Little Glimpses

꒰ lick it up, fucking eat. ᮫ ⭒

married!ellie x interior designer! reader Summary: Ellie hires you to bring her shitty wife’s so-called "dream home" to life, but you end up fufilling something else.

The house was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning, which flowed through the sprawling, half-renovated living room. You stood in front of a swatch of paint samples, holding each one up to the fading light from the bay window. The sun dipped low, casting golden fingers across the unfinished floorboards, hinting at what the space might look like when it was finally complete. Ellie watched you from across the room, leaning casually against the doorframe with her arms crossed, her gaze drifting between you and the wall.

“That one,” she muttered, jerking her chin toward the beige sample you held. Her voice was laced with something close to disdain. “She thinks it’s ‘elegant.’ "

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the shade—a flat, muted tone that felt as lifeless as the drywall it would cover. "Well," you replied, “if she wants ‘elegant,’ I’m sure we can do more than beige."

Ellie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, a glint of something both dark and playful in them. She pushed off the wall, coming a little closer, her boots scuffing against the rough wood. "Exactly what I was thinking," she murmured, her gaze lingering on you a second too long before shifting to the wall.

You let out a quiet breath, suddenly very aware of the way her presence filled the room, heavy and warm, with a pull that seemed to demand attention. Her sleeves were pushed up, revealing her tattooed forearm—faintly smudged paint stains and a few scratches etched across her knuckles. Her messy hair fell into her eyes, and she brushed it away, glancing down at the floorboards as if they might give her the answers she was looking for.

“So… if it were completely up to you,” she continued, her voice softer now, “what would you do with the place?”

You felt a small jolt of excitement, surprised that she cared enough to ask your opinion. You took a slow breath, letting yourself look around the room with fresh eyes. "Something warm, to make the room feel alive. Maybe custom furniture, something that doesn’t look like it’s from a catalog."

She nodded slowly, her gaze following yours as you spoke, but there was something deeper, something unspoken in the way she looked at you. Like this wasn’t about the walls or the furniture.

"We could go for that," she said, and her voice dropped, quiet, the weight of her words sinking into the empty space between you. "Anything that makes this place feel less… hers."

Your heart fluttered at the faint edge of bitterness in her voice, the quiet rebellion hiding beneath her sarcasm. She was closer now, close enough that you could feel her warmth radiating toward you in the cooling room, close enough that you could see every detail of her: the subtle flecks of green in her eyes, the faint line of a scar near her temple.

You reached out, brushing your fingers over a scratch on the windowsill. "This place could be incredible. It just needs to feel lived in, loved.”

Ellie swallowed, her eyes following your hand. “Can you fullfill that?,” she murmured, and there was a softness in her voice now, something that made your stomach flip.

Your breath caught, pulse quickening as you felt the subtle shift in the air between you. The moment held a thread of tension, tight and fragile, like something waiting to be snapped. You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’d love to show you. Just need a little… freedom with the choices.”

Ellie’s smirk returned, faint but laced with something deeper, "Freedom, huh?" She stepped back, giving you a lingering once-over before nodding, her voice a low murmur. "Yeah… I think we can work something out."

She pulled her gaze away reluctantly, as if forcing herself to break the spell, and you felt the strange tug of her absence, the fading warmth of her presence as she retreated toward the hallway. "Just… no beige," she added, her back already turned, her voice drifting down the hall like an invitation. 

You stood there, the glow of the setting sun washing over you, you realized you felt a thrill. 

The days passed in a blur of decisions, late-night calls with suppliers, and a dozen small, carefully calculated adjustments to make the space feel warmer, more vibrant—despite the rigid input from Ellie’s wife. You’d spent the afternoon with her, going over fixture placements and fabric swatches. She was precise, clinical, every suggestion an opportunity to correct, to refine, to turn down anything that dared to stand out.

Ellie’s wife stood in the middle of the room, studying the sofa with a critical eye. She let out a sigh, her fingers skimming over the velvet, dismissing it as though it were somehow beneath her. “I thought I made it clear I wanted something more sophisticated. This feels… almost flashy.” Her gaze landed on you, thinly veiled irritation simmering beneath her smile.

You opened your mouth to explain the intention behind the choice when the front door opened. Ellie walked in, still in her work clothes, a slight weariness to her step. Her gaze moved from you to her wife.

Ellie’s wife immediately turned to her, her posture stiffening. “There you are. I was just telling our designer here that this,” she gestured to the room around her with an air of distaste, “is not what we discussed.”

Ellie’s face tightened, a frustrated, almost exasperated look clouding her eyes. “ A little color wouldn’t kill you.”

“Yes, but I expected you’d listen to what I actually wanted.” She crossed her arms, her gaze pointed. “This was supposed to be tasteful, Ellie. Not… whatever this is.”

Ellie let out a dry laugh, brushing past her, stepping closer to you as she took in the room. “And by ‘tasteful,’ you mean dull walls and soulless furniture. Right?” 

Her wife’s eyes flashed, and she folded her arms tighter. “It’s not my fault you don’t understand the concept of refinement.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched, her hand flexing at her side. “God, do you even hear yourself? It’s a fucking home, not a damn workplace. Just—" she glanced over at you, her face softening briefly as if realizing you were caught in the middle. "Never mind.”

You held your breath, feeling the tension swell, a raw kind of frustration radiating between them. But Ellie’s wife was relentless, her voice sharp and dismissive. “Oh, here we go again. You act like I’m asking for something ridiculous. Just admit it—you’re the one who’s never satisfied. You’re the one who thinks everything has to be some big, meaningful statement. Not everything’s about you, Ellie!”

Ellie’s face flushed, her eyes flashing with something dangerously close to anger. She opened her mouth, then closed it, a defeated breath slipping past her lips as she seemed to reconsider. She cast one last glance at you, and you felt that familiar pull between you—a silent, unspoken understanding—and then, with a shake of her head, Ellie stormed off, her shoes echoing down the hallway until the door slammed behind her.

Silence swallowed the room, leaving you and her wife alone once more. 

“See what I have to deal with?” she muttered, shaking her head. "She gets these weird ideas about what’s ‘creative’ or ‘cool’ and just… doesn’t listen to reason. She doesn’t even understand what it takes to make a space look sophisticated. Her taste—it’s like a teenager trying to decorate a dorm room."

You felt your grip tighten on the sample book, but you forced yourself to stay professional. “Well, Ellie did mention she wanted something with a bit more character.”

Her wife snorted, crossing her arms with an exasperated sigh. “Exactly. Character. She’s so out of touch with what a home needs to feel welcoming. She can’t just accept that maybe—just maybe—she doesn’t know better than me.”

She flipped past a deep, velvety forest green swatch Ellie had specifically loved. “This green? I mean, it’s hideous. Who even wants a dark color like that in their home? It’s depressing.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, looking at the swatch she’d just discarded. “It could add some depth to the space. Sometimes dark colors bring a warmth that—”

Her wife gave you a sharp look, like you’d crossed some invisible line. She forced a tight smile. “Trust me,” she said, voice dripping with condescension, “there’s nothing to ‘deepen’ here. I know what I want, and I don’t need Ellie’s… outlandish tastes cluttering up my vision.”

The house had transformed into a hive of activity, buzzing with the sounds of hammers, paint rollers, and snippets of conversation as workers bustled around. Every corner of the room felt alive with movement, a stark contrast to the emptiness you’d felt days prior. Furniture was being hauled in, drapes were hung, and the walls were beginning to take on their new colors. Yet despite the flurry of activity, your attention was divided, searching the room more often than not for a familiar face.

And then, as if on cue, Ellie appeared.

She wove through the workers, carrying a crumpled paper bag in one hand and balancing two cups of coffee in the other. She wore a smile, her messy hair peeking out from under a faded baseball cap, a glimmer of excitement lighting up her face as she caught your eye. She slipped between a worker with a paint can and another adjusting a lamp, until finally, she stopped in front of you. 

Ellie held up the bag with a faint smile. “Thought you could use a break,” she said, nudging the bag into your hands. “There’s a place around the corner that makes delicious pastries.”

Surprised and a little touched, you opened the bag, the warm, sweet scent wafting out immediately. “Thank you.”

The noise of the workers faded into a distant hum, becoming a mere backdrop to the moment as you took a bite of the pastry. The warm sweetness melted on your tongue, rich and comforting, drawing a soft sigh from your lips. But in your enjoyment, you didn’t notice the crumb that fell, catching just at the corner of your lips. 

Ellie did, though.

In the midst of all the clamor—the sharp buzz of saws cutting through wood, the metallic clinking of hammers striking nails, and the sound of her wife’s sharp voice scolding a worker about the paint application—Ellie stepped closer, her expression suddenly serious.

Her fingers were careful, warm, and impossibly soft as they brushed the crumb from your lips. You felt her fingertip linger there, feather-light, barely skimming your skin, but enough to make your breath catch.

Her gaze held yours, deep green eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion that pulled you in. Ellie’s fingers felt electric against your skin, her knuckles resting against your cheek, the warmth radiating from her touch contrasting with the cool air of the room. Ellie’s eyes dropped for just a heartbeat, shifting from your gaze to your mouth, where her thumb hovered near your lip. You could feel your heart racing, each beat echoing in your ears as she lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

You could hear her breath hitch slightly as her fingers finally pulled away, leaving your skin cold in their absence.

“Fuck” she murmured, voice low and just a little hoarse. Her gaze drifted to your lips one last time, almost on purpose, before she forced her eyes to focus anywhere but on you. 

You remember when the affair began.

It was a cold winter, the kind that seeped into your bones, making everything feel heavy and muffled. Snow blanketed the world outside, a serene white glow through the window. 

