writtenbyhollywood

[writtenbyhollywood]

Heyyy, could you do Hector fort x reader, where she does the ‘current boyfriend’ trend. I would love to see what type of reaction he has hahaha

IN WHERE : playing the 'current boyfriend' joke on hector

THIS ONE SHOT IS : fem!reader x hector fort

note: i don't speak english, only spanish n a little portuguese. any errors are the translator's fault.

w: dialogues in spanish (translation at the end of each one).

request open!

A few days ago, you’d seen tons of videos of girls doing a viral trend where they said things like “having lunch with my current boyfriend” or “going for a walk with my current boyfriend”, while secretly recording their boyfriends—just to see how they’d react. Some laughed, others were confused, and a few straight-up got offended, as if they’d just been told they were the appetizer.

And you, who couldn’t resist playing a prank on Héctor, stored the idea in the back of your head.

Today, while you two were on the way to his match in his car, you knew it was the perfect moment. Héctor was driving with his left hand on the wheel and his right one resting casually on his thigh, like he always did. The 6 p.m. sun hit his face just right, and the light breeze from the half-open window ruffled his hair. He looked insanely good.

So good you almost forgot you were about to trigger his monthly emotional meltdown.

You waited for the right moment—just as he was parking in front of the stadium, fully focused on fitting the car into the tight spot. You pulled out your phone subtly, opened TikTok in front cam mode, hit record, and with the sweetest, most neutral voice you could manage, you said:

“Yendo a un partido de mi novio actual.” (“On the way to my current boyfriend’s game.”)

The car came to an abrupt stop.

“¿Perdón?”, he said, turning his head toward you with one eyebrow raised. (“Excuse me?”)

His eyes darted from your phone to you, then back to the phone. It took him two seconds to put the pieces together. “¿Cómo que ‘novio actual’?” (“What do you mean, ‘current boyfriend’?”)

“Sí, mi novio actual. No sé si se los había enseñado, chicas,” you told the camera sweetly. (“Yeah, my current boyfriend. I’m not sure if I’ve shown him to you, girls.”)

Héctor turned to face forward, silent.

“Ah, vale,” he muttered, very seriously, staring at the windshield like he was doing emotional math. (“Oh, right.”)

You weren’t sure what was going on in his head—until he turned back toward you, stared into the camera, and said sarcastically:

“He traído a mi novia del día a mi partido, chavales. Hoy me ha tocao esta, pero mañana me toca otra. Voy rotando, porque todas se merecen un día.” (“Brought today’s girlfriend to my match, guys. Got this one today, tomorrow it’s someone else. I rotate because they all deserve a turn.”)

You burst out laughing, and seeing you like that only encouraged him further.

“Yo es que soy muy justo, ¿sabes? No me gusta que ninguna se sienta excluida. Esta semana voy por la letra ‘C’, creo. Claudia, Carmen, Carlota…” (“I’m just really fair, you know? Don’t like any of them to feel left out. This week I’m on the letter ‘C’, I think. Claudia, Carmen, Carlota…”)

He glanced sideways at you and clicked his tongue. “Y tú, que no sé ni cómo te llamas hoy. ¿Cristina? ¿Claudia dos?” (“And you, I don’t even know what your name is today. Cristina? Claudia Two?”)

“Qué gilipollas eres,” you told him, barely holding back laughter as you smacked his arm. (“You’re such an idiot.”)

“¡Oye! No me pegues, que soy un novio en prácticas. No vaya a ser que me eches y entre el siguiente.” (“Hey! Don’t hit me, I’m just the trial boyfriend. Might get subbed out if you get bored.”)

“¿El siguiente?”, you raised an eyebrow. (“The next one?”)

“Claro. Tú tienes pinta de tener suplentes en el banquillo listos pa’ calentar. Como digas ‘me aburro’, entra otro. Uno con más tatuajes, probablemente.” (“Of course. You totally look like you’ve got backups on the bench ready to warm up. Say ‘I’m bored’ and in comes another one. Probably with more tattoos.”)

He pointed at you like he’d discovered something.“Siempre os molan los de los tatuajes, no sé qué os pasa con eso.” (“You girls are always into guys with tattoos, I don’t get it.”)

“Héctor, es un trend de TikTok. No es real.” (“Héctor, it’s a TikTok trend. It’s not real.”)

“Ah, perdona, perdona. Que claro, como es TikTok, no duele,” he said dramatically. (“Oh, sorry, sorry. Right, since it’s TikTok, it doesn’t hurt.”)

“Es como si me pones los cuernos pero como lo grabas y lo subes: ‘¡No pasa nada, cariño, es solo contenido!’” (“It’s like if you cheat on me but record it: ‘It’s fine, babe, it’s just for content!’”)

You doubled over laughing.

“¿Quieres que corte el vídeo ya o quieres seguir haciendo el ridículo?” (“Should I stop the video or do you want to keep embarrassing yourself?”)

“No, no, súbelo entero. Quiero que la gente vea cómo me rompen el corazón en tiempo real.” (“No, no, post the whole thing. I want people to see how my heart gets broken in real time.”)

“Eres idiota.” (“You’re an idiot.”)

And just as you were about to end the video, he leaned toward you, took your chin gently between his fingers, and gave you a quick kiss on the lips.

❝ justageek, 2025 ❞

[writtenbyhollywood]

The Day You Got Spontaneously Adopted

Main Masterlist ❀ Dean Winchester Masterlist ⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Sam + Dean Winchester x fem!Reader / dog!Reader [non romantic]

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY You’re not a dog. Not really. You’re just a poor girl who’s been cursed into the body of one… and then gets kidnapped by two brothers.

WARNINGS / TAGS just pure Crack | Fluff S1 vibes | Reader was cursed | GoldenRetriever!Reader (literally) | Nonconsensual spontaneous adoption of reader? | Immature tits jokes? | Sam and Dean are being dorky and happy !!! | Angst in the end if you squint | No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 999

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I did not think I'd also hand in a crack piece as an entry for @ambiguous-avery's Summer Snapshot Challenge, but today I missed my train stop and got an unplanned extra hour to write something, so here we are. Enjoy! 😂

You stare back at your face on the missing poster.

Edges torn. Black ink scribbles across your pair of tits. Emphasis on pair of.

Now you're pretty positive that you've got enough to feed a whole damn litter of puppies. Not that you counted them - you don't really want to know what's going on down there under all of that shaggy fur.

This is certainly not how you imagined your beach vacation would go.

Who would, really? One moment you were in your flip-flops, clad swimsuit stuck to your skin, wishing for this summer day to never end - the next you're stuck here; paws in the sand and snout in the trash, because apparently dogs can't take a bus home or explain to the same policemen who've been patrolling the beaches for the past two weeks that you are the missing girl they're looking for.

Your nose suddenly twitches. The scent of dusty parchment and salad sauce ping-pong up your nostrils.

"What do you think?" The books guy asks a few feet next to you, eyeing your missing poster.

"Close to a 10/10, if I could see her rack-" he gets smacked against the shoulder. Earns himself a pointed look. He smells like greasy regret and worn-in musky leather.

"Dude."

"What? I gotta know what we're looking for," Burger chap chuckles, wiggles his eyebrows once with a smirk, then continues, "So, runaway or more of our department?"

"Hm," the taller one ponders, "Could be both, really."

The fast-food-smelling one suddenly glances down. Smirks boyishly and elbows his partner.

"Hey there, buddy. What do you think, hm?" he quips. Rhetorical, of course. Not like he’d expect you to answer or you’d expect him to magically hear your pleas for help.

