ririright

[ririright]

Just scrolling through Tumblr and noticing a lot of hate toward Rachel from Anons—accusing her of being a Zionist just because she had Starbucks? Really? Funny how no one said anything when Hayden was seen holding a Starbucks cup too.

Let’s be honest: a lot of this comes off as jealousy. She dated Hayden and you didn’t—simple as that.

At the end of the day, the only connection she has to him now is that she’s the mother of his child. So maybe take a step back, log off for a bit, and get some fresh air. I’m pretty sure Hayden wouldn’t be impressed by this kind of energy.

[ririright]

“Happy Father’s Day!”

Husband Hayden x Wife Reader (Headcannons)

★ Sneaky Breakfast Sabotage

You and your son wake up extra early to surprise Hayden with breakfast in bed.

Your son insists on making blue pancakes (like “blue milk from Star Wars”) and accidentally dumps half the bottle of syrup into the batter.

Hayden pretends to be asleep the whole time but hears everything — especially the whispered “Shhh, Dad’s gonna freak out when he sees the Vader pancake.”

★ The Annual Sock Presentation

Every year, you and your son give Hayden a ridiculous, themed pair of socks.

This year’s theme? “Yoda Best Dad.”

Hayden tears up dramatically, holds the socks aloft like Simba on Pride Rock, and refuses to wear them right away because “they’re art.”

★ Jedi Training on the Lawn

After breakfast, Hayden insists on a family lightsaber duel in the backyard.

He gives your son a pep talk like, “Remember, young Padawan: only use the Force for good… and maybe to get cookies.”

Your son manages to “defeat” Hayden, who collapses dramatically into the grass while making explosion noises.

★ Chores-Free Sunday

You and your son ban him from doing any chores on the farm.

Hayden immediately tries to sneak out to clean the chicken coop.

You catch him red-handed with his Bobcat keys and tell him “absolutely not.”

He sulks dramatically for five minutes, then gives in — but you catch him outside later building a “duck bench” because “technically that’s resting.”

★ Father-Son Farm Walk

Later in the day, he takes your son on a slow walk around the farm.

He points out every animal, shares soft little stories, and lets your son ride on his shoulders.

They stop to feed the rabbits and name the newest chick “Lando.”

★ Handmade Gifts & Card Attack

Your son gives him a glitter-glued card that reads: “Dad, you’re my hero like Obi-Wan but funnier.”

Inside is a crayon drawing of the three of you with lightsabers and matching socks.

Hayden has to blink really fast and suddenly needs to “check the weather” so you won’t see him getting teary.

★ Evening Movie Marathon

The day ends with all three of you snuggled on the couch watching Return of the Jedi.

Your son falls asleep halfway through with his head in Hayden’s lap.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and Hayden whispers, “This is better than any Star Wars ending.”

[ririright]

I wonder if Hayden ever gets tired of answering the same ass questions over and over again.

[ririright]

“The Starless Vow Chronicles: The Ghost Beneath the Graft”

Beneath steel and silence, he bleeds in memory of the only touch that ever healed him.

The chamber hissed.

Sterile light bathed cold durasteel. Hooks descended. Limbs detached with mechanical precision. The hiss of fluid. The whine of servos. Vader said nothing.

He never did.

The flesh of what remained—scarred, blistered, unholy—tensed under the prodding arms of the medical droids. They burned away necrotic tissue. They re-bolted his left arm. He could smell his own body cooking.

Pain was not new. Pain was not special. Pain was simply… there.

But today—today it echoed.

“Close your eyes.”

A voice. Soft, low. A whisper from a lifetime ago.

“Ani, listen to me. Breathe, and let me be your center. Not the Jedi. Not the war. Me.”

His jaw locked under the mask. The droids dug into his hip joint, extracting twisted rods and mangled wires. He didn’t flinch. But he remembered.

He remembered lying with her in the dark, her fingers stroking through his hair, her voice the only thing that tethered him to himself.

“You’re not your power. You’re not your anger. You’re more than what they made you.”

He had believed her once.

Before fire. Before the screams. Before Sidious sneered her death like a casual fact.

A cable sparked—his back arched.

Still he made no sound.

Because he didn’t need to scream. His body already did.

His grief had learned to walk, to command, to kill. But in these hours, under the knife of efficiency, he was not a Sith. Not a Lord. Just a broken man kept alive by metal and spite.

“I love you, even when you shut everything out. I see through it.”

The tools drilled.

His ribs ground against metal plating.

And all he could think of was her hand against his chest, her thumb tracing the curve of his collarbone, whispering things he never deserved.

He wanted to remember her face, but memory faltered. The heat of her—yes. The sound of her breath. The way her lips curved when she called him Ani. But her eyes…

They were fading.

He hated that.

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

A brutal snap—the new limb was locked into place.

His breathing staggered once, then steadied. The helmet would be returned. The armor would seal. The fearsome silhouette would rise again.

But for one more minute, in the dimness of the replacement chamber, he stayed still.

Not for the droids.

Not for Sidious.

But for her.

Because the pain let him feel her again.

And that—more than anything—was worth the fire.

[ririright]

“Autumn Belongs to Us”

Clay Beresford x Girlfriend Reader

Riverside Park, New York City — October 2010 𖣂

The golden hush of late afternoon wrapped around Riverside Park like a favorite sweater. Trees flamed in brilliant reds and oranges, their leaves swirling gently in the wind before settling along the stone path like confetti. The Hudson shimmered beside you, calm and blue, catching the last rays of sunlight as if it, too, was in love with the season.

You walked slowly, arms linked with Clay’s. His long wool coat brushed against your side with every step, and your gloved hand was tucked inside the warmth of his—hidden away in the pocket of his coat like a shared secret.

Neither of you said much at first. The rhythm of your footsteps, the wind in the trees, the distant bark of a dog—all of it wrapped you in a quiet kind of intimacy that didn’t need words.

You finally spoke, nudging him playfully with your shoulder.

“You’re actually relaxing. Should I be worried?”

He smirked. “Mildly. There’s a board of directors somewhere wondering if I’ve been kidnapped.”

You laughed, and his eyes immediately softened at the sound, like the sun had broken through a cloud just for him. “If this is a kidnapping,” he murmured, brushing his lips lightly to your temple, “I surrender.”

A chilly breeze danced by, tugging your scarf and making you shiver. Instantly, Clay stopped walking and reached into the paper bag in his other hand. “Here,” he said, passing you the second drink he’d grabbed before your stroll—your favorite blend of spiced chai with extra cinnamon.

You blinked in surprise. “You remembered.”

He gave a modest shrug, but you saw the pride in his eyes. “I remember everything about you.”

You warmed your hands around the cup and took a sip, letting the heat and sweetness bloom in your chest. Then, without thinking, you stood on tiptoe and pressed a soft kiss to his lips—slow, lingering, and just a little bit cinnamon-flavored.

When you pulled back, Clay stood there with a dazed look on his face, cheeks faintly pink. “God,” he said under his breath. “How do you do that to me every time?”

You gave him a coy smile and leaned into his side. “Magic. Obviously.”

He laughed softly and pulled you closer, his chin resting atop your head as the two of you continued strolling along the river.

You eventually stopped at a small bench nestled under a vibrant maple tree, its branches glowing amber in the waning sunlight. Clay set the drinks down, took your hands in his, and helped you sit. He didn’t sit beside you, though—not at first. Instead, he knelt in front of you between your knees, resting his hands on your thighs and gazing up at you like you were something fragile and precious.

“You know,” he said quietly, “for a long time, I thought fall was… lonely. Cold. Just a reminder that everything beautiful dies.”

You gently ran your fingers through the soft waves of his light brown hair, brushing a few strands from his eyes. “And now?”

“Now it’s the season you kissed me in the middle of a park,” he whispered, “while the world burned around us in color.”