Ellie was pressed against you, her body radiating heat as she leaned in closer, her face achingly near yours. You could feel the warmth of her breath mingling with the cool air between you. Her hands flexed around your hips, desperate to grip them, to anchor herself to you. 

There was a desperation.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” She pleaded, her voice strained,  a wish that perhaps if you rejected her, if you spoke the words she needed to hear, the desires swirling for you would vanish. 

But as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against yours in a feather-light touch, the world around you blurred.  A shiver raced down your spine, igniting something deep within you—a spark that flared into a flame, daring you to give in. 

“I need you,” Ellie breathed, the urgency in her voice sending warmth pooling in your stomach. Her words ghosted over your skin, leaving a trail of heat that made it impossible to think straight. “I need to feel you, to taste you. Please, let me have you…” 

You could see it in her eyes—the hunger, the need. 

Your lips touched Ellie’s, slowly, tentatively at first. You hesitated for a moment, searching her eyes for any sign of hesitation, any hint that this was a mistake. But all you found was a dark hunger reflected in her gaze, a need that mirrored your own. The soft sound of falling snow outside barely registered as you leaned in closer, feeling the warmth of her body.

Ellie’s lips then pressed against yours, slow and soft, “Oh, fuck.” she gasped, her breath warm against your mouth. 

It was all you needed. 

You kissed her again, this time deeper and more sensual, losing yourself in the taste of her. Every brush of your lips was a question, every stroke of your tongue an answer. Savoring the way her tongue stroked against yours with caresses that left you breathless.

“God, you taste amazing,” she murmured against your lips. The way she spoke made you feel seen, desired, as if every part of you was exactly what she craved.

“Ellie…” you breathed, her name slipped from your lips so easily. 

Ellie’s kisses grew more urgent, each one a desperate plea for more as her hands gripped your hips with bruising force, anchoring you against the wall. Her lips trailed down your neck, gasping as her teeth grazed over your skin.  And then, without warning, she sucked hard, her mouth forming a seal against your neck. 

“Oh fuck..” you breathed, your voice aching to be more than a whisper. 

Ellie was already lost in her own world, her focus entirely on you, on the way your body responded to her touch.

"Shhh, we need to be quiet," she whispered, her voice low with need, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils dilated with lust, a fiery spark that made your stomach knot.

Her hands wandered down your body, fingers tracing the contours of your ass, kneading the soft flesh as she pulled you closer, digging into your skin and leaving dents where her grip tightened.

"God, I can’t get enough of you." she breathed, her hands slipping to unbutton your jeans. Her fingers teased the waistband of your panties, dipping just beneath the fabric to caress your folds, igniting a heat through you. She kissed and nipped at your neck, her tongue flicking out to taste your sweat-slicked skin.

Her hand slid further into your panties, her fingers parting your slick folds to stroke your sensitive clit. You gasped, your mouth agape as she circled the swollen nub with a feather-light touch. Her other hand slid up your body, cupping your tit and kneading the soft mound. Her fingers found your hardened nipple, pinching and rolling the sensitive bud between her thumb and index finger.

"Oh fuck.." you hiccuped, “please.." 

Leaning down, ellie’s hot breath hovered over your sensitive skin before she took your nipple into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it. She moaned against your nipple, her tongue flicking against the hardened bud as she sucked hard, her teeth grazing your skin, making you gasp.

"Ellie," you begged, your voice strained with need. "I need more.”

Her eyes darkened with lust as she gazed at you, turned on by your desperate pleas. "Beg for it," she groaned, her voice low. Ellie's fingers stroked your slick folds, teasing your entrance but not yet delving inside. She circled your clit with light touches, making you buck your hips, seeking more friction.

“Please," you moaned. "Please, fuck me."

Apparently she didn’t need much convincing.

With an urgency, Ellie plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your soaking cunt, curling them upward to stroke that sensitive spot inside you. The lewd sound of your juices squelching filled the air as she pumped her fingers in and out, stroking your inner walls with each thrust, her thumb rubbing soft circles around your aching clit.

"Atta girl.." Ellie groaned, her voice thick with desire. "Ride my fucking fingers."

"fuuck, right there," you moaned, your eyes rolling back in pleasure. 

You reached down to slide your hand to unbutton ellie’s jeans. Her belt clinking as her hips bucked forward. Your fingers crept beneath the waistband of her boxers, feeling the slick flesh of her dripping hole.

"Fuuck me," Ellie moaned, grinding her hips against your hand, spreading her thighs wider to give you more access to her aching cunt. Her movements were desperate, urging you to rub her swollen clit, the sensitive nub pulsing beneath your touch.

"Yes, fuck, just like that," she groaned, her perky tits bouncing slightly with each thrust. Her head rolling back in pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as she lost herself.

"Yes, just like that," You moaned, ellie’s fingers pumping faster in and out of your dripping cunt. She could feel your slick coating her fingers, your juices dripping down her wrist. Your hips jerked erratically, your stomach beginning to knot. With a sharp cry, you came, your pussy spasming around her fingers as you rode out your orgasm.

"That's it, cum for me," she moaned, rubbing your clit faster to prolong your pleasure. "Come all over my fucking fingers." Your body shuddered, your walls clenching around her as you milked her fingers for all they were worth. She could feel your juices gushing out, coating her hand and dripping onto the floor. Your moans filled the room, echoing obscenely off the walls.

Ellie slowly withdrew her fingers, feeling your walls clench around her as she pulled them out. Your juices coated her hand, glistening in the low light of the room.

She grabbed your shoulders, pushing you down to your knees. She hooked her thumbs in her waistband, shimmying her boxers down her thighs before stepping out of them. Ellie's pussy was glistening, she parted her folds to reveal her throbbing clit. She straddled your face, her dripping cunt hovering just above your mouth

“Fuck I -" Ellie moaned, grinding her hips down to press her pussy against your lips. “Fucking taste me.” Ellie's juices coated your mouth as you flicked your tongue out, lathering it along her slick folds before delving inside her dripping hole. Ellie's poor thighs trembled, her hands gripping your hair as she rode your face frantically, bringing her fingers to her lips, sucking your slick off of them with a low moan.

“You’re so fucking good," She groaned, her juices coating your mouth, dripping down your chin.

"That's it, right there," Ellie panted, her thighs trembling around your head. "Fuck, your tongue feels so good." Her hands gripped your hair, pulling you closer as she rutted against your mouth. 

"That's it, fuck, I'm gonna cum-," Ellie moaned, her hips jerking erratically. You plunged two fingers deep into Ellie's soaked cunt, her walls clenching around quickly, her juices gushing out. You sucked ellie's clit faster, feeling it twitch beneath your tounge as she came. 

“What the fuck!?” ellie’s wife excalimed. 

She had walked in, her eyes widening in shock as she took in the scene before her. 

Ellie was still straddling your face, her dripping pussy pressed against your mouth. The obsecene sounds of slurping and moaning filled the room, leaving no doubt as to what had been happening. 

You remember when the affair began. 

You remember when the affair ended.

⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 home sweet home,

summary. daddy's home after a day at work

pairing. dean winchester x reader ; apple pie life au

wordcount. 481

The second Dean steps through the front door, he hears the rapid patter of tiny feet against the hardwood floor.

“Daddy!!”

Before he can even drop his duffel, a little body barrels into his legs, arms wrapping tight around his knees. Dean chuckles, bending down to scoop his daughter up into his arms.

“Hey, munchkin,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She smells like baby shampoo and crayons, her tiny fingers fisting into his shirt like she never wants to let go. “Miss me?”

She nods enthusiastically, curls bouncing. “So much! Mommy’s making pie.” Her big green eyes shine up at him, pure excitement. “For you.”

Dean’s lips tug into a slow grin. “Yeah? What kind?”

“Puh-cawn!”

“Pecan?” he corrects, smirking.

She huffs. “That’s what I said!”

Dean laughs, ruffling her hair as he carries her into the kitchen. And that’s when he sees you—standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted in flour. There’s a pie dish sitting on the counter, golden crust crimped perfectly at the edges, the scent of caramelized sugar and toasted pecans filling the warm space.

His stomach growls on instinct.

“Y’know,” he drawls, stepping closer, “a guy could get used to coming home to this.”

You glance up, grinning as you wipe your hands on a dish towel. “You mean coming home to your daughter tackling you or to me making your favorite pie?”

Dean sets your daughter down, letting her scamper off toward the living room before slipping an arm around your waist, tugging you close. “Both,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “Definitely both.”

Your smile softens, fingers finding the grease stains on his jacket. “Long day?”

Dean exhales, resting his forehead against yours for a moment. “Yeah. Couple of stubborn transmissions, some asshole who didn’t know how to change his own oil. Business as usual.”

You hum, reaching up to brush a smudge of oil from his cheek. “Well, now you’re home.”

“Damn right, I am.”

Dean leans in, lips brushing over yours, slow and easy, like he’s tasting the very thing he’s been craving all day. When he finally pulls back, there’s warmth in his gaze, something deep and grateful.

You poke his chest playfully. “Now, go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks, but before he moves, he steals another quick kiss, grinning against your lips when you sigh into it.

His daughter peeks her head around the corner. “Daddy, are you kissing Mommy again?”

Dean winks at her. “Get used to it, sweetheart.”

She giggles, disappearing with a squeal when he playfully stomps toward her.

And as he heads toward the sink, rolling his sleeves up, listening to the quiet hum of home—his daughter’s laughter, the clatter of dishes, the smell of fresh-baked pie—Dean swears, for the first time in his life, he has everything he’s ever wanted.