So, instead, you tilt your head. Then huff.

"That so?" He mimics your head tilt, amused.

The other suddenly crouches down next to you and ruffles the sand out of your fur. Scratches you behind the ear and watches how your eyes flutter when he reaches a spot that you've been trying to reach for days.

"You like that?" he chuckles, soft and warm, "Huh, you look just like Bones."

"There you are!" All three of you lean back to spot two guys in grey jumpsuits.

Oh no. The goons of Cruella De Vil.

For the past two weeks you’ve been living off scraps and bountiful tourists, ducking under angry seagulls and getting chased off the shores by dog catchers, searching every corner for him.

But that son of a witch was nowhere to be found.

Offered you an ice cream you should’ve never tasted from. Shaggy Dog’d you with the flick of a finger, then just poofed into thin air.

You're about to make a break for it – when suddenly a calm hand cups your head.

The two goons stop in their tracks, bark over at them. "That your dog?"

"Yeah," books guy calls back and his partner adds all chipper, "Why? You got a problem with Zep?"

"Are you serious? Zep?"

"What?"

"You can't name a dog after a band, Dean. And who even says she shares your crappy music taste?"

"Oh excuse me, Dr. Dolittle." He rolls his eyes and goes to cover your ears. "She loves Zep. Don’t offend 'er."

What in the world is going on?

You wiggle yourself free, frustration finally bubbling over.

I'm not 'Zep', nor 'Jimmy Page' - I'm not a dog for Pete's sake! You bark at them like you're cussing them out. Then continue to tug one of them by the leather jacket, off the curb, and onto the beach where you begin to paw the sand, planning to write your name in it.

Hah! Watch this!

"Okay, okay I get it," he teases and pats your head – completely disregarding your (failed) attempt at forming the first letter of your real name – "Beaches it is then."

...What? They once again continue their discussion above your head.

"She's not ours, you know that right?" he shakes his head with a stifled grin.

"Oh c’mon Sammy, you’ve always wanted a furry little friend!" he laughs and makes his way over to the parking lot, while you look between the two bantering. Dumbstruck. Looking as utterly lost as you feel right now.

Um, do I get a saying in this?

Apparently not.

Because moments later you find yourself packed into a black muscle car, one of them on each side of you.

How the hell did I end up here? You lament internally.

The one you figured is called Sam, has a leather notebook on his lap, a pen at his lips. He glances up and over at you with a hint of concern flickering behind his hazel eyes.

"You doing okay, Beaches?" You tilt your head in surprise. Did he…? - but you don't get to finish your thought as you practically get flipped to the side by the other guy – Dean.

"'Course she is!" he grins down at you and tugs your head against his thigh. Sam scoffs but can't help a chuckle at the image of a large Golden Retriever jammed in between them.

Mom. Dad. I don’t know whether I will ever make it home again... It looks like I'm being kidnapped. (At least they're kinda cute.)

You finally flop down sideways. Resigned sigh following.

"See? She likes it." Dean nods above you at Sam. A calloused hand curls around your jaw and scratches you there.

Flap flap flap. Great. Now my tail’s doing the thing again.

"Ooh? You like bein’ our good girl? Hm?" You sigh.

He laughs and turns back to the steering wheel. The engine roars to life and loud rock music jumps on, your tail now slapping the leather in time with the drums.

"You know dad is gonna kill you," Sam mumbles and you sense a sudden shift in the scent of Dean.

His green eyes flicker your way.

Pauses. Then lets out a chuckling noise.

"I've taken a hit for less."

*Dean’s pop-culture guide: Jimmy Page (guitarist) formed Led Zeppelin.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES Oh to be Dean and Sam’s good girl and get belly scratches, smooches and all their dirty secrets. ...Now I kinda wanna write more snippets for this 😂

Dean Tag List:

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99 @supernotnatural2005 @youdontknowe @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @123passwort @lamentationsofalonelypotato @my-stories-vault @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999

@champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz @pressedwater @lori19

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Let me know or you may add yourself to this form! 🧡

[writtenbyhollywood]

jensen x wife!reader where they are on a trip with their kids 🫣

°❀⋆. sunshine, snacks n sleep,

pairing. jensen ackles x wife!reader ( female )

wordcount. 547 genre. fluff

warnings. family chaos, brief references to parent exhaustion, mild teasing, tooth-rotting sweetness, soft husband jensen

There are two fruit snacks melted into your cup holder, someone’s sock hanging from the rearview mirror like a forgotten prayer, and your husband is currently trying to parallel park the rental SUV while cursing under his breath in a voice he thinks the kids can’t hear.

“Babe,” you say sweetly from the passenger seat. “You definitely just hit that curb.”

“No I didn’t.”

“I felt the whole car shake.”

“That was the wind.”

You glance out the window. “There is no wind.”

He throws it in park with unnecessary drama. “Fine. I grazed it. Just a little. The curb had it coming.”

You snort. He gives you a look. One of those don’t make me fall in love with you again right now, woman looks. It almost works. But the second-row chaos quickly derails any romantic tension.

“Mom! He licked my lollipop!”

“I did not! She dropped it and I caught it with my mouth!”

You turn to Jensen. “Your children.”

He holds up his hands. “Our children. You did half the work.”

“More like eighty percent.”

“Still counts.”

Eventually, you manage to wrestle the family out of the car and onto the beach path. There’s an umbrella, three bags (none of which hold the one thing you’re actually looking for), a cooler Jensen swore he could carry himself—he’s regretting that now—and a sunhat on your smallest one that keeps flopping dramatically over their eyes like a cartoon character.

The beach is beautiful. Golden hour is glowing. Your legs are already dusted with sand. And the air smells like sunscreen, juice boxes, and your favorite person’s cologne, drifting faintly when Jensen leans down to kiss your cheek as he sets up the umbrella.

You smile. “Look at us. Beach people.”

He groans. “Babe, I’ve had sand in my shoe since Texas. I am not a beach person.”

“You look like one.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. A hot one. Who’s very bad at umbrella assembly.”

He looks up at the twisted, semi-collapsed pole like it personally betrayed him. “Okay, rude.”

One of the kids is already face-down in the sand. The other two are halfway to the water, yelling about building the biggest volcano ever with absolutely no understanding of physics.

You flop down on a towel and stretch your legs. “This is nice.”

Jensen finally gives up on the umbrella and drops beside you with a huff, propping himself up on one arm. “You know what’s nicer?”

You raise a brow.

He leans in, that smirk creeping in. “Getting five minutes alone with my wife.”

You laugh, pushing sand toward him with your foot. “Bold of you to assume our kids are capable of leaving us alone for any amount of time.”

He catches your ankle, presses a quick kiss there like it’s nothing, like it’s everything.

“I can dream.”

And you let him.

For exactly three seconds.

Because then comes the dreaded scream of “MOMMMMMMM!” followed by the unmistakable sound of a juice pouch exploding.

Jensen groans and collapses dramatically into the towel. “Beach people, huh?”

“Totally.”

But when you both look up and see your kids—sticky, loud, messy, happy—you reach for Jensen’s hand, and he gives you that crooked grin that still melts you after all these years.

Chaos and all… it’s kind of perfect.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[writtenbyhollywood]

The Wrong Sister

Main Masterlist Dawson's Creek Masterlist

Pairings; CJ Braxton x reader (Jen's younger sister)

Genre; Soft, orbidden love, contemporary, coming of age, new adult, soft angst, slow burn(ish)

Warnings; none

Summary: he fell for the one girl he shouldn't–his ex’s little sister.

723 words

CJ Braxton didn’t mean for this to happen.