He leaned up and kissed you again, this time deeper, slower, like the wind could take him if he didn’t hold on to you. You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing the softness of his cheeks, his lips plush and warm against yours.

When you broke apart, foreheads still touching, your voice was barely above a whisper. “You always know how to say things that make my heart ache.”

“Only because it belongs to me,” he murmured. “And I intend to take very good care of it.”

You sat together like that until the sun began to sink into the river—arms around each other, your warm drinks nearly forgotten, the leaves swirling gently at your feet.

In that moment, Riverside Park didn’t belong to the city.

It belonged to the two of you.

[ririright]

Hayden Requests I will not take:

- Pregnancy Labor (ex: when your water breaks)

- Weddings

- Anything with Briar. I’ve written some Headcannons before where she was mentioned, but I won’t be doing that anymore. Those 2x were the only exception, now I’m done with it.

- Younger! Reader (I’m tired of it.)

- smut (I’ll write something intimate/spicy but I won’t go into detail)

[ririright]

“The Starless Vow Chronicles: Not Yours”

In silent halls, his fury burns—her safety, his dark promise.

The chamber was too quiet.

Senator Vano—tall, overdressed, and leering—poured himself a second glass of Corellian wine as if they were at some diplomatic soirée rather than a closed-door negotiation.

“You understand, Princess,” he said with the oily smoothness of someone who’d never been told no, “the Republic’s protection comes with… certain expectations.”

(Y/n)’s jaw tensed. Her armor was polished, her cape draped in formal fold—but her eyes remained sharp. Watching. Calculating.

“I didn’t request protection,” she said coolly. “Clan Dravari defends its own.”

“Of course. But alliances are strengthened by… personal relationships.”

He stepped closer.

The way his eyes dragged across her shoulders made her stomach twist.

“You’re quite the diplomat, my dear,” Vano said, lowering his voice. “And so very lovely. Why hide behind that armor? I’m sure you’d be much more persuasive without it.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch when he reached to brush her pauldron. Didn’t show her disgust when his fingers slid, uninvited, down her arm.

But her hand hovered near the vibroblade at her hip.

He didn’t notice.

“Come now,” he said, reaching for her waist, “surely you understand how much I can offer you. Power. Influence. A true place in the Republic. And all I ask—”

CRACK.

The chamber door blew open with a scream of the Force, metal warping and flinging off its hinges.

A sudden howl of power filled the room.

Senator Vano barely turned before he was lifted off the floor by an invisible hand and slammed into the stone wall with bone-jarring violence.

“You touch her again,” Anakin Skywalker snarled, stepping through the shattered frame, “and I’ll take your hand. And your tongue. And your fucking spine.”

His lightsaber hissed to life.

(Y/n) blinked, stunned—but only for a moment.

“Anakin—!”

She rushed forward, grabbing his arm just as he raised the saber.

But oh, his eyes.

They were glowing—gold and fire and thundercloud rage—as he stood over the gasping, bleeding senator.

“He put his hands on you,” Anakin said through gritted teeth. “I felt it—across the city. I felt you call me.”

“I didn’t—” she started, but stopped herself.

Because maybe she had.

Not with words, but with fear. With revulsion. With the soul-deep pulse of danger that sent out a silent scream only he could answer.

She stepped between them, placing her palm against his chest.

His heart was hammering beneath it.

“He’s not worth it,” she said softly. “I am.”

For a long, taut second, Anakin didn’t move.

Then his saber hissed shut.

Vano collapsed to the floor, choking and cursing.

Anakin didn’t look at him.

He just stared down at (y/n)—his wife, his secret, his undoing—and let his hand cup her face.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he muttered.

“I can handle myself.”

“I know that. But I’ll never stop coming for you.”

“Even when it’s dangerous?”

His gaze darkened.

“Especially then.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

By morning, Senator Vano had filed a formal complaint.

By evening, his shuttle “malfunctioned” on the way to Coruscant.

Anakin claimed no knowledge.

But Bo-Katan caught a glimpse of scorch marks on (y/n)’s knife.

And neither of them ever spoke of the incident again.

[ririright]

“The Starless Vow Chronicles: Ashes in the Storm”

In the void between stars, promises are shadows—and love can be the cruelest curse of all.

The Executor was silent tonight. Not in truth, of course—its great engines hummed their endless symphony, its systems clicked and sighed, and its crew hurried along catwalks with practiced precision. But to Lord Vader, it was silence. A silence vast and suffocating, thick enough to drown in.

The stars beyond the viewport were cold, distant fires.

Vader stood alone in his private chamber, back turned to the galaxy he once swore to protect, helmet catching the reflections of a thousand suns he no longer felt. The hiss of his breathing echoed off the walls, a rhythm as steady as a death march.

It had been years.

Years since Mustafar scorched his soul and left only smoke behind.

Years since Obi-Wan carved the last of Anakin Skywalker out of his burning flesh.

Years since she died.

She.

He didn’t say her name.

Not anymore.

Even now, it would have felt like breaking glass inside his throat.

But she lived in his memories like a ghost that refused to fade.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

He saw her sometimes—on the edges of sleep, in moments between pain and purpose.

The shimmer of silver beskar flashing in the sun.

The braid she used to wrap in leather, stubborn Mandalorian pride wound tight with royalty.

The laughter—Force, her laugh—it still hurt worse than his burns.

“Ani, you look ridiculous in that robe.”

“You’re one to talk, Mand’alor of Bedhead.”

“At least I don’t sleep with a protocol droid’s anxiety chip.”

They had whispered wedding vows in the dark, fingers bruised and hearts louder than their voices. Her lips had trembled against his when she said she’d follow him anywhere.

But she hadn’t.

She couldn’t.

The war didn’t ask.

It took.

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Vader turned from the viewport and lowered himself onto the meditation platform. The hiss and release of his helmet echoed like a gunshot in the chamber. He sat in the shell of his own ruin—scarred skin exposed, eyes ringed in shadows deeper than sleep.

He closed his eyes.

And let her in.

In the dark, she sat beside him, the warmth of her hand brushing his.

Not metal. Not the cold of prosthetics or the rasp of breath.

But her—flesh and flame, fury and mercy.

“You said you’d come back,” her voice murmured, like embers on the wind.

“I know,” he rasped, voice dry, raw, human. “I know.”

He had wanted power to protect her. He got a throne of ash.

He had wanted time to save her. He bought only agony.

“Did I matter?”

Her question cut cleaner than any blade.

He opened his eyes. “You were the only thing that ever did.”

And still—he failed her.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Palpatine called her a weakness. A casualty.

But she had never been weak.

She died fighting.

She died free.

She died before she could see what he became.

Vader rose. Reclaimed the weight of his armor. The mask sealed with a hiss, snapping the world back into suffocating order.

And yet… in that moment of quiet, in the cracks of steel and fury—

He still felt her hand in his.

Not forgiving.

Not condemning.

Just there.

He would never see her again.

But she would haunt him until his last breath.

And that, perhaps, was the final justice.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Outside the viewport, the stars went on burning.

Unmoved.

Unmourned.

Unforgiven.

But deep within the armor, in the dark pit of what was once a man,

Anakin Skywalker knelt, unseen.

And whispered her name.

[ririright]

“Hell Is Other People’s Triplets: Tales from the Monroe Front Lawn”

Triplets! Scott, Sam, & Stephen x Mother! Reader

Teddy the Paper Boy (Age 13, rides a neon green bike with anime stickers)

Opinion: “I throw that paper like it’s a grenade.”

- Has been hit with a rogue football mid-route courtesy of Scott’s warm-up toss.

- Sam stuck his head out the window at 6 AM and screamed, “GET OFF MY LAWN, CAPITALIST SWINE!”

- Stephen once chased him barefoot down the block because he folded the paper wrong and creased the crossword. Teddy has a recurring nightmare about it.

Gerald the Mailman (Age 56, listens to the Joe Rogan podcast while delivering mail)

Opinion: “Those boys are going to be on True Crimes one day, mark my words.”