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Bunny

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: I actually said I'd never do another series again but here we are 😼. Looollll anywho, Y/N literally is literally a walking definition of older child syndrome and her and Rafe hate eachother so much stop. This is gonna be such a good enemies to lovers get me outta here

warnings: mentions of drugs, smoking, drinking, a strip club (duh), naked women, drug dealing, aggressive behaviour.

(P2)

The faucet dripped steadily, each drop hitting the rust-stained sink with an echo that filled the quiet of the house. Y/N stood in the cramped bathroom, arms crossed, lips pressed together in frustration as she watched the slow but relentless leak. 

Another thing broken. 

Another thing they couldn’t afford to fix.

She let out a slow breath, running a hand down her face before turning sharply at the sound of footsteps thudding through the hallway. She knew them well—JJ, heading for the door, heading out. Again.

“JJ.” 

Her voice was firm, but it barely slowed him down as he moved through the house, searching for his keys. He muttered, pushing past the worn couch and shoving a hand into the pocket of his frayed shorts.

“Not now, Y/N, alright?” 

“JJ, seriously.” 

She stepped into his path, arms out now, forcing him to stop. 

“Can you just- can you talk to me for five seconds?”

“What?”

His blue eyes flicked up to hers, but there was impatience in them, already halfway gone even as he stood in front of her. Y/N clenched her jaw, gesturing back toward the bathroom. 

“Shit’s breaking faster than I can fix it. We need money and I can’t do this alone.”

“I’ll figure something out, okay?” 

JJ sighed, rubbing a hand down his face as he stepped around her, heading toward the door again. She let out a humorless scoff watching her brother avoid the conversation- once again.

 “What about that job interview at the gas station I told you about last week?”

She’d told him about it last monday, she could still remember begging the manager to give him a chance, given his reputation- well it wasn't the best. JJ’s shoulders tensed slightly, and for the first time, he hesitated. 

“Uh… yeah, about that…”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. She already knew the answer before he finished his sentence. She spoke slowly, warning in her tone.

 “JJ” 

“Look, me and the Pogues were fishing, and we kinda… lost track of time.”

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. Y/N shut her eyes, exhaling sharply as she lifted her hands to cover her face. 

“Are you serious?”

“I mean, technically, I did show up. Just… a little late.”

JJ let out a half-hearted chuckle, like maybe that’d soften the blow. She dropped her hands, shaking her head as exhaustion settled deep in her bones. 

“Jesus, Jay. Do you even care?”

JJ frowned but didn’t answer right away. He knew he was being a little unreasonable- but in his defense he was just a teen. His silence however told her everything. She looked at him and momentarily took in his appearance, his messy blond hair, his summer kissed skin; she envied him a little, the way he was always out and about, not worried, never stressed. She muttered, turning on her heel.

“Forget it” 

“Y/N—”

But she was already walking away, back toward the bathroom, back toward the leaking faucet, back toward everything she had to deal with alone. JJ hesitated for a second, watching her go, then sighed and yanked open the door. And then it shut behind him, leaving Y/N standing there in the silence. She swallowed hard, blinking back the stinging frustration behind her eyes.

"Yeah," she muttered to herself, voice barely above a whisper.

 "Guess I'll figure it out myself."

After a while she had given up on the leaky faucet, cleaning up the house- to the best of her ability- before settling down in the kitchen.The stack of bills sat on the dining table, a messy pile of final notices and overdue warnings. Y/N stared at them, her fingers running over the edges of the envelopes, as if touching them could somehow make the numbers smaller, make the debt disappear. The utilities, the rent- hell, even the grocery bill? It was all piling up faster than she could keep up with. Sometimes she wished she could turn back time, move back to when she didn't even know about all of this, before she showed her dad she could look after herself - and JJ… maybe then she wouldn't have this constant weight on her shoulders.

With a sigh, she dropped her head down onto the table, resting her forehead against the cool surface. Think, think, think. There had to be a way to come up with money, something quick, something that didn’t involve relying on JJ, because clearly that wasn’t an option either now. Her mind raced through possibilities, but every idea led to a dead end. The front door swung open and then slammed shut. Y/N didn’t even lift her head as heavy, stumbling footsteps made their way inside. 

She knew that gait all too well. 

Her jaw clenched as her father mumbled something incoherent under his breath, his words slurred, laced with whatever shit he had put in his system tonight. She stayed still, hoping, praying, that he’d just pass out somewhere and leave her be. Without a word to her, he shuffled through the house, disappearing into her bedroom. Y/N pursed her lips, lifting her head slightly as she listened to him rustling around in there. She knew better than to go after him. Whatever he was looking for- money, booze, something to pawn- she wasn’t about to get in his way.

Instead, she pushed back from the table, standing up slowly, her hands pressing against the wood as she steadied herself. The house was too quiet now, except for the occasional sound of drawers opening and closing in her room. Her stomach twisted. She needed to get out of here, needed to fix this mess before it swallowed her whole.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She’d been driving with no real destination, letting the silence of the night and the hum of the engine settle her thoughts. She’s gripping the wheel tightly, her thoughts tangled in the mess of overdue payments, an empty fridge, and a father and brother who barely acknowledge her existence unless they want something.Then, as she’s driving through the dimly lit streets, she passes by it. The neon sign flickers, casting a dull pink glow onto the pavement, and without even thinking, she slams the brakes. Her car comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the empty street and can feel her seat belt digging into her chest momentarily, her heart pounding as she stares at the building.

It’s not like she’s never thought about it before. 

She’s heard things, seen the type of girls who walk in and out of there, all done up with money to spend. And right now, she has nothing- nothing but overdue bills and a house falling apart. Her hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. A part of her wants to just drive away, pretend she never even considered it. But another part of her- the part that’s desperate, the part that’s sick of drowning- knows this might be her only shot. She swallows hard, taking a deep breath before finally pulling her car to the curb. She sits there for a second, hands still on the wheel, staring at the entrance, she brings her hand up to rub it down her face, hand resting over her mouth as she thinks. 

Really thinks.

Then, before she can change her mind, she kills the engine and steps out.

The night air is cool against her skin, but it does nothing to settle the heat rising in her chest. Her heart is hammering, her stomach twisting as she closes the car door behind her. The pavement feels unsteady beneath her feet as she walks toward the entrance. The music from inside is faint but pulsing, the bass reverberating through the ground. She hesitates, staring at the worn-down exterior and the neon sign buzzing overhead. As she approached the door, something caught her eye- a flyer taped to the window, the bold letters glaring at her in the dimming light.

NOW HIRING

This is insane. 

She shouldn’t be here.

And yet, she doesn’t turn around, instead her fingers flex at her sides before she pushes the door open, stepping inside. The shift in atmosphere is immediate. The air is thick with perfume and alcohol, the dim lighting casting deep shadows across the room. The club isn’t packed- it’s late on a weekday- but there are still men scattered around, cash in hand, eyes glued to the stage. A girl moves fluidly under the colored lights, her body illuminated by pinks and blues as she wraps herself around the pole. Y/N swallows, forcing herself to keep walking, past the wandering eyes of men who glance at her but don’t linger. She doesn’t know exactly where she’s going, only that if she stops now, she’ll most likely lose her nerve.

She spots a bar toward the back and makes a beeline for it, hands slightly clammy. A woman stands behind the counter, pouring a drink for some guy in a suit. Y/N waits until she’s done before leaning in slightly. 

“Hey, um- do you know who I talk to if I’m looking for a job?”

The woman lifts a brow, gaze flicking over Y/N, taking her in. Then, without a word, she jerks her chin toward a door near the back as she picks up a glass on the counter and starts drying it. 

“Through there. Ask for Tommy.”

Y/N nods, her pulse jumping as she turns toward the door. This is it. She can still leave, still pretend she never came here. But instead, she takes a breath and pushes the door open. The door swings shut behind her with a dull thud, muffling the thumping bass from the main room. The air back here feels different- less suffocating, it’s dimly lit, the walls lined with old vintage posters of strippers and liquor crates, the faint scent of cigarettes lingers in the air.

Y/N’s eyes adjust quickly, landing on a man seated behind a cluttered desk, lazily counting a stack of cash. He looks to be in his late forties, broad-shouldered with thinning hair and a face that’s seen its fair share of rough nights. A half-smoked cigarette dangles between his fingers. He doesn’t look up immediately, just exhales a cloud of smoke before finally lifting his gaze to hers. His eyes sweep over her, slow and calculating. 

“You lost, sweetheart?”

“I saw you were hiring.”

Y/N shakes her head, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket.That piques his interest. He leans back in his chair, eyeing her with something between amusement and scrutiny. 

“That so?”

“Yeah. I—I need a job.”

She nods, trying to keep her voice steady. Tommy taps his fingers against the desk, sizing her up. 

“You ever danced before?”

Y/N hesitates for half a second, “No.”

He smirks like he expected that answer, responding with a slow nod as he places the money he was counting into an envelope labeled ‘Bambi’. 

“You got any experience bartending? Serving?”

“...I'm a waitress at the country club.”

His brow lifts, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to laugh in her face. Instead, he sighs, rubbing a hand down his jaw, momentarily pausing as he closes up the envelope, puts it onto a pile and looks up to her. 

“So, what? You just walked in here hoping I’d throw you on stage?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

Y/N presses her lips together, shifting on her feet. Tommy watches her for a beat, then gestures toward the empty chair across from him. 

“Sit.”

She does, moving forward and lowering herself onto the chair in front of him, the leather squeaking a little as it makes contact with her bare thighs. He studies her in the dim light, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. 

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N,” he says, dragging the word out like he’s tasting it. “You don’t look like a girl who just woke up one day and decided this is what she wanted to do. So tell me- what are you really doing here?”