He really didn’t.

Falling in love with your ex-girlfriend’s little sister was… a terrible idea. It was off-limits. Messy. Drama just waiting to explode. He told himself that a thousand times. It didn’t change the fact that when Y/N laughed, he forgot what air was.

She wasn’t just beautiful—she was pure sunshine. Giggling, sweet-talking, heart-on-her-sleeve sunshine. And maybe that was what made it worse. Because she looked at him like he wasn’t just CJ Braxton, her older sister’s mistake—but someone who could be good. Someone worth melting for.

She made him smile so much it hurt. Literally. His cheeks ached after just ten minutes around her. He had to keep turning away, rubbing at his mouth like that would hide the stupid grin. But it always came back, bigger than before.

She sat beside him now, legs tucked underneath her on her sister’s old porch swing. A summer breeze danced between them. Her hair was up in a messy clip, one of those oversized sweatshirts hanging off her shoulder like it was nothing.

"You're doing it again," she whispered, nudging his leg with her knee.

"Doing what?" he muttered, looking down quickly.

"Smiling like an idiot." She leaned closer, her voice full of teasing warmth. "Am I that funny or do you just like my face?"

He swallowed. Hard. “Maybe both.”

She blinked. Then smiled—slow and sweet, almost shy. Her cheeks flushed pink.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He was 22. She was 19. Not a kid, but still Jenna’s baby sister. And Jen… well, Jenna would probably castrate him with her fake acrylic nails if she ever found out he even thought about kissing Y/N.

But God, he’d thought about it. Too much. Every time she bit her bottom lip, or looked at him like he was something safe, something good, he wanted to do the stupid thing. He wanted to lean in. He wanted to be selfish.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly.

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

CJ hesitated. His hand clenched the swing’s chain. "About how screwed I am."

She laughed. She had no idea. “What’d you do this time?”

He looked at her. Really looked at her. Her eyelashes were long, cheeks full of light and softness and that glow she always seemed to carry like a second skin.

“I fell for the wrong girl.”

She tilted her head. “She must be something.”

“She’s a lot of things,” he said, voice lower now. “She’s soft. She's funny. Smarter than people give her credit for. Sweet like nobody’s ever been to me. And she’s got this way of making everything feel like maybe it’s not too late for me to be good.”

Her eyes locked with his, slowly widening. The laughter faded. A silence settled between them, so heavy he could hear the creak of the swing and the crickets buzzing far off in the grass.

“…CJ.”

He broke. “It’s you, Y/N.”

She opened her mouth, but he wasn’t finished.

“I know I’m not supposed to. I know you’re Jen’s little sister. I tried to ignore it. I tried to avoid you. But every time I’m around you, it’s like… like I’m standing in the sun for the first time after living in a damn cave.”

Her lips trembled, just a little. “You really mean that?”

“I do.”

“Then why do you look like you just confessed to a felony?”

He let out a breathless laugh. “Because it feels like one. You shouldn’t be looking at me the way you do. You’re too good.”

She reached over and took his hand in hers. Small fingers, warm and gentle, curled around his rough ones like they belonged there.

“Maybe I don’t care about ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t.’” Her voice was soft, but steady. “Maybe I just want to be with someone who makes me feel like I’m seen. Someone who doesn’t treat me like a kid or like I’m invisible behind my sister’s shadow.”

He blinked. “You feel invisible?”

“All the time,” she admitted. “Except with you.”

That did it. That cracked him clean in half.

He leaned in before he could stop himself. His lips brushed hers—just a whisper, just a question. But she kissed him back like it was the answer.

Warm. Soft. Real.

And suddenly, the wrong girl didn’t feel so wrong anymore.

Taglist: @globetrotter28

[writtenbyhollywood]

# RAFEWORLD — truman!rafe who . . .

main masterlist | series masterlist

truman!rafe who . . . wakes up every morning to the same sunshine through his perfectly angled window, with a clock that beeps one second before his eyes even open.

truman!rafe who . . . runs the same beach trail every morning, passing the same jogger, the same dog, the same old man waving with a newspaper that always reads “figure 8 today.”

truman!rafe who . . . eats breakfast at marina’s diner every day at 8:32am, where his usual is already on the table and the waitress has known him “since birth.”

truman!rafe who . . . knows everyone in town by name, even though he never questions why no one ever moves away, gets sick, or brings up a real memory beyond surface-level nostalgia.

truman!rafe who . . . spends afternoons with topper, his “best friend since birth,” who is on his fourth actor at this point. they rotate every few years, trained to match his mannerisms and groomed to match his appearance.

truman!rafe who . . . does everything with topper, like playing golf, talking girls, working on bikes, but sometimes catches him saying things out of order or repeating conversations.

truman!rafe who . . . first sees you at the campus library when you drop your books, and something about the way you look at him makes his whole body pause. the meet-cute the producers wanted to turn this into a 3-episode arc.

truman!rafe who . . . brushes you off at first in class. you’re not from here, he knows it somehow, but ends up next to you again days later, “coincidentally” at the beach when you ask him a question that doesn’t fit.

truman!rafe who . . . starts noticing that your presence doesn’t follow the same rhythm as everything else. you’re not predictable, and it unsettles him. he starts to catch you looking at him like you know something he doesn’t. and then you do something no one’s ever done before. you slip him a note that says “your world isn’t real.”

truman!rafe who . . . folds the note three times and tucks it in his wallet like he’s not afraid of it, even though his hands are shaking, and starts showing up to the places you’ve been, just to see if you’ll return.

truman!rafe who . . . asks topper if he knows you and gets a weird delayed “who?”

truman!rafe who . . . starts hearing things he’s not supposed to, like lines being fed through earpieces, or audio glitches in passing conversations.

truman!rafe who . . . his world starts to unravel. and still, you’re gone. he checks your campus listing, you’re erased. your name is never said again. people claim they never saw you.

truman!rafe who . . . looks at topper like he’s a stranger. he watches his movements like he’s trying to catch the actor underneath. he stops going to the diner, stops speaking in class, starts watching the people around him instead of engaging.

truman!rafe who . . . finds the note again and reads it until the paper’s all worn and decides if this world isn’t real, then he wants the one you’re in.

truman!rafe who . . . tries pushing limits. he runs off-route, drives beyond the town border, bangs on fake doors, but something always blocks him like a crash, a distraction.

truman!rafe who . . . eventually explodes in front of the town and screams “where’s y/n?” at no one in particular and watches as everyone around him freezes like they’ve short-circuited.

truman!rafe who . . . starts whispering to himself, testing boundaries, faking compliance to see who’s watching and when.

truman!rafe who . . . still dreams about you, the only person who ever said something that didn’t sound written. and every day, as the sun rises too perfectly again, he swears he’s going to find you, whatever world you’re in.

bye this was a whole movie instead of just headcanons. + get ready for irl jock!rafe next

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts

[writtenbyhollywood]

Kinfolk // The Darkling x Fem!Reader; Kaz Brekker x Sister!Reader

Summary: Kaz Brekker is reunited with his childhood hero only to find they aren't who he remembers them to be.

Pairing(s): Aleksander Morozova (The Darkling) x Fem!Reader; Kaz Brekker x Sister!Reader (Shadow and Bone)

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: family reunion, dad!Aleksander, hurt/comfort, betrayal in two instances.

Quick Links: Masterlist // Request Guidelines

Kaz Brekker had few memories of beauty to cling onto. As his life was filled with struggle and strife, the young man was left defenseless in Ketterdam at the young age of 9—after years of death and abandonment from his own flesh and blood.