- Sam signs for the mail with weird names like “Lucifer Meow”

- Scott opened the door shirtless with protein powder smeared on his face like war paint. Gerald didn’t blink.

- Stephen offered him a manuscript of his 900-page sci-fi novel titled “Quantum Lust.”

- Gerald now hurls packages from the street like he’s delivering justice in an action movie.

Agnes & Harold Blumenthal (84 & 88, powered by decaf and spite, Married since WW2 ended)

Opinion: “They’re demon clones. That poor, poor woman.”

- Sam told Agnes he was “summoning the devil through drums.”

- Scott once hit a football through their birdbath. Harold yelled and Scott flexed as an apology.

- They’re convinced Stephen is building something in the garage “that’ll vaporize the sun.”

- Every time the boys walk by, Agnes clutches her pearls like she’s about to be mugged.

Jodie the Neighborhood Dog Walker (Age 28, owns 6 dogs, 2 pepper sprays and 1 taser “just in case”)

Opinion: “I walk dogs, not demons.”

- Scott barked at her once while lifting weights in the front yard. Her poodle hasn’t recovered.

- Sam tried to give her weed in trade for her Great Dane’s spiked collar.

- Stephen walked with her once to lecture about cross breeding and the invention of the “Labradoodle”. She hasn’t made eye contact since.

- Avoids their side of the block entirely now—routes her walks through a cemetery instead.

Janine the Neighborhood Watch President (Age 49, owns binoculars, quotes HOA bylaws like scripture)

Opinion: “Those boys are a walking violation.”

- Has a folder titled “Monroe Incidents” with timestamps, photos, and footnotes.

- Sam moonwalked in front of her Ring Doorbell and flipped her off.

- Scott revved a dirt bike in front of her house during quiet hours.

- Stephen secretly sends her neighborhood violation reports… about Janine.

Elder Brayden & Elder Chase (Mormon Solicitors) (Both 19, wear matching white shirts, always smiling)

Opinion: “We believe even they can be saved…probably.”

- Sam asked if they accept “the Church of Satan’s Bassline.”

- Stephen invited them in to debate theology and served decaf tea “to make a point.”

- Scott asked if they could bless the Xbox. They tried. It did not help.

- (y/n) gave them lemonade and whispered “Good luck, boys. Wear a helmet next time.”

Kyle the Pizza Delivery Guy (Age 22, rides a scooter, probably high)

Opinion: “If I have to hear about ‘extra ranch’ one more time…”

- Sam tried to pay with coins and a sketch of Nosferatu.

- Scott challenged him to a push-up contest before paying.

- Stephen asked him to solve a riddle before opening the door.

- Jeremy just drops the pizza and runs now. He leaves Post-it notes that say, “You people scare me.”

Gary the Milkman (Age 47, wears suspenders, has a handlebar mustache, owns a dairy-themed blog)

Opinion: “I’ve seen things. Heard things. Smelled things.”

- Sam moos at him. Every. Single. Morning.

- Scott chugs the whole bottle in one go on the porch while staring at Gary like it’s a dominance contest.

- Stephen asked if milk expiration dates are a government conspiracy.

- (y/n) told him she doesn’t even subscribe to milk delivery, but he keeps showing up.

Kaitlyn the Girl Scout (Age 9, glitter jacket, terrifyingly persuasive)

Opinion: “Those boys don’t scare me. I run this block.”

- Sold Sam five boxes of Thin Mints after threatening to tell (y/n) he was vaping.

- Beat Scott in a push-up contest. Twice.

- Stephen now hides behind the curtains when she knocks. She once corrected his math and he’s never forgiven her (he was off by a decimal).

- She calls them “The Tall Toddlers.” They pretend to hate her. They actually love her cookies.

- Sam owes her $12. Scott owes her his dignity.

Kyle the DoorDash Guy (Age 26, vapes, listens to true crime podcasts while delivering)

Opinion: “They scare me. But the mom? Queen.”

- Sam asked him if he “wanted to be in a music video about capitalism.”

- Scott invited him to lift weights. Kyle accidentally sprained his wrist trying to bench an empty bar.

- Stephen asked about his “life goals” while analyzing his bag organization.

- Now leaves food in a cooler they leave on the porch labeled “DOORDASH GUY – DO NOT ENTER. EVER.”

- Once got a thank-you note signed “The Monroe Cult.” Still hung it on his wall.

Cheryl the Mayor Campaigner (Age 62, power blazer, clipboard of doom, runs on caffeine and justice)

Opinion: “If those boys vote… we’re doomed.”

- Sam asked her how many bodies the mayor had buried under City Hall.

- Stephen actually debated her on municipal tax code and she lost. She’s still emotionally recovering.

- She told (y/n) that her children are “the embodiment of democracy in crisis.”

[ririright]

Could you do a Dad! Anakin x Daughter Reader who is afraid of thunderstorms and one night during a bad storm she sneaks into her dads bed and cuddles up with him and he just holds her and protects her from the storm

“Safe in Daddy’s Arms”

Dad! Anakin x Daughter Reader ⚡︎ ☁︎ ⚡︎

The rain lashed against the windows, a constant drumming that echoed through the dark house. Thunder rumbled like a beast growling in the distance, each crash louder than the last, and flashes of lightning split the sky with blinding brilliance.

(y/n) lay curled up under her pink, starry blanket, her stuffed bunny clutched tight to her chest. She tried to be brave, really she did. But with each crack of thunder, her heart jumped, and her tiny body trembled under the sheets.

Boom.

Another crash, louder than ever.

Her lower lip wobbled, tears prickling at her wide eyes. The darkness seemed thicker tonight, the shadows shifting with each lightning flash.

Finally, she couldn’t take it.

Slowly, she slipped out of her bed, her tiny bare feet padding quietly across the cool, hardwood floor. She clutched her bunny tighter, the soft fur rubbing against her cheek as she tiptoed down the hallway.

Her father’s bedroom door was cracked open, the faint glow of the hallway light casting a sliver of warmth into the room.

She pushed the door open just a bit more, peeking inside.

Anakin lay on his side, his strong, muscular form half-covered by the thick quilt, his dark hair tousled against the pillow. His sharp, handsome face was peaceful, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.

But another boom of thunder shook the house, and (y/n) let out a tiny, frightened whimper.

His eyes opened instantly, sharp blue and alert, his body tensing. But as soon as he saw that familiar, tiny silhouette in the doorway, his face softened.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was low and gentle, thick with sleep but instantly warm. “What’s wrong, baby?”

A flash of lightning lit up the hallway behind her, and she winced, stepping into the room. “The… the thunder… it’s too loud…” she whispered, her tiny voice trembling.

Anakin’s heart melted. He didn’t need any more explanation. He lifted the quilt, his strong arm opening wide. “C’mere, babygirl.”

(y/n) didn’t hesitate. She rushed across the room, climbing up onto his bed with a little scramble. He wrapped his strong, warm arms around her, pulling her against his chest. Her tiny body curled into his warmth, her face burying against his shirt.

“There we go…” he murmured, his deep voice like a soothing lullaby. “Daddy’s got you, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

Another crash of thunder shook the sky, but this time, wrapped in her father’s embrace, it didn’t seem quite as scary.

“Daddy?” she whispered, her little fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.

“Yeah, baby?” he murmured, his hand gently rubbing her back in slow, comforting circles.

“Are you… are you scared of the thunder?”

A soft, warm chuckle rumbled in his chest. “No, sweet pea. Daddy’s not scared. And I promise you don’t have to be either. It’s just a noisy storm — can’t hurt you while I’m here.”

She nodded, her tiny body relaxing a little more. But her wide eyes still flicked nervously toward the window with each flash.

Anakin’s protective instincts kicked in. “Hey, wanna know what I used to think when I was your age?”

Her head tilted up, her little eyes curious. “What?”