“I need the money.”

Y/N clenches her jaw. Tommy hums, nodding like that doesn’t surprise him as he taps the ash of his cigarette on the edge of an empty whiskey glass. 

“That part’s obvious.” 

He leans forward slightly as he continues, resting his elbows on the table. 

“But I need to know what I’m dealing with. You got people who’ll come looking for you? A jealous boyfriend? Strict parents? Any reason this might come back to bite me in the ass?”

Y/N hesitates, because the truth is- complicated. JJ wouldn’t approve, not in a million years, his sister working in a strip club? There was no way he would be happy about it, but the more she thought about it, he’s barely around- and besides she is the older sibling. And Luke? She doubts he’d even notice with the way he’s always high out of his mind. Yet deep down she knew, if he did find out it certainly wouldn’t end well.

“No,” she says finally. 

“No one’s coming after me.”

Tommy watches her carefully, like he’s weighing her answer. Then, with a slow nod, he exhales another stream of smoke and flicks his butt of his cigarette into the glass. 

“Alright, Y/N… I’ll give you a shot.”

Relief floods her chest, but it’s short-lived as he continues.

“First things first- you start off small. No stage, not yet. You’ll work the floor. Waitress, maybe some private rooms if you’re up for it. Tips are yours, but the house gets a cut. If you prove you can handle yourself, we’ll talk about dancing.”

Y/N nods, ignoring the way her stomach tightens at the mention of private rooms. She can handle this. She has to. Tommy gestures toward the door. 

“Come in tomorrow night. Nine o’clock. One of the girls will show you the ropes.”

“Okay, thank you.”

He hums out as Y/N stands up, gripping the back of the chair briefly before letting go. As she turns to leave her hand reaching out for the door handle, Tommy’s voice stops her.

“One last thing, sweetheart.”

She glances back.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

His gaze is sharp, knowing. Y/N doesn’t reply. What could she possibly say to him? She just nods once and steps back through the door, back into the neon-lit haze of the club.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dressing room hummed with chatter, the air thick with the scent of perfume, body shimmer, and a mix of fruity smoke drifting around. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting girls in various states of getting ready- adjusting lingerie straps, applying a final coat of lip gloss, securing thigh-high stockings into garter belts. Y/N sat at one of the vanities, leaning in close as she fixed the last flick of her eyeliner. Her figure was wrapped in black lace, tiny straps and sheer panels leaving just enough to the imagination- but she still had a few finishing touches to go. Naomi- better known as Bambi- was beside her, placing her straightener down and popping her gum loudly as she smirked at Y/N through the mirror. 

“You’re getting faster at this,” She mused, eyes flicking down to Y/N’s hands as she fastened a delicate silver choker with a small heart pendant around her neck. 

“First week, you were takin’ forever in here. Now look at you. A real pro, Bunny.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled, smoothing out a stray strand of hair before reaching for her gloss. She teased, voice light but with that tired edge that never quite went away these days.

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna pat me on the head next?” 

“Mmm, maybe after your first private dance of the night. If you’re good girl.”

Bambi grinned and Y/N huffed a laugh, pressing her lips together to even out the gloss. A month and some into this life, and she wasn’t sure if she was settling in or just getting better at pretending she had. It was easier now- knowing the regulars, knowing what songs meant what, knowing how to smile just enough but not too much. The money helped. 

God, did the money help.

She glanced down at her phone, screen lighting up with a notification. 

JJ :  Staying at John B’s 

JJ  :  See you tmr

JJ  :  Good luck at work!!!

Y/N stares at the screen for a moment, her stomach twisting like it always does when she thinks about how much she’s keeping from him. He thinks she picked up an extra night cleaning shift at the country club since that’s what she told him. He has no idea that while he’s crashing at the chateau, she’s slipping into heels and stepping onto a stage under flashing neon lights. She locks her phone, pushing the thought away. 

Guilt won’t pay the bills.

“Busy night, you think?”

She spoke as she ignored the message, flipping the phone over and looking back at the girl next to her. Bambi gave a lazy stretch, rolling out her shoulders. 

“Always is on a Friday. High rollers’ll be in. You might get lucky.”

“Yeah, real lucky.”

Y/N scoffed, grabbing her perfume and spritzing it lightly over her collarbones. Bambi side-eyed her, then leaned in with a smirk. 

“Come on, Bunny. You might actually have fun tonight. If not, at least make it worth your while.”

Y/N just hummed, adjusting the strap on her heel as the familiar pulse of bass-heavy music leaked in from the club floor. The music thrums through the floor as Y/N steps out of the dressing room, the familiar pulse of bass settling into her bones. The club is alive tonight- packed booths, the bar swarmed with men flashing cash, neon strobes flickering over clinking glasses and loose laughter. Bambi walks beside her, adjusting the strap of her bra as she surveys the crowd. 

“It’s a good night,” she muses, eyes gleaming as a man waves down a waitress with a fat roll of bills in his hand. 

“Everyone’s in a generous mood hmm.”

 “Looks like it.”

Y/N hums, already spotting a few regulars scattered through the crowd. The air is thick with perfume and cologne, the scent of whiskey and something heavier and smokier lingering beneath. Girls weave through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks, draping themselves over men who let them. The DJ’s set switches, the bass rattling the room, A voice calls from near the DJ booth, and Bambi nudges Y/N with her hip, a smirk tugging at her lips as she sends her a little kiss.

“Knock ’em dead, baby.”

Y/N exhales, rolling her shoulders back as she steps into the chaos of the club. The energy is thick tonight- bodies packed around the stage, eager hands already tossing bills, the bass thrumming deep in her ribs. She grips the pole, the cool metal grounding her for a brief moment before she moves.The nerves are familiar but distant now, part of the routine; she’s used to it- the way the outside world fades the second she steps onto the platform.

Her body flows with the music, slow and teasing at first, rolling her hips as she wraps a leg around the pole and lifts herself with ease. She spins, the world blurring for a second, heels gliding effortlessly over the platform. A whistle cuts through the noise. A few more bills flutter at her feet.

She twists, sliding down with a deliberate drag before pushing herself back up, hooking her knee and arching her back; thighs squeezing the pole as she extends her body in a perfect line. The music pulses, dictating her movements- fluid and sultry. For a moment, there’s nothing but the heat of the lights and the electric charge of the crowd.

But then as she lifts her gaze mid-spin, her eyes catch on something in the far corner.

Two men in a booth, half-hidden in the dim lighting. They sit relaxed, a quiet presence amidst the chaos, yet people keep coming up to them- leaning in, hands subtly exchanging cash, small bags slipping from one palm to another. She doesn’t need to look too closely to know what’s going down. She presses her palm to the pole, as her feet hit the platform again, hips swaying slowly, her focus slipping back to the crowd in front of her, but something gnaws at her, pulling her attention back. Then, the lights shift, a quick flash of neon, just bright enough to cut through the shadows, and she sees him.

Rafe Cameron.

And he’s looking right at her.

Leaning back in the booth, one arm draped lazily over the seat, a glass of whiskey in his other hand. Her breath catches in her throat, her grip faltering just slightly as she steadies herself. But it’s too late. Her moment is stiffer now, the tension stretched between them, across the crowded room, and he’s locked in the way he watches her. Unblinking. She can’t tell what he’s thinking but she knows one thing for certain- 

He knows exactly who she is.

Y/N forces herself to keep moving, to stay in rhythm with the music despite the ice-cold feeling creeping up her spine. But it’s impossible to ignore the weight of Rafe’s stare. It lingers burning through the dim haze of the club. She glides down the pole, making sure to keep her expression smooth- indifferent. Her heart is hammering against her ribs, but no one in the audience would know it. They see only the show, the slow hypnotising sway of her hips as she lands back on the stage, the way her fingers tease at the hem of her lace bra before she moves toward the edge of the stage dropping to her knees. The song is winding down. One last arch of her back, one last deliberate sweep of her hands up her thighs before letting the final beat pulse through her body.

Applause, whistles, the sound of crisp bills hitting the stage.

She scoops up what she can as she stands, but her mind is barely there. Not when she can still feel the weight of him watching. As she steps offstage, she risks a glance toward the booth again.This time Barry is grinning, chatting with some guy in a backwards cap who’s slipping a wad of cash into his pocket. And Rafe- he’s still looking at her, Y/N’s breath catches as their eyes meet again and this time, he smirks. It’s small, almost lazy, but there’s something in it that makes her stomach flip.

Shit.

She rips her gaze away, hurrying toward the bar, barely registering the sound of heels clicking against the floor or the music thumping through the speakers. She drops her earnings into her basket at the end of the bar- before grabbing a glass of water. Her hands are steady as she lifts it, but her heart is pounding wildly. The bartender gives her a once-over as she wipes down the counter. 

“Damn, Bunny- y'look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You have no idea.”

Y/N exhales, pressing the cold glass to her lips. Her eyes drift back to Rafe before she can stop herself. He’s talking to someone else now, some guy in a backward cap, shaking his hand as something small and discreet trades between them-

Fucking hell.

She jumps at the sudden touch on her arm, nearly spilling her drink. Whipping around, she exhales sharply when she sees who it is.

“Jesus, Tommy.”

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing- It’s nothing.”

She responds as she shakes her head slightly, Tommy doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it slide.

“Someone put in a request for you.”

“Who?”

Y/N wipes her palm against her thigh, trying to shake the uneasy feeling creeping up her spine. Tommy leans in slightly, his voice calling out over the music as his head nods in the direction she was just looking. 

“Rafe Cameron.”

Y/N freezes and Tommy notices her stiff shoulders instantly. 

“Something I should know about?”

