly as a humble thank you. "And, second of all... jus'... brace yourself?"

Ellie's brows arch up, but before she has time to ask — oh.

You both step into your lit room. Toodles follows by closely, entering the room as well, whilst rubbing his furry back against Ellie's calves.

"Yup..."

Ellie's fingers instinctively clasp onto the straps of her backpack once more, her eyes widening ever so slightly, but she fights to seem as unsurprised as she can — she fails miserably, because she gasps a little.

Your room is nothing but a... cotton candy dream world. A wall that's painted in pretty dusty pink, a princess bed that's nothing but a regal centerpiece. Above the bed, a canopy of gossamer silk drapes from a custom-crafted wrought iron frame, And the final sophisticated touch, a grand crystal chandelier, suspended from the ceiling. There are also clothes everywhere, empty water bottles, used sheet masks, a stack of books — some half-read, others forgotten, teetered precariously on a random corner. Ellie sticks out like a sore thumb. She stands out like a neon sign in a library, a skateboard at a black-tie gala.

You like it.

She clears her throat, stepping further into your room. "I take it black is your favorite color?" she titters sarcastically.

You giggle.

"Mhm, also I'm clearly very organized, and I hate clothes" you murmur and point out the pile of dresses haphazardly bunched in the corner of your room.

She should feel out of place. She should probably laugh, even sneak a pic — tell all her "cool" friends about how mindblowingly ridiculous the prissy rich girls room is. Instead, she thinks about how cute you must look cuddled up in a bed this big, how adorable it'd be to see your bed-head poking through the sheets at 8am, how sweet it must be to watch you skip around your room, trying on your shitload of clothes, throwing them in the air and huffing like a medieval brat of a princess. She wants to place a fucking tiara on your head. She sees your sticker collection from the corner of her eye, your vinyls, your candles, your crystals and Toodles' sofa.

And she likes it.

You take a deep breath. You shouldn't even care if she likes it or not, you shouldn't be bothered by it at all — you rarely are, but something inside of you yearns for... something.

"It suits you" she murmurs.

And that's certainly good enough, because it does.

You gesture Ellie to sit on the rolling chair next to yours, and her eyes still roam over the space of your room. “My room looks exactly the same, by the way… same uh, size too… n’stuffed animals… Shit, I like the elephant one”, she sarcastically remarks as she sits on the chair and hunches down, manspreading as she often does. Your eyes can’t help but roam down, because her damn thighs flexed under those jorts and you heard her, but you also kind of didn’t.

Ellie clears her throat and narrows her eyes. Jheez, she thinks, you must be absolutely exhausted since your eyes don’t seem to be able to focus.

“Huh?” you say, startled. You’re still standing up on those heels. Ellie sniffles and chuckles and her voice goes all quiet.

“Said pink nauseates me, that I hate those stuffed animals and that your elephant doll’s ugly as shit”

You roll your eyes and your tongue swipes over your glossy bottom lip. You bite it and you sit down on the chair. Ellie’s eyes scan over your chest and she averts her gaze like a deer caught in headlights.

“Hate you, chem tutor” you huff, resting your head on the palm of your hand. Ellie doesn’t maintain a second of eye contact but she chuckles and it’s cocky.

“You need me, and you need an A in chemistry”

You like that side of her.

You let your eyes blink lazily at her, a cheeky little smirk forming on your lips. When you open your mouth again, just to smack it on your glossy lips, you brush your leg ‘accidentally’ against hers, and rigid she goes. “Mhm, I definitely need you, Ellie…”

The apples of Ellie’s cheek shine in bright crimson and her hand flexes. She grabs her pen and clicks on it once. You didn’t mean it like that, she so obviously knows or believes, but it matters nonetheless. You like that side of her so much more.

You cross your pretty legs and let the tip of your heel graze her chair. “So, you want a drink before we start studying?”, you’re way too damn close, she nods — but she doesn’t need a ‘drink’ she needs a damn water fountain that directly flows onto her mouth and satisfies that damn drench. Is it possible for her damn knee to feel hot? Why is her knee feeling hot?

“Anything specific?”