“I used to pretend the thunder was just two big, silly clouds bumping into each other. They’re so clumsy, they just keep knocking together and making noise.”

(y/n) giggled, a tiny, sleepy smile breaking through her fear. “Really?”

“Really. And the lightning? That’s just them trying to high-five and missing.”

She giggled again, her little hand reaching up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart.

Anakin leaned down, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to her forehead. “See? Nothing to be scared of. Just a couple of silly clouds having a wrestling match.”

(y/n) snuggled deeper into his embrace, her tiny body completely engulfed by his protective warmth. “Can I stay here with you tonight, Daddy?”

He didn’t even need to think about it. “Of course, babygirl. Daddy’s not letting you go.”

He shifted slightly, settling her more comfortably against his chest, his large hand resting protectively on her back, holding her close. Her tiny breaths softened, her eyelids fluttering shut, her little bunny clutched between them.

Thunder crashed again, but this time, it was just background noise.

Because here, wrapped in her father’s arms, she was untouchable.

And as Anakin’s eyes drifted closed again, his last thought was a quiet, fierce promise — as long as she was in his arms, nothing would ever harm her.

[ririright]

Monday morning chaos like sam trying to chain himself to the bed so he doesn’t have to go to school and trying to wake Scott up is like talking to a brick wall and of course fighting over the front seat all while having to race them to school on time

“Monday Mayhem in the Monroe Household”

Son! Sam x Mom Reader x Son! Scott

“Boys! Get up!” you roared from the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the kind of furious energy usually reserved for street fights. The toaster popped violently, launching toast like a ballistic missile, and you lunged, catching it one-handed. The eggs were starting to smoke.

Silence. Absolute, ominous silence from the boys’ room.

Your eye twitched. “SCOTT! SAM! GET. UP!”

Nothing. Not a rustle. Not a groan.

Oh, we’re doing this today?

You stomped down the hallway, the spatula still in your hand like a weapon. The boys’ room was a war zone of discarded laundry, guitar picks, and crumpled sports jerseys. Somewhere under a fortress of blankets, Scott lay sprawled like a corpse, only his wild, sandy hair poking out.

“Scott. Get. Up.” You shook his shoulder. Nothing. You shook harder. “Scott Monroe, if you don’t wake up right now, I swear I will—”

“M’awake,” he slurred, his face still buried in the pillow.

“No, you’re not.” You yanked the pillow out from under him. He barely reacted, face now squashed against the bare mattress.

“Five more minutes…”

“No. Minutes.” You leaned down and grabbed the bottom of his mattress, heaving it upwards like you were flipping a pancake. Scott’s limp body slid off, hitting the floor with a thud.

“WHAT THE—MOM!”

“Good morning, sunshine!” you chirped, already moving to the other side of the room.

Sam’s bed was… suspicious. His familiar pile of blankets seemed a little bulkier today, and one corner of his comforter had a silver glint to it.

“Sam?” You leaned in, and a chain slipped out, clinking against the bedpost.

Oh, no.

“Samuel Monroe. Did you chain yourself to the bed again?”

“I’m protesting!” came his muffled voice from beneath the mountain of blankets.

“Protesting what?”

“School. Life. Waking up.”

You ripped off the covers, revealing Sam, half-tangled in the chains that usually dangled from his cargo shorts, looped around his waist, padlocked to the bed frame. His eyeliner was smeared, his hair a chaotic mess, and he clutched the chains like a Victorian prisoner.

“This is a statement!” he shouted, yanking at the chains dramatically.

You sighed, plucking a hairpin from your wrist and expertly picking the lock like the experienced boy mom you were. “The only statement you’re making is that I should’ve invested in a home security system instead of raising two tiny gremlins.”

Sam flopped backwards, dramatically throwing an arm over his eyes. “I can’t go. I’m dropping out. I’m living off the grid.”

“Perfect. I’ll take your Xbox and turn your music room into a yoga studio.”

“I’M UP!”

In the kitchen, the pancakes were on the brink of cremation. You flipped them onto plates, shoved eggs on the side, and stuffed lunch boxes with whatever you could grab — leftover pasta for Sam, a ham and cheese sandwich for Scott, a handful of cookies for both because you had already accepted defeat.

The boys stumbled in, Scott wearing his jersey backwards and blinking like a newborn mole, Sam in a wrinkled band tee, his chains still dragging behind him like some goth Christmas decoration.

“Sit. Eat. Do not speak,” you commanded, slamming the plates down.

Peace. Beautiful, fleeting peace. The boys ate with the desperation of starving wolves, syrup dripping down Scott’s chin while Sam stabbed at his eggs like they owed him money.

“I need more syrup,” Scott grumbled, holding out his plate.

“Please?” you corrected, pouring more.

“Please.”

“I need coffee,” Sam muttered, leaning his forehead against the table.

“You need therapy,” you shot back, kissing the top of his head.

Three minutes of bliss. Then you glanced at the clock.

“WE’RE LATE!”

Chaos re-erupted. Scott bolted to the bathroom, trying to brush his teeth while simultaneously shoving on his shoes. Sam was swearing because one of his chains got stuck in the door handle.

“Backpacks! Shoes! Let’s go!” you yelled, grabbing your keys.

Scott shot out of the bathroom, leaping over the couch like a parkour athlete. “SHOTGUN!”

“NO, YOU DON’T!” Sam lunged, grabbing his brother by the hoodie. “I’m not sitting in the back next to your stinky gym bag again!”

They were clawing at each other like feral cats, and you stormed out the front door. “I don’t care who sits where! Both of you — BACK SEAT!”

They froze, looking at you with wide, betrayed eyes.

“But—”

“BACK. SEAT.”

They crammed in, knees jammed against each other, still muttering curses.

“I get to pick the music,” Scott declared, grabbing the aux cord.

“Like hell you do!” Sam snatched it, yanking it so hard it nearly ripped.

“I will turn this car around,” you threatened, pulling out of the driveway at breakneck speed.

“Mom, he’s playing that screamo crap!”

“Better than your stupid Drake playlist!”

You ripped the aux cord out, shoving it in your cup holder. “No music. Silence. Absolute silence.���

Miraculously, they shut up.

For thirty seconds.

“Mom, he’s breathing on me.”

“I’m literally breathing air!”

“Boys.”

“He’s got his gross hoodie on me!”

“It’s not gross, it’s fashion!”

“I will leave you both on the side of the road!” you barked, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles were white.

You swerved into the school drop-off lane, tires squealing. The boys grabbed their bags, Scott nearly tripping over Sam as they tumbled out.

“Have a great day!” you called, leaning out the window with a forced smile.

Scott paused, waving. “Love you, Mom.”

Sam leaned back in, blowing you a kiss. “Thanks, Mom.”

They ran off, shoving each other the whole way to the doors.

You sank back into your seat, taking a deep, glorious breath. Silence. Sweet, perfect silence.

Your phone buzzed.

Scott: I forgot my math book. Can you bring it?

You screamed into the steering wheel.

[ririright]

Dad! Anakin and sick Daughter Reader

Like him just overreacting and smothering her and all she wants is to be held by him

The living room looked like a makeshift medical center.

(Y/n) was bundled up in a mountain of blankets on the couch, only the top of her head and her tiny, red-tipped nose poking out. The TV was playing her favorite cartoon, but she wasn’t watching it. Her eyes were heavy, and her little sniffles came in soft, pitiful bursts.

And then there was Anakin — storming around the room like a one-man emergency response team.

“Alright, sweetheart, Daddy’s got the vapor rub,” he declared, rushing over and nearly tripping over his own boots as he crouched by the couch. “Gonna put a little on your chest, okay?”

(Y/n) let out a tired, stuffy-nosed sigh. “Okay, Daddy…”

He carefully peeled back the top layer of blankets — just enough to reveal her tiny pajama-clad chest. His large, calloused hands carefully rubbed a dab of the cool, minty gel on her, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his frantic energy.