Nothing stung him more than the memory of his family leaving him to defend for himself in the cruel world of Ravka.

If one were to enter the man’s psyche, travel through the hard-fought accomplishments and failures, they would find the farm he has grown up on as a child. The house was small for a family of five, the animals roamed freely in the pastures that extended far beyond his child-eyes could see, but it was home. A home that he had grown to love and remember, but envy and hate all the same.

On nights when the sun shone bright against the sky, the clouds and blue would turn yellow and pink, hints of orange and white would transform the drab world around him. Kaz breathed in deeply—as deep as a four-year-old boy’s lungs could go—and smelt the pine, the hay, the unfortunate manure stifling his scent master at the moment his savior would arrive. Dinner was surely served, and as Kaz wandered the land, his hero came to fetch him.

“If you spend any more time out here you’ll turn into a weather sprite… or worse—a creature of the sky. Then you can see all the colors through your fingers and toes.”

The boy was swooped up into the arms of the oncoming savior, giggling freely and filling his soul with joy. There were no sounds of protest, no screams of terror upon being lifted into the sky, careening like a bird in a windless night. This was freedom—something he would learn to yearn for against the dark alley in Ketterdam where scoundrels would scurry around every corner, trying to catch a bite of fresh, naïve meat.

“Higher, higher!” Kaz squealed as he was almost put back onto the ground. The hero wavered and lifted him again, higher and higher until they could no longer reach the sky and he had to be put down. Although he wanted to protest, Kaz had learned the routine and could only go so far. He was put back down on the ground and sat in the grass. The fine blades soft between his small fingers, a familiar prickling sensation against his palm. His hero sat behind him, drawing Kaz into their lap and holding him tightly.

“Why are you leaving me?”

For a boy so young, Kaz was incredibly intelligent. The boy read others like simple books, their emotions worn onto their sleeves without a thought, and it made them vulnerable. He was young, nearly fifteen years the hero’s minor and read people better than they. It was a gift—not a Grishan gift, but one he would never grow out of.

“Because of the water, of the war. You know people like me are required to go.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

A heavy sigh escaped the lips of the hero and Kaz could see the longing in their eyes divert between two roads. On one road there was family. It was familiar and safe, not filled with unknown people and abilities that could end a life in an instant. The other road longed to go and see the world. It wanted to travel and fight, show more than school children what summoning water can do. No one had heard of a water summoner in centuries. Saints, they weren’t even sure what to call it.

“I have to leave, Kaz. Besides, you’ll have Papa and Jordie. They’ll take care of you and protect you against the cows.” The boy shivered thinking of the cows and it drew a laugh from the hero. Their eyes gleaming together at the thought of their farm, the sun setting before them like an omen of the future. It was warm and happy yet filled with a mystery. The sight of his hero with a tiny boy cradled in their arms. Everything would come rushing back in fifteen years when he would visit The Little Palace on an assignment.

“Jordie can’t protect me against the cows. He is scared of them too!”

“Then I’ll be sure to enchant the cows so they’ll never hurt either of you. Papa will know just what to do to ensure the spell stays on this farm forever.”

“You can do that!?”

“Of course I can! You don’t truly believe a great Grisha like me can only summon water?”

The hero couldn’t enchant the cows. The hero couldn’t ensure that their family would be safe, or that something wouldn’t go terribly wrong when they were whisked off to (what felt like) another world. But Kaz didn’t know any better. He might have been able to see the truth of people, but in a moment of uncertain fear, he believed his hero could do the most.

“I believe you, voda.”

Voda; water in native tongue. It was one of the boys first words and one that stuck as a nickname. It was better than sibling, or sister.

As Kaz Brekker, the small boy who would learn to despise physical connection and build walls of concrete around his wavering heart, and his hero—his sister, sat on top the soft grass of their family farm, he watched her face fall against the warm colors of the sky.

His hero longed for more. They were no longer elusive or secretive, a mystery to him. She was a fighter, a hero amidst mortal people in a family that had no further abilities. Kaz Brekker’s sister was unlike any person he had ever met before. She was a mysterious beauty of old, one that could reflect the portraits that hung in the halls of grand palaces, a reincarnation of sort. Perhaps a former queen, a lover, or a great witch who was hunted for nothing more than unwarranted powers. She had the softest touch, wavelengths of soothing abilities that transcended her understanding of herself.

Kaz Brekker’s sister would outlive them all if given the chance, but he saw a woman who longed for something more than just a quaint little farm on the edge of nowhere. She was meant for more. As much as the boy yearned to have her by his side in the coming years, he knew that she couldn't and wouldn't stay.

"Will you come and visit us? Mama will miss you too."

His hero frowned at the thought. As smart as the boy was, death was still an unfamiliar concept to grasp. Mama wasn't returning home from the plot they had buried her in. The flowers he brought weekly would continue to pile up before he makes his own trek in a few years, but the four-year-old boy did not understand that she was never coming back from the afterlife.

"I will visit whenever I can, I promise." The promise was faulty from the beginning.

Kaz nodded enthusiastically, drawing a smile from the frown on his sister's face. He jumped up from her lap and began running toward the small house behind them, yelling at her to catch up or she would be late for dinner. His hero let out a breathy laugh, following behind him for one last family meal before making the journey to Os Alta the next morning.

As the small family dined in relative sadness at the thought, they'd never imagine the horrors that would follow. With the disappearance of his hero and her return non-existent, the world nearly crumbled to pieces. First his father fell ill and died within a week. He was eight, almost nine, with Jordie panicking beside him. The two boys made the decision to leave for Ketterdam in hopes of finding a better life but were quickly met with resistance and more tragedy. Kaz would never fully recover from his sickness and when Jordie died, he was left alone in a cruel world. His one lifeline was far away, detached from his life for good and he would never see her again. He despised what cards were handed to him–the way he struggled while chosen ones were gifted with fine clothes and food.

So, when the word of a Sun Summoner presented the opportunity to damage the prospects of the Grisha who took his sister away, Kaz nearly jumped across The Fold himself.

The collar of the guard uniform was stifling. It was stiff, itchy, and as uncomfortable as the air around him. The snobbish rich aristocrats and Grisha that filled the halls of the Little Palace made him want to gouge his eyes out of his head from sheer annoyance. Kaz Brekker had to remind himself that he was there on a mission and slowly the clock was ticking, the Sun Summoner was not going to wait around forever for their opportunity window to widen, and his confidants were gaining on his anxiety.

The Crows had seen it all that evening. The Shadow Summoner, the Sun Summoner, the different types of Grisha that exhibited their abilities to the less fortunate. Commoners across Ravka and surrounding nations would have killed to be in a room with all those people, but Kaz and his fellow criminals scammed their way in as if it were the easiest task in the world.

Inej Ghafa was one of those criminals–per say. Positioned against the archway that separated a hallway from the grand ballroom Alina Starkov had lit up an hour ago, the girl was filled with a giddiness she had forgotten existed. She had seen a saint, in the flesh, and the rumors of her existence were not a lie. Over the years stories of gifted Grisha flowed freely in The Menagerie from guests who believed their words meant nothing to the girls who'd satisfy them. Inej always listened. The girl listened to the men, to the women, to the others who worked the same job she was forced to, and their gossip all mushed together into one clump of unwelcome topics except when it came to Grisha.

Grisha's were a topic of controversy depending on who one was conversing with. They were loved, hated, hailed, or mysterious, though the idea of a particular Summoner ending the war-torn state of Ravka was exciting and new. Centuries had passed with families waiting for an end to their suffering and now with Alina's introduction, that future was a possibility. One of those Grisha that she had longed to see was the Tide Summoner. To Inej, the Grisha was a myth. She had never met a person who had seen her, nor had she ever heard anything more than small rumors of her existence.