“Jus’ waters fine” Ellie manages to murmur, lips forming a teeny tiny, shy, crescent smile.

“I was thinking more… like, wine? I have a wine cooler n’my room… if you wanted water i’d have to like, go downstairs and… It’s so lonely in there” your voice is saccharine, delicate, and it and coaxes Ellie’s mind.

“Wine’s perfect, I love wine” says Ellie.

She hates wine.

“Mhm, red or white?” — Your question comes when you lift your butt off the chair and walk slowly towards the cooler.

“Uh, r-red. S’much… richer” Ellie falters, remembering vaguely the time Joel had mentioned white wine’s for pussies. When she tried a red one, she gagged.

“Impressive” you note.

Ellie rolls the chair with the help of her heavy Doc's, and watches as you pour the red liquid into two delicate glasses. Your leg, she notices, is clad with a shiny, delicate golden piece of jewelry. Her eyes scan upwards, towards your bare thighs — the flesh is glistening, almost appearing as if it's covered with oil. Her mind drifts elsewhere, to a world in which your nightie is nothing but nonexistent, and those thighs...

Her stomach grumbles, she firmly holds onto it. Why NOW.

"Hungry?" you place the glass on the table, slightly nudging it towards Ellie.

She's starving.

you flash her a devilish smirk, cocking your head to the side.

"Oh, uhh... nope"

Famished.

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ fire and air,

summary. you've got castiel under some kind of spell. and it's freaky!

pairing. castiel x demon!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 529

Castiel shouldn’t be here.

Shouldn’t be standing in the dim glow of a rundown motel room, watching the way your black eyes flash before fading back to their human hue. Shouldn’t be memorizing the curve of your smirk, the way it tilts like you know a secret he’ll never understand.

And yet—he can’t leave.

“You know,” you hum, tilting your head, “I can hear your thoughts when you look at me like that.”

Castiel stiffens. “That’s not possible.”

You grin. “No, but I wish it was. Bet they’re all righteous and tortured.” You step closer, slow, like you’re testing him, seeing how far you can push before he pulls away. He never does. “You’ve got it bad, angel.”

His jaw clenches. “You are a demon.”

“Mmm.” You press a finger to your lips, feigning deep thought. “And yet, you’re still here.”

The room feels smaller. He can hear the motel sign buzzing outside, the hum of a television through the thin walls. But none of it matters—not when you’re this close, the scent of smoke and something sweet curling around him like temptation itself.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Castiel admits, voice low, strained.

Your smile softens, just a little. “I don’t want anything.” You reach up, fingers ghosting along the lapel of his trench coat. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

He swallows. He should smite you. He should walk away. He should do a thousand things that don’t involve watching your lips part like you’re waiting for him to make a move.

Instead, he stays.

And he falls.

The first time he kisses you, it’s after a fight that wasn’t even yours to begin with.

You hadn’t planned on getting involved—whatever demon had pissed off the Winchester brothers wasn’t your problem. But then you saw one of Hell’s lapdogs get the jump on Castiel, a blade pressed too close to his throat, and something in you snapped.

So you killed it.

Messily.

Now, blood stains your collar, some of it yours, most of it not. Your lip is split, and there’s a bruise forming high on your cheekbone, but you’re grinning like you just won the damn lottery. “That was fun,” you breathe, licking blood from your teeth.

Castiel should be disgusted.

He isn’t.

“You’re reckless,” he murmurs.

You shrug. “And you’re obsessed with fixing things that can’t be fixed.”

He doesn’t realize he’s moved until his hands are cupping your face, his thumbs skimming over the bruises. A flicker of grace would heal them, erase every mark, but you grab his wrists, shaking your head.

“I like them,” you whisper. “Proof that I made it through.”

Castiel’s resolve crumbles. He kisses you before he can think better of it, before he can remind himself of what you are, what he is, what this will cost him.

Your lips are warm, chapped, and tasting of copper and sin. You make a sound against his mouth—something soft and surprised before you melt into him, pressing closer, fingers threading into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp.

And Castiel—who has fought wars and killed gods and carried the weight of Heaven itself—lets himself fall a little deeper.

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