“There we go, babygirl. That’s gonna help you breathe better,” he whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. But as soon as his lips touched her, he jerked back, eyes wide. “You’re still warm! Too warm!”

(Y/n) sniffled, looking up at him with her sleepy, glassy eyes. “Daddy, I’m okay…”

“Okay?” Anakin’s voice pitched in a mix of worry and disbelief. “Baby, you’re like a little furnace!” He immediately stormed off to the kitchen, and (y/n) could hear him rattling through the medicine cabinet. “I should’ve gotten the children’s cold medicine with the extra-strength formula. This one’s probably just sugar water…”

“Daddy…” she called weakly, but he was already rushing back, holding the small bottle and a tiny measuring spoon like he was performing life-saving surgery.

“Alright, sweetheart, open up,” he murmured, carefully measuring out the exact dose. “This’ll help with the fever, the cough, the runny nose—”

(Y/n) opened her mouth, took the medicine, and wrinkled her little nose at the taste. “Bleh.”

“I know, I know. It’s gross, but it’s good for you.” He stroked her hair gently, his hand lingering for just a moment. “You comfy? Warm enough? Not too warm? Want another pillow?”

(Y/n) let out a tiny cough, snuggling deeper into her mountain of blankets. “No, Daddy…”

“Okay, okay,” he muttered, running his hands through his messy hair, the faint scent of motor oil still clinging to him. “Maybe I should call Dr. Wills… just to make sure we’re doing everything right…”

“Daddy…” (y/n) whimpered, her little voice going wobbly. “Just… wanna be with you.”

Anakin’s heart clenched instantly, and all his frantic energy seemed to melt away. He knelt down beside the couch, his large, warm hand cupping her tiny, flushed cheek. “Oh, baby… Daddy’s right here.”

“Hold me, please?” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

He didn’t need another word. In one smooth motion, he scooped her up, blankets and all, cradling her against his broad chest. His strong arms wrapped around her, his large, warm hand cradling the back of her head. He sank back onto the couch, leaning into the corner with her tiny body securely against him.

“Daddy’s got you, sweetheart,” he whispered, rocking her gently. “You’re safe. My baby’s safe.”

(Y/n) let out a tiny, relieved sigh, her head resting against his shoulder, her little fingers clutching at his shirt. “Love you, Daddy…”

“I love you too, sweet pea,” he whispered, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. His worry didn’t entirely disappear — he could still feel the faint warmth of her fever against his chest — but holding her like this, he finally felt like he was actually helping.

For a few quiet moments, the room was filled only with the soft hum of the TV and the gentle sound of Anakin’s soothing voice, whispering soft reassurances into her hair.

But then, his mind started racing again. “Wait… what about a humidifier? Maybe I should boil some water. No, wait — a warm bath? Would that help? Or would that make it worse? Oh! Or maybe—”

“Daddy…” (y/n) mumbled, her tiny voice muffled against his chest. “No more… just hold me…”

Anakin chuckled, his arms tightening protectively around her. “Alright, alright, I hear you, babygirl. Daddy’s gonna just hold you.” He leaned his head against hers, his rough cheek brushing against her soft hair. “But you let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Mmm-hmm…” she whispered, her tiny body relaxing even more, her breathing growing softer.

Anakin let out a slow, deep breath, pressing another gentle kiss to her head. His thumb rubbed slow, comforting circles on her back, and his other hand cradled her close.

And as the rain softly pattered against the window, Anakin’s panicked thoughts finally began to quiet, replaced by the gentle rise and fall of his daughter’s breath.

[ririright]

“Operation: Drive Hayden Crazy (With Love)”

Husband! Hayden x Wife Reader (Headcannons)

❤︎ The “The Fuck” Prank

You’re chatting with Hayden in the kitchen about dinner plans.

“I was thinking maybe we could have pasta or— the fuck— roasted chicken?”

Hayden freezes, brows furrowing.

“Uh… did you just—?”

You continue, totally casual. “Yeah, but maybe we can make garlic bread too— the fuck.”

He leans in closer, eyes wide. “Are you okay? Why do you keep—?”

When you finally break and start laughing, he looks so relieved. “Oh my god, you scared me! I thought you were… possessed or something.”

For the next hour, he’ll randomly go, “The fuck?” back at you with a grin.

❤︎ The “Wiping the Kiss” Prank

You’re lounging on the couch, and Hayden leans in for a sweet kiss.

The moment he pulls back, you immediately wipe your mouth with an exaggerated frown.

His face drops. “What—? Did I… do something?”

He tries again, a little gentler. You wipe it again, now looking even more annoyed.

“Okay, no. I’m insulted. Come here.” He’s on top of you, smothering you with rapid kisses

“You can’t escape, sweetheart. No more wiping.”

When you finally confess it was a prank, he huffs. “You’re lucky I love you.”

But for the next few hours, he’ll randomly wipe his own lips dramatically after you kiss him.

❤︎ The “Flashing Him” Prank

You pretend you’re setting up your phone for a TikTok dance in the living room.

Hayden is casually reading in the background, pretending not to watch you, but he’s totally watching.

You suddenly turn around, lift your shirt, and flash him.

His jaw drops, the book falling out of his hands. “Wait—did you—?”

You turn back like nothing happened, doing your fake dance again.

He’s laughing now, getting up,

“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing today?”

He wraps his arms around you from behind, murmuring, “Gonna do that again, or was that a one-time show?”

❤︎ The “Fighting an Invisible Person” Prank

You’re both parked in the drive-thru line, and as you wait, you suddenly whip around to the empty backseat.

“I told you to leave us alone!” you shout, swinging your hand like you’re trying to shove someone away.

Hayden’s eyes go wide, his hand gripping the steering wheel. “Babe?”

You continue, voice panicked. “What’s your problem?! You have no right— let go!” You start thrashing, making it look like you’re being dragged into the backseat.

“HEY!” Hayden unbuckles, spinning in his seat. “Get off her!” He’s already trying to climb over the console, hands out like he’s about to grab this ‘invisible attacker’.

You’re flailing dramatically, your hand smacking him in the face by accident.

“I got you, sweetheart!” He’s in full hero mode. “Hold on!”

Suddenly, you stop, sitting back calmly. “Okay, they’re gone.”

Hayden’s jaw drops. “What… what the hell?”

You burst into laughter, tears in your eyes, and it takes a second for him to realize. He just slumps back in his seat, breathless. “I’m gonna need, like, ten minutes to calm down. Do you want me to have a heart attack?!”

❤︎ The “Salty Soup” Prank

You stir the pot, trying not to laugh as you add an obscene amount of salt. “Babe, can you taste this real quick?”

Hayden wanders over, smiling, and takes a big spoonful. The second the soup hits his tongue, his face twists in pure horror.

“Jesus— are you trying to mummify me?” He’s coughing, rushing to the sink for water.

“Oh, really? You think it needs more salt?” You grab the shaker and start shaking again.

“NO!” He lunges, wrestling the salt from your hand. “Babe, you’re committing a war crime in this kitchen!”

You try to look serious. “I just thought it needed a little more flavor.”

“Flavor? You mean ‘instant dehydration’?” He’s laughing now, but there’s a hint of trauma in his eyes.

❤︎ The “Electrocuted Prank”

You’re in the bathroom, teasing your hair into a wild, frizzy mess, making it look like you stuck a fork in an outlet. A little black eyeshadow smudged on your cheeks gives you that perfect “I-just-got-fried” look. You glance at yourself in the mirror, trying not to laugh.

Perfect.

Taking a deep breath, you step into the kitchen, grab the unplugged toaster, and position yourself just right. Then you scream.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Hayden’s footsteps are thunderous down the hallway, practically skidding into the kitchen. “What—what’s wrong?!—”

The second he turns the corner, you launch into your act. Your entire body convulses, shaking violently, your mouth open in that same desperate scream. Your eyes are wide, a mix of terror and—barely concealed—laughter.