On a particularly sweltering evening at The Menagerie, Inej had fallen into the company of a soldier from General Kirigan's army who claimed to have met the mysterious woman. He had recalled her being the partner of the General in both battle and life, though no one had ever seen her aboard a skiff. In the man's increasingly drunken state, he divulged that she trained Grisha at The Little Palace where she lived with her son.

No one had ever mentioned General Kirigan having children–let alone a son with another Grisha of great power.

Inej managed no further information. No name, no physical appearance, or race. The Tide maker remained a mystery and she had rather hoped to witness her existence alongside Alina Starkov and General Kirigan. Perhaps the longing was evident on her face as she watched the guests flow in the hallway, Kaz could pull a look like that out of the darkness of his mind.

"Was the Sun Summoner not enough?" His voice was hallowed, quiet against the laughter of the group of Grisha around the snack table feet away from them. Alina was nearly in their grasp. She glowed with pride as she giggled with her "friends" and suspected nothing of the two guards watching her.

"She was plenty. I just thought-" Inej caught herself. Kaz had a particular distaste for Grisha she had learned over the last few months, yet there was no explanation as to why. The girl boiled it down to their privilege and status but was never sure.

"Thought what? Surely this was a sight to behold if you believe in Saints."

"It was, it was. There was one I heard about from the-well, you know..." Anything that gave away their act would have been detrimental if heard by the wrong ears. She couldn't mention the life before. She was a guard for The Little Palace and needed to act like it.

"... and She summons tides. I would have liked to have seen that. I have an affinity for the ocean, you know."

"I've heard that the woman was a rumor made up by the Grisha to prevent enemies from traveling across the waters and attacking from behind." His comment was curt, full of an attitude reserved for those who spoke of fairytales and fictions beyond reality.

"Don't be so harsh. It's not a lie because I heard it from one of his soldiers."

"Who was drunk beyond comprehension, Inej. Do you believe everything strangers tell you?"

"You can say whatever you please but remember that we just saw the impossible become possible. The woman could exist. She supposedly is the General's wife so she very well could be here."

The universe aligned in a callous way in that moment. Against the sounds of laughter and chatter amidst guests, the distinct sounds of a child laughing broke through the air like a blade summoned from the shadows. Neither Inej nor Kaz had heard a child, especially one of an age so small, in many years. It was carefree and resilient–far beyond what they had become familiar with over the years.

Inej turned from her position against the frame and witnessed what she had been wishing for, though, her back was to Kaz and never saw his reaction.

When Inej mentioned the one who could summon Tides, Kaz swore his heart stopped for a minute. He had known no other who could muster that kind of power, let alone heard whispers of more than one. After his sister left, his hero, you left, he had never heard another word. He did not know that you were alive, or if you had been captured and executed by the enemy. Kaz knew nothing more than his nineteen-year-old sister leaving Jordie and himself behind for a new life. He never forgot it and would never forget it. When he heard the key words of "Tide Maker," "Wife," and "Woman," Kaz knew it could only mean one thing–and he was not prepared to face the truth.

Over the dark hair that grew from Inej's skull, he could see Alina Starkov nearly drop the sweet from her hand as she turned her head (along with all the others in the hall) toward the child's laughter. It was a sight unseen to many of them.

A woman, smiling brightly at the boy in her arms who couldn't have been more than three-years-old in a Kefta. Her's was a light blue, almost white with darker decor on the shoulders and bottom, her hair flowing freely around her and the boy on her hip. The dark hair was indistinguishable. That was the General's son if he had to bet his life on it and he was dressed in a Kefta that reflected the two colors of his parents–black and light blue, with white gloves that protected his hands. Not even noticing that others had stopped and stared, the woman approached the table where Alina and her friends were, grabbed a sweet off the table and handed it to the boy who grappled at it excitedly.

With one glance around the room, the woman’s eyes sparked a series of reignited conversation of nothing as the concentration broke. Alina shifted away from the gaze and began softly speaking to her friends once more. Inej watched in pure curiosity while Kaz was near speechless at the sight. Never had he thought a day like this would come—but the feeling he had dreamed would accompany it was bubbling. He wasn’t ecstatic to find a missing piece of his life—nor was he thrilled to see someone who had abandoned him to face the worst years of his life while enjoying the comforts of the palace. Kaz was saddened, angered by the sight of you, his hero, grown into a woman with a child. A child that resembled the best parts of two people physically and the attitude of the child he once was. To make his feels exceedingly upset, General Kirigan was only moments behind.

The sight made him feel another sort of way. It was partial disgust, just at the thought, and the other was suspicion that creeped up in a wave of goosebumps. Evil cast a fine spell around the people who buried it the most, and General Kirigan was certainly one of those people. Elusive, mysterious, handsome with a wicked gaze; it was ingredients brewing in a stew that blinded the people around him, though Kaz was certain he could see through it.

The Shadow Summoner smiled fondly at the boy, at his hero, you, before whispering unknown words into your ear that he wished he could decipher. There was a nod of agreement and the General walked off in the opposite direction–his hand lingering behind as it neglected to retract its touch from you before no longer being able to reach it. He saw the life you had been living flash before his eyes. Looking no older than the day you had left; you've moved on and became a new person. Someone who wears a kefta, someone who feasts with these abominable people, and perhaps worst of all: you were devoted to a man who had ruined so many lives.

The trance Kaz had been stuck in was striking the clock faster than he realized because Inej was the one to set the plan in motion. His attention had been so preoccupied with visions of the past, memories that were nothing more than that, that he had forgotten his purpose. Inej turned back to Kaz, snapping him out of the stupor but not before noticing his hesitancy. Kaz Brekker never hesitated to carry out a plan.

"We have to move, now." Inej started off without him for the briefest of seconds before he joined her, striding the hall side-by-side in pursuit of the Sun Summoner. A determination in every footfall against the marbled floor.

In their string of luck, Alina's friends had vanished when they noticed guards coming toward the girl with their having assumed they were there to escort her to dinner. Except the hurdles never truly stopped. Five steps away. Kaz had been counting them from the moment he turned to join Inej. Four, three, two, one. If he wanted, he could reach out and touch Alina but he would never have the chance. General Kirigan reappeared suddenly behind Alina, not his wife or child, and offered a hand to her. Oblivious to Kaz and Inej, Alina took his arm.

"No–" Inej started, however Kaz lifted his hand to stop her. Alina was gone. Their mission ending before they even had a chance to begin.

"What do we–"

"Not. Here. Inej." Kaz gritted and turned to leave in an attempt to salvage a plan that was stretching far too thin to be fool-proof and safe.

As Kaz and Inej made their escape from the golden hall of The Little Palace, their haste did not go unnoticed by anyone. Several onlookers who were there for petty gossip and to fawn over the beautiful Grisha stared at the two guards acting as though an explosion had gone off on the other side of the palace. Neither had noticed the small boy who had been set down from his mother's arms, neither hearing the small pattering of steps behind them as they skirted through the waining crowd.

Kaz only stopped when he felt a tug. It was a tug so light a bird wouldn't have been able to feel its feather being plucked away. Kaz had learned to observe and feel when he didn't truly touch anything himself. The feel of another person reaching for his clothes, however innocent, startled him. The crow instantly spun around, looking for the culprit at his height but found none until he looked down at his feet. The little brown haired boy staring up at him with eyes as dark as night, his white gloves holding on to the black cape that hung over his shoulder.