“Um… I think he and his friend are selling coke-”

“—I know” 

Tommy says easily as he picks up one of the clean empty glasses on the bar, putting it away. Y/N frowns at his words. Since the first day she’d started working here, he had stated to her he had ‘zero-tolerance’ for any of the girls doing coke… so how come now, Rafe Cameron was allowed to walk in here and make this his personal dealing spot. 

“But I thought you—”

“I made a deal with them,” he shrugs, “keeps people coming in, keeps them buying drinks. Business is business Y/N.”

“Right.”

Y/N purses her lips as he speaks and Tommy studies her for a moment, then gestures towards where Rafe was sitting, once again passing over something she couldn't quite make out to a man in a white shirt. 

“I can send someone else, but you’ll lose out on the cash for the night.” 

His voice has that slight edge to it, the one that tells her he won’t be making a habit of exceptions. She hesitates. She could probably say no. She should say no. But then she thinks about the pile of bills waiting for her at home, the ones she still doesn’t know how she’s going to all pay.

“I—” She clears her throat. 

“It’s fine.”

“Good. He’s waiting.”

Y/N exhales, setting her glass down with a quiet clink and then she turns, smoothing out her hair, checking her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. Rafe still leaned back in one of the lounge chairs, legs spread, arm slung over the back of the seat. Barry is beside him, but he isn’t paying attention to whatever he’s saying. His eyes are already on her.

Watching. 

Waiting.

She swallows hard, ignoring the way her pulse kicks up as she straightens her shoulders and starts moving toward him. Her heels click against the floor, her movements slow and she can feel the weight of his gaze. When she finally stops in front of him, Rafe tips his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Hey there, Bunny.”

Y/N clenches her jaw at the sound of his voice- low and smooth, edged with amusement. She doesn’t let it show, though. Instead, she gives him the same sultry smile she’s perfected for every other man who’s sat in front of her.

“Cameron” 

She says, tilting her head slightly, letting her fingers trail lightly over her bare thigh. Rafe grins like this is all some kind of joke. Like she isn’t standing in front of him in six-inch heels and a barely-there outfit, about to dance for him like she doesn’t know exactly who he is.

"Didn’t think I’d ever see you here"

His voice is smug like he’s savouring every second of this. Y/N bites back a retort. She wants to tell him to fuck off. Wants to ask him what the fuck he’s doing here, why he put in a request for her.

But she doesn’t. 

Because she can’t.

Her fingers twitch by her side as she takes a step closer instead, smoothly moving into his space. Rafe doesn’t move back. If anything, his smirk deepens as he spreads his legs a little wider and Barry chuckles beside him, knocking back the rest of his drink before running his hand over his head. He mutters, already moving to stand.

“ 'ight I’ll leave you to it,” 

But before he can leave, Rafe shakes his head, a smirk pulling at his lips,

"No, no—stay man."

Y/N’s stomach twists. She doesn’t want an audience, especially not Barry, she doesn't even want to be doing this in the first place. The club is still packed, neon lights flickering across the space. There are men scattered around, girls in their laps, some whispering things in their ears that’ll have them reaching for their wallets without hesitation. Y/N has done this a hundred times now. She knows the drill.

But this- this is different.

She inhales slowly as she notices Barry sitting back in his seat, eyes racking over her body and she has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. She hesitant, her inner conflict gnawing at her mind but eventually she lets out a small breath a moves forward, swinging a leg over Rafe’s lap, lowering herself onto his thighs, moving her hips in a way that’s meant to tease. She lets her hands trail up his chest in a way that’s meant to be practiced and seductive. But then- his hand comes to rest on her hip.

Her whole body tenses.

Rafe notices. Of course he does. His thumb presses against the curve of her hip, just enough to make her teeth clench. Y/N forces a tight-lipped smile, shifting on his lap just enough to make it look like part of the dance- but really, it’s an attempt to put space between them. Her voice stays low, sharp beneath the sultry act.

"There’s a no-touching policy."

Rafe’s smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. His fingers stay right where they are, his grip on her hip solid, unmoving. He tilts his head slightly, blue eyes gleaming with something threatening.

"None of the policies here apply to me, Maybank."

He speaks out as his finger slips under the strap of her black thong, tugging on it and letting it snap back into position, the feeling causing a sharp sting on her skin. The way he says her last name- it’s teasing, taunting. Like he enjoys the way it sounds in his mouth and Y/N can’t help but clench her jaw at the thought, heat creeping up her neck.bShe doesn’t let her movements falter though, even as his words sink into her skin like a slow-burning ember. Her ass grinds down onto his lap intone with the song blaring out through teh clubs speakers, her fingers trailing over his shoulders, a practiced motion, a distraction- for herself more than for him.

“That so?”

She murmurs, voice light, teasing, playing into the role she’s supposed to be in. Rafe lets out a quiet hum, his thumb stroking over the thin fabric of her outfit.

“Mhm. I don’t think Tommy would wanna lose his best customers, do you?”

She bites down on the inside of her cheek at his words but th rhythmic roll of her hips never stops. She knows he' s pushing her.

It’s in his nature.

Barry lets out a low whistle from his seat which is followed by a chuckle. Her eye's drift over to him sitting his legs spread wide as he takes lazy sips from his drink.

“Damn didn’t peg you for this line of work Maybank. Not that I’m complainin’.”

Her spine stiffens, at she meets his eye's- yet she refuses to give them the satisfaction of leaving before the song is finished. Her focus shifts to Rafe, on the smug expression he wears as he watches her, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Like he’s enjoying this far too much.

Y/N exhales sharply through her nose. He’s trying to get under her skin. And it’s working. Rafe grins, his grip on her hips unwavering he taunts, his other hand sliding down to her thigh, drifting awfully close to her inner thigh as he tilts his head slightly.

“What’s the matter huh? You dance for all these guys, but you’re nervous around me?”

The song drags on, seconds feeling like minutes. Her body moves on instinct, performing for him, back arching as she struggles not to unravel under his gaze. And then, just as she starts to think she can get through this without losing it- he leans in. His breath fans against her ear as he speaks, voice just low enough for only her to hear.

“Wonder what your brother would think if he saw you like this.”

His voice is casual, but there’s something sharp behind it, something that makes her stomach twist. Her jaw tightens.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Just seems like something he’d wanna know,”

Rafe doesn’t even acknowledge her as she speaks, his full attention locked onto the way her hips are still grinding against him. He muses, tilting his head.

“Bet he thinks you’re a little cleaner or somethin' huh?”

Her pulse thrums in her ears, but she doesn’t let it show. Rafe’s smirk deepens, catching the movement. His fingers drum now against her knee.

“Relax, Y/N. I’m just making conversation.”

“Yeah? Funny, doesn’t feel like that.”

She scoffs under her breath. He hums, tilting his head as he takes her in, eyes darting down from her face. Her stomach knots, but she refuses to cower under his gaze. Instead, she leans in just enough that only he can hear her. “You know,” she murmurs, voice dripping with saccharine sweetness,

“most guys just pay and keep their mouths shut.”

Rafe tutted, a slow, mocking sound, then, before she can react, Rafe casually plucks a few crisp fifty-dollar bills from the stack in front of him. His fingers ghost along the curve of her waist before he shoves them right between her pushed up tits, tucking the money into her bra. Heat rushes to her face- not from embarrassment, but from the pure, seething hatred bubbling up inside her. Her jaw tightens, and she shoots him a glare so sharp it could cut glass. Barry, watching the whole thing unfold, bursts into laughter, slapping his knee like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all night.

“Country Club” he wheezes, “she gon' kill you man”

“Nah,” he drawls, eyes flicking up to hers.

“She likes it.”

Rafe just smirks, leaning back lazily in his seat and she scoffs, the sound sharp and dripping with disgust, before snatching the money from between her tits and throwing it straight at him. The crisp bills flutter uselessly against his chest before falling into his lap, but she doesn’t care.

She doesn’t want his money- doesn’t want anything from him.

She shifts to push off his lap, to put distance between them, but Rafe moves faster. His hand snaps around her wrist in an iron grip, yanking her back down before she can escape. A sharp gasp slips from her lips as she stumbles into him, her free hand landing against his chest to steady herself.

He’s close now.

Too close.

Rafe’s smirk fades slightly, replaced by something more irritated as he stares up at her. His fingers tighten around her wrist, his grip just bordering on painful, a silent warning.

“I’d be real careful, Bunny”

Rafe murmurs, his voice low and laced with something that makes her stomach uneasy. Her breath catches, but she refuses to look away, her glare burning into him. He tilts his head slightly, his smirk creeping back as he studies her reaction.

“You wouldn’t want your brother to hear about this little conversation, would you?”

The words hang heavy between them, and she swallows hard, her pulse hammering. Y/N sits there, her body tense, her expression carved from pure, unfiltered hatred. Every fiber of her being screams at her to move, to slap that smug look off his face, but she doesn’t. Because if Rafe tells JJ… she doesn’t know what she’d do.

He watches her, sharp and calculating, before plucking the discarded money from his lap. He folds the crisp bills between his fingers in half, before bringing them up to her face. His eyes stay locked on hers, and his lips curl into that insufferable smirk.

“Open up”

He murmurs, voice taunting but firm. Her jaw clenches and she doesn’t move. Amusement flickers in his gaze, but there’s something else there too- something that tells her that she'd not got much choice now. He lifts a brow, daring her to defy him and she hates herself for it, but after a long, thick moment of silence, she slowly parts her lips. Rafe hums in satisfaction, slipping the folded-up bills between her teeth.