But you hold it in.

Hayden’s face goes ghost-white. “Oh my god! DROP IT!”

You don’t. You keep shaking, your scream wavering just enough to sound unhinged.

“PUT IT DOWN! LET GO!” He’s rushing forward, then stopping short, waving his hands in a frenzy. “Wait! No—okay, okay, don’t move! Uh—what do I—”

He spins, grabs the closest thing he can find—a spatula. “I-I’ll knock it out of your hands!” But he can’t seem to commit, bouncing from one foot to the other. “No! That’s too violent! Okay, okay, think, Hayden—think!”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to keep your expression serious, the scream only growing louder.

“AHHHHHHH!”

“I’m getting a towel!” He lunges for a dish towel, snapping it in the air like he’s going to lasso you. “Okay, just… just stay calm!”

You start to crumble, your lips twitching. He notices. “Wait a minute—”

Your scream turns into a breathless giggle, and the toaster clatters to the counter.

“Y-You—” He’s staring, wide-eyed, breathless. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

You’re doubled over now, clutching your stomach, tears in your eyes. “You should’ve seen yourself!”

“I thought—” He points at the unplugged cord. “I thought you were going to become a human lightning rod!”

Still giggling, you reach out to hug him, but he steps back, hand over his chest. “No. No hugs for you.”

“Oh, come on,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You would’ve saved me.”

“I was about to kick that toaster out of your hands like a football.” His serious face breaks, and he’s laughing now too, rubbing his face. “You are the most evil woman I know.”

You grin, leaning up to kiss him. “But you love me.”

He finally wraps his arms around you, pulling you in. “Oh, I do. But I’m getting you back for this. I’m gonna get you so good you’ll regret ever buying that toaster.”

[ririright]

author’s note: an anonymous made a long request, and for some reason, Tumblr wouldn’t let me reply to it. Anonymous, if you’re reading this, I hope it’s exactly what you wanted ❤︎ ☻

“Protecting Mom”

The Monroe house was quiet. For once.

Sam was sprawled on the living room couch, a mess of black hair flopped over his forehead, earbuds in, bass guitar resting on his chest as his fingers lazily plucked a quiet, repetitive melody. His legs were propped up on the armrest, beat-up Converse dangling.

Scott was in the kitchen, slouched against the counter, one hand halfway in a bag of chips, the other flipping through his phone. His earbuds were plugged in too, though his were dangling halfway out — just enough to hear the outside world in case something interesting happened.

They didn’t hear the first knock at the door.

The second one was louder, sharp enough that Scott pulled out his earbuds, frowning. “Hey, Sam!”

Sam didn’t respond.

“Sam!”

“What?” Sam grumbled, not looking up, his fingers still absently plucking at the strings.

“Door.”

“You’re right there.”

“I’m busy.”

“Eating chips isn’t busy.”

Scott tossed the bag on the counter, grumbling, and stomped his way to the door, already annoyed. He swung it open without even bothering to check who was on the other side.

There was a man standing there. Older, but not ancient — graying at the temples, a worn face with a faint scar under his right eye. Dressed in an old leather jacket that had seen better days. His eyes swept over Scott, lingering a little too long.

“You boys must be Scott and Sam.”

Scott’s frown deepened. “Uh… yeah?”

Sam looked over now, pulling out one earbud. “Who the hell are you?”

The man smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m… I’m George. Family.”

“Family?” Scott’s eyebrows shot up. “We don’t know you.”

“Well, you were too young to remember me,” George said smoothly, stepping forward just enough to make Scott instinctively step back. “I was… away for a long time. But I wanted to come by and see how you were doing. Maybe catch up.”

“Catch up?” Sam echoed, standing up, eyes narrowing. “We don’t even know you.”

“I know your mom,” George said, eyes darting around the house, like he was searching for something — or someone. “She’s not home?”

“She’s out.” Scott’s voice was clipped now. He didn’t like this guy. Not one bit. “So maybe come back later.”

“No need for that.” George’s smile tightened, but his tone stayed light. “I can wait.”

Sam glanced at Scott, an unspoken conversation passing between them. This was weird. Too weird.

But before either of them could respond, the sound of keys jingling at the door interrupted the tense silence.

You stepped in, juggling a couple of grocery bags, your eyes lighting up when you saw the boys. “Hey, boys, can you—”

But then you saw him.

The bags slipped from your hands, one of them spilling a box of cereal across the entryway.

“George?”

His smile widened. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The boys turned to look at you, confusion in their eyes. Sam spoke first. “You know this guy?”

Your breath caught, panic flooding your chest, but you forced a smile. “Boys… can you give us a minute?”

“What? But, Mom—” Scott started, but you cut him off, your voice a little sharper than you intended.

“Scott. Sam. Go upstairs.”

They exchanged a look, Scott’s eyes lingering on George suspiciously, but finally, they obeyed, stomping up the stairs — though they didn’t go far, lingering just out of sight on the landing, listening.

As soon as they were out of view, your forced smile dropped. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to see my sons.”

“Your sons?” Your voice was low, but the anger was like a spark in dry grass. “You walked out on me before they were even born. You don’t get to call them your sons.”

“I wasn’t ready back then, okay?” George’s voice was too casual, too calm, and it only made your blood boil. “But I’m here now.”

“I don’t care.” Your voice was ice. “Leave. Now.”

“They’re my boys too.”

“Like hell they are!”

George stepped forward, his expression darkening. “You think you can keep them from me? You can’t just cut me out of their lives.”

“I already did,” you snapped. “They don’t even know who you are. They don’t need you. They never needed you.”

“Don’t you dare—” George’s voice grew louder, his face inches from yours now, and his hand shot out, gripping your wrist, hard enough to make you wince.

But then, a blur of motion — Sam slammed into George, shoving him off you.

“Get your hands off her!” Sam’s voice was wild, sharp with rage. He stepped in front of you, his frame tense, silver piercings glinting.

Scott was there in an instant, grabbing George by the jacket. “Get out!”

“Hey! What the—” George tried to shove Scott off, but Scott’s grip tightened, his jaw clenched, muscles flexing. He twisted George toward the door.

“I said GET OUT!” Scott snarled, pushing him again, the door swinging wide.

George stumbled, barely catching himself on the railing, his face twisting in shock. “You ungrateful little—”

“Say another word.” Sam’s voice was low and deadly, standing firm between you and George.

George hesitated, his glare shifting from Sam to Scott — and then to you, his expression twisting into something almost hateful. “This isn’t over.”

But he turned and stalked off, vanishing down the sidewalk.

Scott slammed the door, chest heaving. Sam was still in front of you, his hands shaking. “Mom… you okay?”

“I-I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered. “I just… I need a minute.”

You stepped past them, your hands shaking now that the adrenaline was fading, and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door. Your back hit the wood, and you sank down, covering your face, tears spilling before you could stop them.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. You weren’t sure.

But then there was a quiet knock.

“Mom?” It was Scott, his voice softer than usual. “Can we…?”

You didn’t even respond, just reached over and unlocked the door.

They slipped inside, silent now, and without a word, they climbed into bed beside you — Sam curling against one side, Scott on the other.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Sam wrapped an arm around your shoulder, his hand holding yours tightly. Scott rested his head on your other shoulder, his fingers loosely tangled with yours.

You didn’t even realize you were crying again until Scott gently wiped a tear from your cheek.

“You’re not alone, Mom,” he whispered. “Not ever.”

Sam’s grip tightened. “We got you.”

And for the first time that day, you let yourself breathe.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that — sandwiched between your boys, their warmth a comfort, their quiet presence keeping the panic at bay. Your tears slowed, but you didn’t move. You didn’t want them to see your puffy eyes, the red streaks on your cheeks.

But eventually, Sam shifted.

“Hey, Mom?” he murmured, his voice gentle, not the usual bratty tone. “You hungry?”