"Mama!" The boy all but screeched when he let go of the cape. Kaz was unfamiliar with children as it was. He had no idea what could have been going on inside his head. As the boy called out to his mother, you immediately realized he was no longer by your side and down the hall. Faster than they had been walking, you rushed over to him and crouched down so he could clutch onto you.

"I told you to stay there. Why didn't you stay there?" Your voice was scolding enough to criticize the child, but not enough to scare an adult. The boy felt the tears begin to bubble as he motioned to be picked up–an action you complied with naturally. In the swift motion of scolding the boy and comforting him, you barely had time to register who he had gone to. You looked to your son, drying his tear with his small hands, to the two guards and something stopped.

Or maybe it clicked.

But your heart constricted as if it were playing tricks on you. The man felt so familiar, his aura frigid and cold, yet surrounded by an air that pulled you toward him. Then it was his eyes–so clear and big, just as they had been when he was a child. While he did not look the same, the man looked like the brother you left behind. You'd be mistaken if it were Jordie... he was brutish and had less character in his face. There were differences that quickly made you doubt the brief assumption of the stranger. If you remembered Kaz correctly, his features were childlike and soft. This man looked stony and toughened from the world around him. He wasn't the Kaz you remembered.

"S-Sorry about him. He just slipped away from me." You managed and the other guard, the girl, bowed her head.

"Not a problem, Ma'am. Excuse us." The girl was first to dismiss you and your son. Brushed off as if you were no more than an average guest, you knew they were no guards of the palace. Even with all the observations, you knew it was Kaz. It had to have been because you swore that you'd never forget the faces of your family even a million miles away.

"We need to be escorted to dinner. If you aren't otherwise busy, I think it'd be best if you'd take us."

You were quick with a test. Firstly, did either of them know where the dining room was? Secondly, they were making haste toward the exit and dismissed the General's wife which no guard had ever done. Lastly, the man made no effort to greet or make eye contact with you. Perhaps he was taken aback by seeing you again, or maybe he had never outgrown the shy phase he had entered when he turned two. Nevertheless, an element of their presence was greatly off the axis of normal.

"I-"

"Of course, Ma'am." Kaz was the one to respond. Still keeping his eyes diverted from you, he took the lead while the woman followed behind.

As you began to move through the hall, less and less people surrounded you and a feeling of uneasiness built within you. While you felt that Kaz would never do anything to harm you, the intentions of the woman were unclear and with his body so rigid it was like getting a statue to move, the hourglass of concern continued to rise.

"I've never seen either of you before. Are you new?" You proposed a conversation which they would be right to respond to.

"Yes. We were recruited as part of the extension of security due to the fête." The woman answered shortly to which you responded with a hum. No extra security had been hired due to the festivities. The moment Alina arrived at the palace security had been heightened and remained the same since. You clutched the boy in your arms tighter, his head resting in the crook of your neck.

"And tell me, who do you report to Kaz?"

You took the leap.

The man turned around, his eyes ablaze with an indescribable fury and the woman had grabbed your arm, holding a small knife to the small of your son's back as she pushed you against a closed door in the hall.

"Who do you think you are?" Kaz spat at you; his emotions boiling over.

"Do you think I wouldn't remember my own brother?"

"You tell me. You're the one who left us."

"I had no choice, brother. Why are you here? You're not a guard of the palace and the compromising position you've put me in–" You glanced down at the knife positioned an inch from the boy's back and tried not to move him at all. Kaz could see the brief panic that flashed across your face at the sight.

"–makes me think your intentions are less than desirable."

"It doesn't matter what my intentions are, Voda." The nickname had taken you back. Never did you think you'd hear it again. He wouldn't even say your name.

"Where is the Sun Summoner?" His partner in crime hissed at you and you covered your son's head with one hand.

"Dinner. So, this is what you want? To steal away Alina Starkov for what? To keep the war raging? I hear there is quite the price on her head."

"Where is she? Take us to her and you'll be spared, I promise you."

"Only after you let your girlfriend hold a knife to my son's back! The Kaz I remember wouldn't be a customer of crime, let alone the murderer of a child." Kaz scoffed but did not order for Inej to pull the knife away.

"A child that will never understand the people his parents truly are. Did he woo you away with promises of gifts and money? Is that why you left?"

"I am not some villain to be afraid of. My son has nothing to do with this and you know it, I know you do. Why would I give you Alina? As penance for being a Grisha? It wasn't a choice I had a say in."

Kaz nearly imploded from despair. His emotions heightened to where they had never gone before and if you hadn't been his sister, he more than likely would have ended your life then and there, except he always had something standing in his way. It was the way your eyes told the truth of no choice, the realization that he had been harboring an anger over the events of his childhood that he knew you had no influence over. If he had told you what happen to father, to Jordie, you surely would have been devastated to hear how difficult his life was. You had your own child now. A little boy to nurture and grow and love and guide through a life he would not understand. Kaz's eyes softened, but before he could speak anymore, the lights had dimmed the slightest bit to notify a new piece in the puzzle to capture the Star Summoner. For Kaz and Inej, the entrance of The Shadow Summoner brought that chance.

"What is going on here?" General Kirigan was imposing as it was. Kaz was not going to lose his life in the halls of the Little Palace when he could save the one of his sister and fulfill the goal he, Inej, and Jesper had set out on.

"Nothing... I had just lost one of his gloves. The guards were kind enough to find it for me."

Inej retracted the blade in a flash, Kaz stepped away from you and the boy in a motion that questioned if you were telling the truth or not. Aleksander did not buy it, but as the two guards extracted themselves away from his family, he could breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. I am sure you'll find your way to the dining room just fine." You stared at Kaz with an apology written across your face. This was not the reunion you had wished for.

Aleskander pulled you close with a hand wrapping around your waist, watching the two guards bow and leave. It did not go unnoticed that the man had looked back not once, but twice.

"Are you alright?" Aleksander's thumb rubbed comfortingly into your side, and you leaned against him with a nod that gave him little reassurance, but enough to move on for the moment. He looked at his son whose eyes were tired and closing, his head resting against your shoulder and neck uncomfortably. You and Aleksander had both been learning that the boy was getting far too heavy to carry around and he reached one hand out in a motion to take him.

"Come on. Let's put him to bed."

"But dinner..."

"They can have one dinner without us."

You agreed and allowed him to take him out your arms. The boy snugged against Aleksander in a way that made your heart melt. Aleksander could see it in your eyes and held out a hand for you to take. Just as you had done fifteen years prior, you took the path of the Grisha and not turning around to follow Kaz and your past.

Though the past was far from gone. An hour later Ivan showed up at your door stating that Alina had been taken and her double had been killed. There was no doubt in your mind that Kaz and his crew was behind it.

Darkling Master Tag (CLOSED):

@mrs-brekker15 @aleksanderblack @shawty-writes-a-little

[writtenbyhollywood]

Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!You || The Darkling x HeartrenderOC!Reader

Summary: A great healer, a terrifying heartrender, you are both the disease and the cure. With such a reputation, living on the run quickly becomes necessary for survival. When General Kirigan, ruler of the Shadow Fold, sets his eyes on you, he doesn't see just a weapon, but the key to his dark ambitions. And, most importantly, the echo to his shadows.

Words: 2.5k

TW: Mention of prostitution, child SA and murder, reader is physically described.