“Atta girl”

He muses as she bites down, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before he pulls away. He leans back lazily in his seat, studying her with open amusement, eyes flicking between the money in her mouth and the fire still burning in her gaze. She can tell he’s so fucking satisfied. The song finally comes to an end, the heavy bass fading into the low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses. The second the last note plays and a new one begins, she jerks her wrist free from his grasp, ripping her hand away like his touch burns her.

Her mind is racing- anger, humiliation, and something else she doesn’t want to name all tangling together in a storm inside her chest. She stands abruptly, plucking the money from between her lips with two fingers like it’s tainted. Without even sparing him a glance, she turns on her heel, ready to put as much distance between herself and Rafe Cameron as possible.

But then- she feels it.

The sharp smack lands right on her ass, firm and unapologetic. A small gasp passes her lips and the audacity of it sends white-hot anger surging through her veins, and she whips around so fast her hair nearly follows the motion. Barry is already laughing, a deep, wheezing sound, blowing out a thick puff of smoke as he watches the scene unfold like it’s the best entertainment of the night.

And Rafe?

Rafe just grins up at her, infuriatingly relaxed, his expression unreadable save for the smug amusement dancing in his eyes. Then, as if he hadn't already done enough, he puckers his lips, blowing her a lazy, taunting little kiss to her. She stares at him, disgust and fury twisting in her chest, her fists clenching at her sides- heart thumping heavily in her chest as she becomes certain of one thing.

She’s never hated anyone more in her life.

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the girl behind the wheel . . . dean winchester & reader !

summary. the last thing dean expected was for his car to disappear & in its place, you to be left. he also never expected to have to worry, still, about you getting stolen. warnings. men r pigs!! sequel to this ask !

it's not like you asked to be made into a human or anything. dean seemed to operate on that idea, though, that this was all your choice. he looked at you with pure grief in his eyes, and something that seemed much more akin to exasperation than the unwilling reluctance you thought he was beginning to fall into.

"i have to get a new car." he's openly, dramatically, pouting.

you shrug. his jacket has now become your jacket, because shoplifting clothes for you meant snatching the cheap shit in the back of the store that people wouldn't realize were missing until it was too late, which left you in summery clothes in the dead of winter.

"that's all you have to say for yourself?"

dean is looking at you with that quizzical stare he gets, like he expects you to have some sort of answer for why you were like this. you didn't know. you just got here.

"steal one." you look around the parking lot of the little strip mall he'd taxi'ed you both to, and nod toward a big black truck towering above the other cars. "that one."

dean follows the direction of your finger and snorts. "no way in hell. that guy's gonna notice immediately that that thing is missing."

just like how dean noticed that you were missing, when the tides shifted or the moon phased at a certain time, and suddenly you were a girl by a light pole and not a car parked under the streetlight. that was understandable.

dean runs a hand over his face, turning his back to you again in that way that didn't fully seem to indict you, but it didn't really make you feel like an innocent party in this.

you could help. of course you could help. dean wanted a car, that car was the scariest in the area, he couldn't take that one with force, so...

the front windshield has "DEER HUNTIN" sprawled into the glass in an ugly, abrasive font. dean was a hunter. he wore lots of layers, even when he'd be driving in the dead of summer. you just needed to find a guy in lots of layers.

so you disappear, ducking into one of the little businesses in the mall with hunting & fishing goods on the big sign out front. everyone in there sort of looks the same, the whole place smells a little like oil and a lot like dirt and hay, and you think that you've made a poor judgement call until you find him.

big guy, as big as the truck in the parking lot. camouflage hat and jacket. dirt all over his jeans. a t-shirt beneath the jacket that says i like my girls like i like my bucks: big and horny. he's your guy. he's so your guy.

"hi, sir," you say, trying to puff out your chest in that way that dean hates but makes you feel a little bit taller and on his level. the guy looks over at you in a way that dean also does, sometimes, but he's much more obvious about it than dean is. "is that yours?"

you point to the truck in the parking lot.

the guy puffs his chest up, too, and now you really don't know why dean hates it, when it just seems to be a dude thing. "it sure is, pretty thing," he drawls, putting the box of ammo back on the shelf, "you want a ride in it?"

"no thank you." you hold out your hand instead. "can i have the keys?"

he laughs. your face visibly falls, and he laughs a little harder. "won't go for a ride with me but expects me to fork over my keys. i'll be damned. what's your name?"

"baby."

"baby," he doesn't say it like dean does, with awe and reverence and sentiment. he says it like it tastes filthy in his mouth. "tell you what. go on a little ride with me, and i'll let you take it for a spin."

"no thank you." how many times did a girl have to tell a man no? seriously. "i just want the keys."

the door to the shop dings, the echo of the bell ricocheting around the spacious area. "baby?" dean's voice. you are so helpless to the way that you light up at the sound of it. "baby, you better—"

he cuts himself off, his eyes landing directly on you. you can always tell when dean's looking at you. there's something physical and innate in the way his gaze rests like its own sort of blanket over your skin.

the guy behind you nods toward dean. "that your boyfriend?"

"no. that's my driver."

you could not possibly be more clear, but the guy's face twists up. "so why the hell do you need my keys?"

dean is at your side now, a hand on your hip and a grimace on his face. he tends to wear that look a lot around you, now, even though you still catch glimpses of the fondness when he thinks you're not looking.

"she doesn't." dean pulls you a little more into his side, and you grin. he's always so warm. "sorry 'bout that."

"keep your girl leashed, alright?" the guy scoffs, turning back to the shelves full of ammo boxes. "she's tryin' to get into trouble she can't handle."

you could handle a lot of things. you'd been crashed a few times. you'd been long overdue of an oil change. you were pretty sure that dean was conceived in you, which was an entirely other sort of thing you didn't even want to think about. were doing pretty well without thinking on it, thank you. you could handle things, and it wasn't fair that this stranger thought he knew you based on one interaction that you were certain was going just fine.

dean seems to sense that you're about to dig a deeper hole for yourself, and so he starts to tug you away. "yeah, yeah, she's leashed," dean grumbles, his teeth gritted together. he doesn't like the guy either, it seems.

you barely take a step away before dean's turning to you again with that look of unadulterated exasperation. again. "what the hell was all that?"

"you said we couldn't steal it because he'd know." like, did dean just... forget that conversation in a two minute span, or what? "so i went to ask him for the keys."

dean's lips flatten. he's really, seriously trying to keep the blank expression but the twitch of his dimples gives away his amusement. "no."

"yes." you reach into dean's jacket pocket over your shoulders and hold out the keys. "got them, too."

"he gave them over?"

you smile. and that's how you know that dean was yours and you were his, and that even if he was getting premature gray hairs from you, he still adored you. "no. i was just letting him know i was taking it. i wasn't really asking."

dean laughs this time. well and truly laughs, holding the shop's door open for you. "you are somethin' else."

"i'm helping," you correct, looking down at the key fob in your fingers. you press the unlock button, but the truck's headlights don't light up. it sits as idle as ever.

the car next to it, a model close to yours but not quite as well taken care of, beeps in acknowledgement.

you pass the keys over to dean, practically skipping toward the impala in utter glee. the cards always worked in your favor, didn't they? you'd been with the winchesters for three generations, passed down like an heirloom, but this was the one that loved you the most, and now you could finally show it.

"scratch that, baby," dean says as he catches up to you, catching you around the waist to drag you in for a kiss on the temple, "you're a goddamn godsent."

yes. you definitely were.

notes. forgot i wrote the first part to this, and then this came into my head, and it made me giggle so i had to write it. pls enjoy

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @theosaurous @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @sunsettsam @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @couturewinx @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra

YELLOWJACKETS 203. Digestif / 301. It Girl / 303. Thems The Brakes / 310. Full Circle

𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

— a rafe cameron one shot (1 of 2) part one • part two

✰ rafe and barry were on their way back from handling business when they come across someone stuck on the side of the road — that someone being the richest kook in town’s daughter, y/n.

rating: sfw — cw: very suggestive/graphic language

“i don’t give a fuck what he said,” barry grumbled as he leaned back in his seat, “he’s payin’ by tonight or we’re bustin’ his fuckin’ head in, alright?” rafe nodded dismissively, unaffected by the graphic comment as his blue eyes were lazily focused on the road before them, a singular hand resting on the wheel as he steered the old truck. the following moments were silent, only filled with the soft hum of the engine and low buzz from the radio before something — or someone — caught rafe’s eye.

“oh, shit,” he whispered to himself, gradually lifting his foot from the gas as he peered out the dirty window. barry perked up at his utterance and followed his gaze, his eyes landing on a girl in the near distance sat perched on the curb, a hand in her hair as she held a phone to her ear. beside her was a pearly pink bronco, slightly tilted forward on it’s front, right side — flat tire.

“who the fuck is that? you know ‘er?” barry wondered aloud, his dark eyes flickering between rafe and the girl outside. “nah… i mean, yeah, kinda… that’s—uh, she’s grant mason’s daughter,” rafe mumbled, feeling sudden waves of internal conflict wash over him.

he’d seen her insanely expensive car before, perched in the long winding driveway of the mason’s mansion whenever he’d drive past — it was unmistakably of mason property. he’d also seen her face before on a company advert pamphlet in his fathers office: her mother, father, sister, dog and her — a perfect family.

“mason?” barry began with rafe quickly answering his unspoken question, “yeah, mason manufacturing.” barry laughed, a small smile pulling at his lips leaving his his shiny silver tooth on full display, “aw shit, lil’ kook princess done fucked up her ride.”

rafe bit the inside of his lip in a moment of contemplation, unsure of whether he should slam on the gas or the break. a beat passed as the cogs in his brain began to turn before he let out a defeated sigh, abruptly twisting the wheel and averting the truck onto the opposite side of the road.