“I can make you some of that chicken parm you like,” Scott added, already trying to sit up. “Or… whatever you want. We got stuff.”

“I don’t know, boys… I—”

“Pizza?” Sam interrupted, leaning up on his elbow. “We can order in. Extra cheese. Those stupid little breadsticks you like.”

“You love those breadsticks,” Scott muttered with a tiny smile. “You always eat half the box before we even get our food.”

A weak laugh escaped you, which only made their faces light up a little more.

“Or maybe…” Sam’s eyes sparked. “You wanna watch that trashy show you love? The one with the ridiculous drama?”

“Oh, the one where they’re all trying to survive on that haunted island?” Scott grinned, and his impression of one of the actors was so bad, it was perfect. “If we stay together, we’ll live. But if we split up… we’ll also probably live. But I don’t know because I’m an idiot.”

You snorted, covering your mouth, and Sam’s grin widened. “Scott, that was the worst impression I’ve ever heard.”

“That’s the point, moron.”

“Boys…” you whispered, shaking your head. “You don’t have to—”

“We want to,” Sam insisted, leaning closer. “C’mon. We could use a chill night.”

“You know,” Scott chimed in, trying to sound casual but still watching your face carefully. “The three of us. Like old times. Messy bed, snacks everywhere, TV so loud the neighbors complain.”

You hesitated, but they were already moving, already pulling you gently to sit up. Sam gave you a mischievous grin. “Stay here. We’ll get everything.”

“Everything?” you echoed, trying to hide another laugh.

“Everything.” Scott nodded, and they both shot out of bed like a pair of rowdy puppies.

You could hear them in the kitchen, the fridge opening and slamming, cabinet doors clicking, the microwave humming to life. They were arguing over which snacks were the best, Scott swearing he was “just checking” the popcorn by eating half the bag, Sam insisting on adding extra marshmallows to the hot chocolate he was making.

When they returned, it was an absolute disaster.

Scott was balancing a huge bowl of popcorn on one arm, a stack of chocolate bars under his chin, and a can of Diet Coke already cracked open. Sam had a tray of steaming mugs of hot chocolate, the marshmallows threatening to spill over, and a box of greasy breadsticks on his hip.

“You… boys…” you whispered, unable to hide the smile that stretched across your face.

They were grinning too, and as they set everything down, they immediately snuggled back beside you, the blankets pulled up, the remote handed to you like a scepter.

“Your majesty,” Scott declared, waving his hand. “The drama awaits.”

“You have full control,” Sam added, nudging your shoulder with his. “Whatever you wanna watch.”

You didn’t even try to fight the warmth in your chest. With your boys on either side of you, their ridiculous snacking chaos and their absolute refusal to let you be alone, you felt… safe.

Maybe not entirely okay. But safe.

You hit play on the show, and the overacted screams and cheesy dialogue filled the room.

And even though you tried to keep watching, you found your gaze drifting to them — to Scott’s relaxed smile, his hand already half-buried in the popcorn, to Sam, who was dramatically groaning at every bad line but still leaning against you.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He blushed, pretending to be more interested in his hot chocolate. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Scott.”

“Hmm?” He looked up, cheeks stuffed with popcorn.

“Thank you.”

He smiled, that crooked, proud smile he only ever gave when he thought you weren’t looking. “Anytime, Mom.”

And as the show played on, their voices mingling with the bad acting, their laughter chasing away the heavy shadows in your heart, you let yourself lean back against the pillows, a gentle peace settling over you.

This was your family.

And you didn’t need anyone else.

[ririright]

Could you possibly do Hayden x younger and very short reader?

❤︎ Height Differences and Playful Teasing

He constantly uses you as an armrest, leaning on your head with a smug grin.

“Comfortable down there, sweetheart?”

He loves picking you up effortlessly, especially when you try to reach something on a high shelf.

“Need a lift, tiny?”

❤︎ Always Bending Down for Kisses

He leans down to kiss you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you up on your toes.

If you try to pout, he’ll dramatically bend even lower. “This better?”

He loves it when you pull him down by his collar or his flannel just to kiss him.

❤︎ Being Overprotective Without Realizing It

He always insists on holding your hand in crowded places, keeping you close.

“Stay by me, sweetheart. Don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

If someone bumps into you, his arm is immediately around your shoulders, giving them a sharp look.

If you’re out somewhere unfamiliar, his protective instinct goes into overdrive.

❤︎ His Clothes Are Like Dresses on You

When you steal his shirts, they’re basically oversized dresses.

He loves seeing you wrapped up in his flannels, especially with the sleeves covering your hands.

Sometimes he’ll chuckle,

“You look better in my clothes than I do.”

❤︎ Loves Spoiling You (Even When You Protest)

He’ll randomly buy you sweets or little gifts he thinks you’ll love.

If you ever try to pay for something, he just raises an eyebrow.

“Put that away, sweetheart. I got it.”

Always lets you steal his desserts.

“Just say you want a bite, babe. No need for the sneaky fork.”

❤︎ Picks You Up Like You Weigh Nothing

Will casually scoop you up and carry you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch.

If you’re being cheeky, he’ll just pick you up and spin you around.

Sometimes he carries you over his shoulder, just to hear you squeal.

❤︎ Teases You About Your Baby Face

“You’re gonna get carded at the movies again, aren’t you?”

Always has to insist you’re his wife because people think you’re younger than you are.

Loves gently cupping your cheeks, grinning.

“I get the prettiest baby face wife in the world.”

❤︎ A Little Jealous of Other Young Guys

He’s confident, but if he catches some younger guy looking at you, he’ll immediately pull you close.

“You good, sweetheart? Or should I remind you who’s the lucky guy here?”

Sometimes, he’ll smirk and lean down to kiss you in front of them.

❤︎ He’s Always Trying to Teach You Things (And Secretly Loves It)

Whether it’s showing you how to use the Bobcat or teaching you to wield a lightsaber, he’s your favorite teacher.

He loves watching you focus, the way your eyes light up when you get it right.

“Look at you, my little Jedi in training.”

❤︎ Wraps You Up in Bear Hugs

Loves engulfing you in his arms, pressing his face against your hair.

If you ever feel upset, he’ll just pick you up and sit you on his lap, holding you close.

When you two watch movies, he pulls you against his chest, basically using himself as a blanket.

❤︎ Gets a Kick Out of Your Feisty Side

If you try to stand on your tiptoes and poke his chest during an argument, he’ll just smile.

“You’re adorable when you’re all worked up.”

Sometimes you’ll try to be sassy, and he’ll just lean down,

“You wanna say that again, shorty?”

❤︎ Always Puts You First (Even When You Argue)

If you’re mad at him, he’ll lean down, trying to catch your eye with a teasing grin.

“C’mon, short stuff, don’t be mad. I’ll make it up to you.”

He’s quick to apologize, pulling you into his arms even when you’re trying to stay grumpy.

❤︎ Loves Showing Off His Strength for You

Carries heavy bags with ease, glancing over just to make sure you’re impressed.

Will show off by lifting you up without warning, making you squeal.

If you try to out-stubborn him with something, he’ll just pick you up and carry you off.

“We’ll talk when you calm down, babe.”

❤︎ Knows You Use Your Size to Your Advantage

If you want cuddles, you’ll just snuggle into his chest, and he melts.

You’ll hide behind him in crowds or if something scares you, and he always turns protective.

Loves it when you try to be sneaky, like stealing snacks—“Oh, where’s my cookie? Must be a tiny thief in the house.”

❤︎ Secretly Loves Feeling Like the “Older Guy”

Will sometimes make fun of his “old man” habits, like needing his reading glasses or saying his back hurts.

Loves when you tell him he’s handsome, like he’s still got it.

“You think I’m a silver fox already, sweetheart?” (He’s not even graying yet.)