Part I - Keep Moving, Little Girl

Masterlist || Next

The Little Palace was veiled in an eerie calm, which wasn’t very usual for a place that crowded by both young promising Grishas and renowned, experienced ones. The luxurious wall, bathed in the golden light of dying embers, gave an almost supernatural aesthetic to the place. General Aleksander Kirigan sat at his desk, his fingers steepled and his black eyes fixed on the fragile flicker of a single candle before him. The little flame danced, its body undulating as it struggled to keep the surrounding darkness away from the little bubble of warm light it created. The room was silent, save for the crackle of the hearth a bit further, and yet, despite this silence, the general’s mind was far from quiet.

He had heard the rumors countless times over the past few months – it had started with nothing more than vague accounts of a few people found dead in a mysterious and gruesome way, but the narrative slowly turned into a monstrous witch, her hair as white as frost, leaving death and blood in her wake. At first, he dismissed them. Ravka was rife with tales of rogue Grisha, exaggerated to feed the fears of peasants and nobles alike. A chimera created by children to tell scary stories, or skillfully crafted clichés to create a deep-ingrained fear of Grisha by politics. But the more he ignored them, the more the whispers persisted: they spread like wildfire and grew darker with each retelling. The most recent account had given him a pause though: a Heartrender, they claimed, whose power was unlike anything ever seen. From what has been reported, the creature could control men as if they were marionettes, forcing them to turn on each other in a grotesque display of violence. One so-called survivor claimed that, with only a few movements of her hands, he saw his colleague forced to turn the barrel of his gun to his temples and shoot himself a bullet right through his brain. Aleksander had raised a brow at the statement:

Such abilities should not exist. Not without the cursed used of Jurda Parem.

Aleksander’s jaw tightened as he leaned back in his chair. If the rumors were true, this woman was no ordinary Grisha. She was a weapon – an unrefined, dangerous force that needed to be claimed before it destroyed itself or got destroyed. And if she truly possessed the kind of power described, that little white-haired heartrender could be either a great asset to his cause or an uncontrollable threat that needed to be neutralized. Or rather, a problem that needed to be resolved.

The shadows around him stirred, as if sensing his thoughts, their tendrils coiling in anticipation. He, who was often too absorbed by his own plans, surprised himself when he realized that his mind raced through the topic of that wild sorceress, weighing risks and rewards, battling between curiosity and schemes. However, one thing had become certain: he could no longer ignore the whispers. He had to find her. Kirigan rose from his seat, the folds of his pitch black kefta sweeping behind him as he crossed the room with hastened steps. He opened the door to find Ivan, who was waiting just outside, his stoic expression as adamant as ever.

“I need you to gather a small team,” The general said without preamble nor explanation. His voice was long and commanding, but Ivan could sense that he also seemed lost in his thoughts, “We’re leaving at first light.”

The tall Corporalki tilted his head, his brows furrowing slightly – the only other expression he had in his palette. “May I ask for what purpose, General?”

“There’s a woman,” Kirigan replied, his tone laced with intrigue but also something darker Ivan couldn’t really pinpoint. “A Heartrender whose power surpasses anything we’ve encountered… At least if the stories told are true.” He paused, his lips curling into a faint and slightly calculating smile, “I must say that these latest accounts intrigued me. If she is what they say she is, she could change everything.”

“And if she’s not?” Ivan asked, his skepticism carefully measured. As much as he trusted General Kirigan, the tall Ravkan man with a stern face couldn’t help doubting. He was a man of facts – not of silly rumors.

Aleksander’s eyes darkened, the flicker of the candlelight reflecting in their dizzying depths. Eyes so black that no one could distinguish the pupil from the iris, “Then we’ll ensure the stories end with us.”  He turned back toward his desk without additional explanations, his mind already plotting the route, the approach, and the questions he would ask her.  Hair white as the purest snow, eyes as frozen as the deadliest ice desert…There was a part of him that wondered if she even existed, if this was nothing more than another ghost tale spun by frightened villagers. But another part – the darker, sicker and more desperate part – felt the faint pull of something undeniable. He wanted her to be real.

He needed her to be real.

In the back of his mind, General Aleksander Kirigan thought he could almost hear her, like a faint hum carried on the wind. The monster they spoke of wasn’t just some distant threat. She was out there waiting, somewhere in the Ravkan snow, all alone and vulnerable – and she didn’t even know she already belonged to him.

Your shrill scream resounded in the bedroom, bathed in the soft and muted light of Ravkan mornings. Confused, your chest heaved as though you had run for miles even though you had just woken up. Your body was damp, covered in a thin layer of sweat, some locks of hair sticking to your temples.

If there was one thing that plagued your dreams, turning them into terrific nightmares, it was that smell.

The Menagerie smelled of desperation, as Tante Heleen liked to call it. Or rather the awful combination of fun fair treats, sweat, and a dash of discreet, but still noticeable, fragrances of blood. It clung to the air just like the cheap perfume the girls were forced to wear, a sickly-sweet mask that tried hard to hide the rot that lay beneath. One full year had passed since you had escaped from this hellish place and yet, the impression this foul smell was still clinging to your skin and hair, no matter how roughly you washed or how scorching-hot the showers you took were, remained. You had known it your entire life, ever since you were left at its gate as a child.  As much as you tried, you couldn’t forget the way your tiny and cold hands tightened their grip around Tante Heleen’s skirt as the woman had dragged you inside, her soft voice cooing false kindness. Like a butcher leading a cattle through the death-smelling corridors of a slaughterhouse.

“You’ll grow into something beautiful,” Heleen had said, glancing at your long white hair while your own eyes surveyed the golden bars at the windows, though you were too young to understand why they were there as well as the malice behind the brothel Madam’s words, “A perfect White Tiger, ma petite chérie.” But the cruel truth was that beauty didn’t save anyone in the Menagerie. It only made you more of a prize to be shown off, sold to the highest bidder and then both used and abused. Beauty was nothing but a poison, a weapon Heleen turned against its bearer in this place made of gilded cages and broken spirits.

By your pre-teens, you had made quite a reputation: despite growing up in this foul nightmare, Tante Heleen never managed to break you entirely. Mastering the art of silence and deadly stares, your unyielding demeanor made you a source of fascination. The bruises on your porcelain skin faded away as quickly as the tears you refused to shed, never succumbing to the horrors clients would make you go through. The same clients who were willing to pay obscene sums not just to touch you but to try and tame you. The men who came for you were often the ones who wanted to conquer that defiance. The ones who wanted to make you scream. Still, you never gave them satisfaction. Worse, they often left more bruised than you because you did fight like a tigress. Even if they ended up overcoming you, your ice-cold eyes would bore into them, frozen and sharp, making even the most depraved feel as though they were the ones who were soiled. No, it wasn’t your beauty alone that drew attention; it was the air around you, heavy with something dangerous.

If being honest with yourself, you had to admit that most of the other girls at the Menagerie didn’t like you. Sometimes, you would catch them whispering about you, sometimes in awe, sometimes in jealousy, but most of the time it was in fear. Why? Because you were eerie. Unsettling, the least. Because you were something else with your pale skin – paler than the Fjerda wolf girl – and long white hair. With the slim hourglass figure and small height, which contrasted far too much with the hatred that burned in your void-like pupils. Besides, you never did much to befriend them: you didn’t weep after being summoned, didn’t cling to anyone for comfort and almost never gave yours to soothe the other poor animals’ pain. The only one you tolerated was the Suli Lynx.  

The unsease the others would feel around you only worsened when they discovered that you were a Heartrender. Frightening abilities that manifested themselves one night in an uncontrollable outburst, leading to someone’s brutal death.

The nightmare you had lingered, its remnants jagged and raw. The menagerie’s cages, the laughters, the sensation of hands that burned like brands – they had all dissolved into the room’s silence. “Memories. They are nothing but memories” you told yourself, yet the weight of your not-so-far-away past pressed against your chest like iron shackles.