“aye, fuck're y'doin’? you’re not about to go play bob the fuckin’ builder, are you?” barry gripped, sitting up in his seat with thick, furrowed brows. “relax,” rafe reasoned in annoyance, “i know what i’m doin’.”

and that, he did — rafe wasn’t one to do favors for people, especially for someone he doesn’t know, but this time was different. he’s learned over time to always keep your friends close and your potential assets closer; the daughter of the grant mason was simply a door he needed opened to fully set foot inside — to give himself and his father an upper hand.

barry scoffed and leaned back in his seat once more, resting an elbow on the passenger door before resting his forehead in his hand. “right — know what y’doin’ like y’always do,” barry muttered dismissively, “jus’ make it quick.”

“could go faster if you helped, y’know,” rafe murmured sarcastically, causing barry to let out an even more sarcastic laugh, saying, “yeah, ain’t shit in that for me, country club — you got it.”

and with that, rafe begrudgingly exited the truck with a light slam of the door, preparing himself to feign the fakest, most well-rounded persona he possibly could in order to make, what would hopefully be, a lasting impression.

the girl on the curb’s head perked up at the sudden noise, her eyes slightly widening at the stranger rapidly approaching. rafe noticed, forcing a smile across his face before speaking. “hey! you alright?” he asked as ‘warmly’ as he could, jogging across the road before stopping a mere few feet away.

“uh, hi — yeah, i’m good, i just— i got a flat,” she explained bashfully with a smile, gesturing to the leaning bronco. it was immediately evident to him that photos simply didn’t do her justice, the sight of her alone unexpectedly making his stomach do a flip, taking him by surprise.

“ah, that sucks,” rafe forcefully sympathized, “y’got a spare, right? i could change it for you.” her face lit up at the proposition, and she quickly mutter a few words into the phone before hanging up and shoving it in her pocket, quickly standing and dusting off the back of her denim shorts.

“would you really?” she beamed, her hopeful eyes glistening as she gazed at him. rafe nodded, his blue ones scanning over her face as he felt a weird stitch of something in his chest. “yeah, it’s no problem — i’ve got some tools in my truck,” he assured, motioning behind him.

“thank you so much,” she breathed out in relief, abruptly holding out a small, manicured hand in his direction, “i’m y/n.” rafe was taken aback by the sudden gesture, reluctantly encasing her palm with his own — her’s was soft, undoubtably the softest he’s ever felt.

“rafe…” he reciprocated before remembering the entire purpose of this interaction, “cameron — rafe cameron.” her brows furrowed, the name tumbling through her mind before realizing it was rather familiar.

“like, cameron development?” she wondered aloud, her hand still absentmindedly resting in his, though rafe was all too aware of it. “uh—yeah, yeah, m’ward cameron’s son,” he muttered, feeling almost awkward at the prolonged contact.

“no way! i’m grant mason’s daughter — our dad’s are friends!” she gasped, and rafe almost scoffed bitterly at the loose, frankly false, title — friends? sure.

“really? small island,” rafe forcibly laughed, internally puking at the sound of his own voice and the cliches he was spewing, and y/n replied with a sweet, “yeah!”

“hey, so, i’mma go get some stuff from my truck so we can get you back on the road, yeah?” he offered, pulling his hand from hers and pointing a thumb behind him. “yeah, okay, thank you again,” she called out as he spun on his heels before briskly crossing the road.

“yo, you trynna hit that or what? what’s with all that chummy shit?” barry snickered as rafe approached the truck, having overheard the entire conversation. “shut up,” rafe groaned, completely unamused as he reached into the bed, fishing around before retrieving a rusty jack and lug wrench in either hand.

“can’t lie, she kinda fine,” barry projected, ensuring rafe could hear him from outside. “she can probably hear you,” the taller man muttered in annoyance. “shit, let her,” barry exclaimed carelessly, “if you don’t tap that, i will.”

“look, can you just—just chill out for like ten minutes? i’m changin’ her fuckin’ tire then we’re goin’, alright?” rafe snapped in agitation, now standing by the car door and of course, the other man only found it comical. “alright — whatever you say, babyboy,” barry mused, feigning surrender with a sly grin before rafe trudged his way back across the road.

“hi,” y/n grinned, her arms crossed lightly over her chest as she ceased absentmindedly twisting her shoe in the dirt. “hey,” rafe reciprocated, tossing the jack onto the concrete with a loud clank, “i’ll get the tire.” y/n nodded, watching as he took the wrench to the back of the car and began twisting at the lugnuts before casually joining him there.

“so, how long have you guys lived here?” she questioned sweetly as she leaned against the bumper, attempting to make conversation as if he wasn’t preoccupied. rafe peered down at her out the corner of his eye, a twinge of annoyance sparking in his chest that was somehow extinguished when he noticed the small smile on her lips as she gazed at him expectantly.

“uh, m’whole life,” he grunted as he twisted at a rather difficult fastener, “you? never seen you ’round before.”

“i’ve only been here a a couple months, actually — we move alot for dad’s work so we’re never really in once place for long,” she explained, distant sadness evident in her tone. “yeah? you likin’ it so far?” rafe asked as he pulled the tire down with ease, finding himself to actually be somewhat interested in the answer.

“uhm—yeah, yeah, it’s nice. i mean, m’always going back home to visit and haven’t been anywhere on the island besides the elementary school,” she explained. “s’that where you were headed?” rafe wondered as he rolled the heavy wheel towards the front of the car, y/n following close behind.

“yeah, i was going to get my sister before the tire busted — was calling the school to let them know i’d be, like, really late,” she sighed. “your dad couldn’t get her?” rafe questioned, admittedly asking a question that may have been a little intrusive. "i— uh, no,” she laughed awkwardly, tucking a loose strand behind her ear as he began to crank the jack, “he’s always so busy.”

“and your mom?” rafe breathed out as he stood to his feet, dusting his hands on his pants before wiping the sweat from his forehead. y/n couldn’t help but shamelessly ogle at his biceps as they flexed with each movement, her eyes flickering up and down the length of his tanned arms in awe.

“she’s— uh, she’s pretty busy, too,” y/n shrugged, her small smile faltering — this piqued rafe’s interest. “yeah? what does she do?” he asked casually, playing off his prying as casual conversation as he began to remove the damaged wheel from the car.

“she used to be an accountant,” y/n murmured, staring off into space down the road, watching as a car drove by. “used to?” rafe chimed in, rolling the busted tire into the grass before beginning to mount the new one.

“yeah, before my sister was born,” she affirmed.

“what’s she doin’ now?”

“she’s retired,” y/n muttered, causing rafe to furrow his brows to himself — retired mother who’s somehow too busy to pick her kid up from school?

“she-uh… she drinks sometimes,” y/n answered quickly, having noticed the expression on his face, “she’s usually too hungover in the mornings to drive… and afternoons.”

hardly a moment passed as rafe was processing her words while simultaneously fastening on lug-nuts before she spoke up again. “i— i’m sorry,” she laughed nervously, squeezing her eyes shut as she mentally kicked herself, “i’m absolutely oversharing.”

“no,” rafe promised casually with a shrug, fastening the last bolt in it’s place, “i asked.” it was a simple statement, though it sent a wave of warmth throughout her chest, the simplicity of reassurance being comforting and seldom.

“what about you?” she asked as he began to lower the car back to the ground, the new tire now in place. “what about me?” rafe rebutted, standing to his feet once more with a huff, the beaming sun beginning to take a toll.

“i— i just mean… what’s your family like?”

“uhh, well, my dad runs a business, and-uh, got a step-mom ‘n two sisters,” rafe explained, though he was never fond of talking about himself or his family.

suddenly, a loud honk sounded out from across the street, causing them both to turn their heads towards the source. “aye, country club, let’s go!” barry called out, rafe’s good deed of the year being noticeably completed and his patience having worn thin.

“whose that?” y/n wondered, a small smile pulling at her lips when rafe sighed in annoyance and ran a hand down his face. “he’s my-uh… friend,” rafe answered, though truthfully, he’s wasn’t sure he’d call him that.

“i think your friend is ready to leave,” she laughed lightly, rafe nodding in agreement as his eyes then found their way to hers, suddenly finding themselves stuck there. she didn’t notice until then just how blue his eyes were, nor did he notice how big and doe-like her’s were. seconds passed that felt like minutes, neither of them in any position to break the eye contact for a reason they couldn’t explain.

inevitably, the horn was honked again and jolted them both from the stalemate, causing rafe to cough before scratching his neck. “uh, so, i’m gonna get going,” he announced, grabbing his tools from their places on the curb, “tire’s all good ‘n i can get rid of the old one if y’want.”

“thank you, rafe — seriously, it means so much,” y/n sighed out, eyes glistening with gratitude and rafe’s stomach did that same, stupid little flip as before when she said his name and he wanted it to fucking stop.

“yeah, no worries,” rafe grinned, though he tried to hide it, actually feeling somewhat good about himself, “you should-uh… probably head out, too, yeah?”

“shit, yeah,” y/n swore, quickly pulling her phone from her pocket and checking the time, “hey, so-uh, my dad’s having a little business dinner type-thing next weekend — food ‘n music and all that if you, maybe, wanted to come?”

rafe froze at the mention as he recalled a conversation with his father from not too long ago. they had spoke about that very event, rafe wanting to accompany his father in order to learn more about the mason’s business, though his wish was denied due to ward only being allowed to bring one guest — his choice being his wife, rose.

“i’m— i’m sorry, you don’t have to, i just figured as like a ‘thank you’ i’d—,” y/n rambled, feeling as though rafe’s lack of response and blank stare was an answer within itself, but he quickly interrupted.