❤︎ Calls You Sweet Nicknames

“Shortcake,” “Peanut,” “Tiny Dancer.”

If you’re mad, he’ll go overboard.

“Oh, don’t be mad, little firecracker.”

Loves how small your hands look in his and will hold them up to his just to tease.

❤︎ Gets a Bit Insecure About the Age Gap

If you bring up something you love from your childhood that he doesn’t know, he’ll joke, “Guess I’m ancient, huh?”

You’ll catch him checking himself out in the mirror, and he’ll give you a sheepish smile.

“You’re not gonna trade me in for a younger model, are you?” (He’s only half-joking.)

But You Always Reassure Him

Whenever you tell him he’s hot or touch his chest, he gets that smug, boyish grin.

“Yeah? Still got it?”

When you cuddle against him, he feels like the luckiest man alive, your head against his chest, his arms wrapped around you.

[ririright]

The “Hayden on Ice” Series:

“The Banner of Glory (and Probably Glitter)”

Husband! Hayden x Wife Reader

1 — 2 — 3 — 4 — 5

Coach Hayden doesn’t do things halfway.

Wednesday Evening – 7:18 p.m.

You walked into the dining room expecting dinner.

What you found instead was…

- The table completely covered in construction paper.

- A hot glue gun plugged in dangerously close to Barron’s juice box.

- Your husband wielding a silver glitter pen like a quill of destiny.

“What… is happening.”

Hayden looked up, wild-eyed. “We’re making history.”

Barron popped up from under the table, his cheeks streaked in blue paint. “WE’RE MAKING A BANNER!”

Hayden beamed. “For the Frosty Pucks! We need team spirit! Identity! We need a legacy!”

“…You printed iron-on logos?”

He held up a sheet. “I made them on Canva.”

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Thursday – Craft Night Escalates

The project took over the living room. Then the hallway.

By bedtime, Hayden had:

- Bought mini fleece scarves for the kids.

- Created a chant (“Frosty! Frosty! Skates go swishy!”)

- Drafted a “team code” that included “no stick licking” and “believe in the magic of the puck.”

You found him on the floor with three yards of felt, muttering, “Banners are forever. Glue is temporary. Legacy is earned.”

You just stepped over him. “You’re sleeping on glitter tonight, aren’t you?”

“I REGRET NOTHING.”

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Friday Afternoon – Final Touches

Barron helped with the finishing touches, carefully applying rhinestones to the “O” in “Frosty.”

“This one’s for power,” he whispered.

Hayden nodded solemnly. “And this one—” he glued on a plastic snowflake, “—is for destiny.”

The result?

A six-foot masterpiece with a polar bear in sunglasses, hockey sticks crossed behind it, and the words:

“FROSTY PUCKS: FEAR THE FREEZE”

(in three types of font, one of which was Comic Sans because “kids like fun.”)

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Saturday – Game Day

Hayden marched into the rink like a war general.

Banner rolled under one arm. Clipboards under the other. Barron skipping behind him with pride.

He hung the banner above the bench, hands on his hips. “Look at it. Glorious. Intimidating. Sparkly.”

The Ice Bananas walked by. Their coach squinted up at it. “You guys… made a banner?”

Hayden turned. “Yes. We did. With heart. And elbow grease. And—uh—about sixteen ounces of glitter glue.”

The Banana kids oohed.

Hayden leaned down to Barron. “We just won the psychological game, buddy.”

Barron whispered, “They smell like actual bananas.”

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Mid-Game

The Frosty Pucks? They played their hearts out. Sloppy, chaotic, adorable hockey.

Did they win?

No.

One kid got distracted trying to pet the ref’s skate.

Another did a celebratory snow angel after tripping over his own stick.

But when the buzzer sounded and the Frosty Pucks gathered around their sparkly banner, Hayden threw up his arms and shouted—

“YOU GUYS ARE CHAMPIONS OF MY HEART!”

Barron tackled him in a hug. “Can we eat snacks under the banner?!”

“Yes. Yes we can.”

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Later That Night

Hayden hung the banner in the barn, lit dramatically by fairy lights.

“Every dynasty starts somewhere,” he said, one hand over his heart.

You wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Next week,” you said, “maybe we make t-shirts?”

His eyes lit up.

“I already started designs.”

[ririright]

The “Hayden on Ice” Series:

“Coach Hayden vs. The Tiny Terror League”

Husband! Hayden x Wife Reader

1 — 2 — 3 — 4 — 5

One whistle. Zero sanity.

Saturday Morning – 8:45 a.m.

The rec center rink was chaos.

Half the kids were upside-down in their gear. One had already lost a skate. Someone was eating snow.

And in the middle of it all stood Hayden. Clipboard in hand. Leafs jacket zipped to the chin. Whistle already in his mouth.

You stood on the bleachers, sipping coffee and watching him try to give a pep talk to seven tiny hockey players with the attention span of goldfish.

“Okay team! Today’s game plan is: have fun, try to skate in the right direction, and—uh—y’know—believe in yourself, yeah?”

A kid raised their hand. “Coach, can I fight someone?”

Hayden blinked. “Uh—let’s maybe save that for junior league, buddy.”

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9:02 a.m. – The Game Begins

Team names were drawn from a hat.

Hayden’s team: The Frosty Pucks.

The opposing team: The Ice Bananas. (They did, in fact, have banana stickers on their helmets.)

Referee: A 17-year-old with AirPods in and the haunting look of someone who just wanted volunteer hours.

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First Shift

Barron fell three times before reaching the puck, then got tangled with another kid and somehow accidentally scored in the wrong net.

Hayden shouted, “That’s okay! Good hustle! Just… wrong direction, champ!”

One kid sat down mid-play and made snow angels in the ice.

Another tried to use their stick as a horse.

Hayden blew the whistle. “REGROUP, GUYS! STRATEGY HUDDLE!”

They skated directly past him and started chasing each other in a circle.

You snorted into your coffee.

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Second Shift

One of the Frosty Pucks stopped to hand Hayden a crumpled drawing mid-game.

“It’s you. As a robot.”

Hayden stared at the stick-figure sketch. “This… this is incredible.”

“Coach, I peed,” said another, skating over.

“…Okay! Time-out!”

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Mid-Game Interview (That You Absolutely Filmed)

You pointed your phone at Hayden from the stands.

“How’s the game going, Coach?”

He looked directly into the camera, eyes hollow.

“I’ve aged ten years. I gave them positions, and they made a conga line. The goalie’s doing pirouettes.”

A whistle screeched in the background. A child shouted, “VIVA LAS BANANAS!”

Hayden sighed. “I don’t think I’m winning the Jack Adams this year.”

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Final Minutes

The game was tied 1-1, entirely by accident.

Hayden dropped to one knee beside Barron. “Okay, buddy. This is it. One shot. You got this.”

Barron nodded seriously. “Can I hit the banana kid?”

“…No. Just the puck.”

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Final Play

Barron skated. Tripped. The puck somehow ricocheted off his helmet and slid straight into the net.

Hayden went feral on the bench. Arms in the air, Leafs hat flying. “GOOOOOOOAL! THAT’S MY BOY!!”

The Ice Bananas coach clapped politely. A toddler nearby cried because “the puck didn’t say goodbye.”

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Post-Game Locker Room

Hayden handed out orange slices and congratulated every single kid with the seriousness of an NHL postgame speech.

“You all played with heart, grit, and confusion. That’s what hockey’s all about.”

Barron tugged on his jacket. “Daddy, can we get ice cream?”

Hayden nodded. “You scored the winning goal with your face. You get two scoops.”

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Later That Night

You and Hayden curled up on the couch. He was still wearing his “COACH” badge sticker.

“I don’t know how actual coaches do it,” he said. “My team tried to eat their mouthguards.”

You kissed his cheek. “Still the best coach I’ve ever seen.”

He smiled. “Thanks, babe. Next week we’re working on stickhandling. And maybe, y’know… basic physics.”