“nah, nah, i’ll—,” he paused, blue eyes flickering across her now hopeful face, his heart doing a little skip at the sight, “yeah, i’ll be there.”

“awesome, yeah, here — put your number in, i’ll text you the details,” she smiled, handing her phone over to who rafe dropped his tools to the ground before accepting it. their hands grazed one another for a moment, somehow feeling different from the first time they touched.

he obliged, quickly typing in the digits and saving the contact before handing it back. “cool, so, i’ll see you then?” she smiled, watching at rafe gathered the tools from the ground once more. “yeah,” rafe nodded, quickly swiping his tongue over his lips before a soft smirk overtook them, “unless i find you on the curb with another flat before then.”

“with my luck,” she laughed, and rafe couldn’t help but let out a soft, genuine, chuckle. “thank you again,” she continued, her tone sincere, and rafe could tell just how genuine it was, giving her a small nod in return, “i’ll see you.”

and with that, she climbed her way into the ridiculously large car, giving rafe one last glance with a smile before disappearing down the corner and around the bend. rafe finished loading everything back into the truck, including the flat wheel that he planned on abandoning in some unfortunate pogues yard, before rejoining barry inside.

“the fuck’re you so happy about?” barry mumbled, loathing the fact that after waiting in a hot truck for ages, rafe comes waltzing in with a grin.

“told’ya i know what i’m doin’.”

 personapeters 2025 — all rights reserved • masterlist

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. 

maybe.. just an idea.. will beeman with a young wife 🥺

WILL BEEMAN X YOUNG!WIFE

WARNING: at a certain point there is sexual content

A/N: hii, baby, i love the request, Will is a underrated character, i love him so much. I didn't know if you want headcanon or a fic, so, i wrote this, hope you enjoyed ;)

REQUESTS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED!!

• You met at a city hall charity gala. Will, as a famous and influential businessman in the city, was invited to lend his support. The moment he first laid eyes on you, the words disappeared from his mouth. He tightened his grip on his champagne glass, his gaze fixed on you as the mayor proudly announced you as the newest prosecutor.  • Will wasted no time seeking you out to congratulate you. During your conversation, he discovered that you had just graduated from college and carried the fiery ambition of someone eager to change the world. You wanted to fight for those who couldn't afford legal representation and free the wrongly accused. Your unwavering sense of justice fascinated him. Perhaps your methods differed, but your goals aligned: ridding the city of criminals. • Will was nothing if not persistent. As the gala wound down, he insisted on driving you home. You could hardly refuse his charm. He made a point of walking you to your door, ensuring you got inside safely—though not before securing your number. • It didn’t take long for things to escalate. Dinners at high-end restaurants, strolls through art exhibitions, Will showing up at your office under the pretense of business at city hall. The chemistry was undeniable. • After just a month of dating, Will proposed. He was already in his 40s and saw no reason to delay happiness. His proposal was romantic yet intimate—an evening at his family's country house, dinner under the stars, and a simple, heartfelt question. You didn’t hesitate to say yes. • Being Will’s youngest wife was no easy task. Whispers followed you—claims that you had seduced him for power or were only in it for the wealth. But, honestly? Who cared? Your husband was incredibly attractive, and you were undeniably in love. • Navigating his family dynamics was another challenge. Surprisingly, you and his ex, Laura, got along well, and Danny was a kind, respectful child. Will deeply appreciated how you made an effort to be present for family moments. You even took Danny to pick out a Father’s Day gift, something that made Will’s heart swell with gratitude. • Will had a possessive streak. He made it clear that you were his, and he wasn’t one to tolerate wandering eyes. Whenever you were out together, his hands were on you—an arm around your waist, a protective hand on your back, fingers laced through yours. His presence was a constant reminder that you belonged to him. • At one of his infamous barbecues with friends, Will didn’t bother with subtlety. He pulled you onto his lap, one arm draped over your exposed thighs, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your skin. A silent declaration to everyone present. • Will wore his wedding ring with pride, almost smug about the fact that you were his wife. Sometimes, he’d call you ‘wife’ or ‘wifey’ just to hear the word roll off his tongue, the sound of it sending a thrill through him. Knowing you were his? That was intoxicating. • Despite his possessive nature, Will also had a softer side reserved just for you. He loved coming home to you, seeing you curled up on the couch, greeting him with a warm smile. Those quiet moments, when it was just the two of you, made everything else fade away. • Will had a habit of spoiling you, even if you protested. Jewelry, designer clothes, weekend getaways—he never let an opportunity pass to remind you that you were cherished. But the best gifts? The ones where he simply held you close, whispering that he’d never let you go. • The age gap never bothered him, but he took it upon himself to make sure you always felt respected and heard in their relationship. He valued your opinions, your ambitions, and took pride in the fire that made you who you were. Because, in the end, you weren’t just his wife—you were his equal.

SPICY HEADCANONS (+18)

• Will Beeman radiated a commanding presence, both in and out the bedroom. He was a man who craved control, and he wielded it with the same unyielding determination he brought to his work. In bed, he liked to be the one setting the pace, dictating the rhythm of your pleasure with each powerful thrust of his hips. His large hands would grip your waist, guiding you, positioning you exactly how he wanted you, as he drove into you with deep, relentless strokes.  He would loom over you, his muscular frame shadowing your smaller one, his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, would bore into yours, watching your every reaction, reveling in the way your face flushed and your lips parted under his onslaught. You were his to claim, his to conquer, and he took great pleasure in reducing you to a writhing, mewling mess beneath him.

• After a long, frustrating day at the office, when the stress and tension had built to a fever pitch, there was nothing better than the release of straddling his hips, sinking down on his thick, hard cock as you both sought solace in each other's bodies. You would ride him with wild abandon, your hips undulating sensually, your breasts bouncing as you chased your pleasure. Will's hands would grip your ass, helping to lift you, to pull you down, driving you to take him even deeper. In those moments, the rest of the world fell away, your worries and concerns dissolve like mist beneath the scorching heat of your joining. All that mattered was the slide of your bodies, the slap of skin on skin, and the building pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

• It was a thrill to sneak up on him in his office, to find him hunched over his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he grappled with the intricacies of his latest paper. You would slip in on silent feet, your heart already racing with anticipation as you slid your hands over his broad shoulders, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. With deft fingers, you would undo his belt, unzip his slacks, before freeing his already hardening cock from the confines of his boxers. The thick shaft would pulse in your hand, growing even harder as you wrapped your lips around the swollen head, your tongue swirling teasingly.  Will bit down hard on his cheek, stifling the moan that threatened to escape from his throat as you took more of him into the wet heat of your mouth. He could barely concentrate on the meeting, his fingers would tighten their grip in your hair, gripping the strands almost painfully as he fought to maintain his composure on the call.  You could hear the slight hitch in his breathing, the tightness in his voice as he continued to negotiate the sale of a property, when you took him deep, your nose pressing against his pelvis, your throat squeezing deliciously around his length as you swallowed around him.It was a dangerous game you played—pushing him to the brink of ecstasy while he struggled to maintain the facade of the cool, collected Wall Street broker. But you knew him, knew the effect you had on him, and you reveled in it.

• Will was a man who lived for the chase, the tease, the build-up of tension before the explosive release. And he could tell by the way your blouse fluttered at your neck, the quickening of your breath as you suckled him, that you were just as pent up, just as desperate for the relief only he could provide. He would make you wait, make you beg, before he'd flip you onto the desk, sweep the papers to the floor, and take you right there amidst the chaos of his workday. He'd fuck you hard and fast, pounding into your needy cunt with a wild abandon, determined to make you scream his name loud enough for the whole office to hear. Only then would he allow his own release, his hot seed spurting deep inside you, claiming you, marking you as his. And as you both caught your breath in the aftermath, he'd press his mouth to your neck, your collarbone, your chest, leaving a trail of dark hickeys and bite marks, a temporary tattoo of your passion. 

• As the weather grew warmer and the days longer, you found yourself reaching for lighter, more revealing clothing. The crisp, summery dresses and flimsy blouses that bared your shoulders and hugged your curves in all the right places. And with each outfit,Will had to adapt, to find new territory on which to stake his claim. He began to leave his mark in the secret places, the hidden valleys and curves of your body that hungered for his touch.  No longer content to simply lavish attention on the column of your throat and the swell of your breasts, he started to venture lower, to trail his lips and teeth along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The first time he did it, you were caught off guard, a surprised gasp escaping your lips as you felt the sharp nip of his teeth sink into the tender flesh.  It was a thrilling sensation, the mix of pleasure and pain that raced through your nerves like lightning, making you shudder and Will seemed to take your reaction as encouragement, and he doubled his efforts, determined to map out every inch of the creamy skin he'd revealed. 

Lee byung hun but situationship maybe? Pretty please 🙏

having a situationship with lee byung-hun

a/n: thank you for the request! I actually really loved this idea

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byunghun0712

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byunghun0712 #미스터션샤인 #mrsunshine

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user1 @/leebyunghunfan probably because of the way he’s looking at the girl in the first picture

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yourusername

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yourusername

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yourusername if you don’t want me DON’T ACT LIKE YOU FUCKING WANT ME

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yourbestfriendsuser he don’t know what he’s missing out on

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yourusername

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yourusername im someone who forgives and forgets

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user76 and the crowd is...confused?

byunghun0712

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yourusername

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yourusername saw lisa live!!!

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fckmeleebyunghun the jealousy im feeling...

yourusername

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yourusername maybe the single life suits me better

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user08 bad bitch

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byunghun0712

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byunghun0712 💪

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yourusername biting my lip

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user23 @/ynfan exactly like they wouldn’t be the first to do so

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