“Miss, you shall leave the room by eight o’clock.” A voice spoke behind the thick wooden door of the bedroom you rented – a small barren room you had found shelter in for the night. It was no more than a shabby inn, with walls cracked and floorboards uneven. You took off the thin, tattered blanket from you and swung your legs over the side of the bed to sit on the mattress for a moment, your head in your hands. Your fingers trembled slightly, not from the cold but from the residues of the dream.

“Yeah, sure.” You mumbled, staring blankly at your boots sat by the door through your slim fingers, and the satchel rested on the old rocking chair, packed and ready to leave. Never unpacking, that was one of the rules you followed since you fled from the Menagerie. Through the frosted window the snow was falling steadily. Frosty flakes swirled like restless ghosts in the early morning gloom, covering the world outside with a white coat that muffled every little sound. All of them except the relentless thumping of your heart, which threatened to burst your ribcage open.

The floor groaned under your weight as you stood and moved towards the small basin by the windows. Almost mechanically, you splashed your face with icy water, hoping for the chill to chase away the remnants of sleep. When you raised your head to take a look at the cracked mirror, the reflection that stared back at you was a stranger’s — diaphanous, long straight hair as pale as the snow, and eyes frighteningly empty. A doll’s face, your clients said. But no doll could house the kind of fury that simmered in your cursed blood, right?

You turned away, hating what you saw. Minutes later, you were dressed, your boots were laced, and your long dark cloak pulled tightly around you. When you reached for the door, you caught yourself hesitating only briefly… Maybe you could stick around for a while this time… No.

Keep moving.

The cold hit you immediately as you stepped outside. The wind bit you through your cloak like a knife with such virulence that you couldn’t help clenching your jaw. And yet, you welcomed it, let it numb you. Snow crunched beneath the sole of your boots as you walked on a little road, endless and uncertain. With one quick movement, you pulled your hood up and buried your face against the wind, going forward with determined steps. You didn’t know where you were going but you knew one thing for sure: you couldn’t stop moving away from the Menagerie. Not yet. The world might feel vast and empty, but at least there was something usually peaceful in this isolation. Not this morning though.

Even in this desolation, you couldn’t share the unpleasant feeling that you were being watched. It was subtle – a whisper of unease that prickled at the back of your neck, making your hairs rise. As stupid as it sounded, you quickly glanced over your shoulder at the empty snowy forest behind you. Nothing stirred, no sound broke the quiet save for the howl of the wind… And still, the feeling lingered, like a cold thread winding through your thoughts. In a reflex you couldn’t quite control, your hand tightened around your cloak’s collar, not knowing if it was to hide from the cold or from these unseen pair of eyes by shrinking into your coat.

Keep moving.

Above the faraway howl of the wind, a faint whisper seemed to hum at the edges of your senses. It resonated, too soft to be real, but to real to be a hallucination. You frowned as you walked faster, all your senses in alert. It wasn’t words, only a presence, dark and vast, like shadows stretching beyond the horizon. Keep moving!  You clenched your fists and tried your best to shove the thought away. It was certainly some kind of paranoia that had gotten into you, fed by lack of sleep, proper food and shelter. A part of you rationalized, telling itself that no one had ever found you yet, and no one would – despite the little… troubles you created on your way. Crystal eyes fixed on the road ahead, your steps quickened as if you could outrun the unease that was gnawing at your mind.

But far away, very far away in the distance, a man dressed in black was studying a map. His gloved finger, covered in the finest leather, hovered over a region marked in red by himself. His lips curled into the faintest smile, as if doing so wasn’t common to him.

“She’s close”, he murmured to the shadows with a voice soft and filled with a quiet satisfaction.

“Are you sure?” They whispered back

“I can feel her,” He replied, black eyes riveted onto the horizon.

Soon, he thought,

Very soon.

Please reblog and/or comment if you liked it. 🖤

taglist: @augustwookie

[writtenbyhollywood]

I think we’re getting too deep Hayden Christensen Pt. I?

DESCRIPTION: The popular actor Hayden Christensen was seen with a popular super model! Paparazzi storm the two, and they both end up front page on "latest scandals". 'I think we're getting too deep, ain't no party on the weekend.'

PARING: Hayden Christensen x Super Model F!Reader

WARNINGS: Drinking, paparazzi being invading, smoking, situationship. Brief mentions of Y/N

WC: 3K something?

Hayden Christensen seen with super model on arm!

The young actor, recently starred in the movie shattered glass, was spotted leaving a mutual friend’s party last night with famous super model Y/N L/N

The two have never been seen together alone before last night, yet they seemed to be very close. Hayden has his arm wrapped around her waist, and she had no problems letting him.

Was it really all innocent, or is there more going on? Alls known is they cause quite the splash in the latest scandals. The hottest question now is, what really happened last night?

It was well known that you were a party person. Despite beliefs it wasn't for alcohol, sex, or anything like that. You loved to go out simply because you loved your closet.

You loved to do your makeup, pick out jewelry to wear, and your closet was your shrine to yourself. It was one of the many reasons you became a model, fashion. You loved to dress up, that was you.

So, it was expected of you to attend Ewan party, and you had no problems attending.

Hayden Christensen on the other hand could not be any more opposite. He loved staying home, dressing into ‘appropriate’ clothes was a chore, and he the comfort of home was too great.

Yet, Ewan was like a brother to him, and it had been a while since he had last saw him, and he would go.

He had a plan; stay for a few hours, catch up with Ewan, grab a drink, then ditch. Solid, and well thought out.

Never in a million years did he actually think he would be having fun.

“Ewan!” You couldn’t stop the smile on your face, as you ran to hug the man. “Best party yet!” Your voice was raised, trying to be heard over the loud music.

“It’s so good to see you!” He said your name, like he hadn’t seen you at the last event. The two of you became very close the last six months, and surprisingly not many people romanticized your friendship. Something you were both glad for. “I heard you may be working with a certain someone soon.” How a rumor leaked on your upcoming project with the playboy you’ll never know. However, even with the leak, it was still an anticipated release with your fans.

“If you get me started, I can’t promise I’ll shut up about it.” Your body hummed with energy. You were feeling good, it had been a hot minute since your last conversation with the man, the drink in your body made you feel loose, and the music had only heightened your mood.

“I’m really happy for you,” Ewan was the most genuine friend you probably had.

“And I’m happy for you, your career has really taken off.”

His eyes tracked to a person behind you, and you couldn’t help but follow them.

Tons of people were in the crowd, and not a single face stood out to you. Except the one person breaking through the crowd and heading straight for you and him.

“Hayden!” The two men hugged each other, before Ewan had introduced the two of you.

“Hayden, meet,” your name filtered off his tongue and to the young actor, your name was like a symphony.

You were beautiful, eye catching, to say the very least. The way your hair fell past your face, the color of your lips, how perfect your tits rested in your dress. You were jaw dropping.

“Nice to meet you, Hayden.” While your smile was a kick to the knees, your voice was a punch to his throat. His mind blanked, nothing but the sound of your voice in his head.

“Hayden?” His friend that he considered a brother asked, worry in his tone. It wasn’t surprising to Ewan that he’d get awkward in front of a pretty girl. The surprising part was him going dead silent.

“Sorry, hi I’m Hayden.” His stumbling words couldn’t help but make you laugh. “Which you already know that.” You almost missed his mumbling words.

“You played Anakin Skywalker, right?” Conversation, you were good at making that. Something he was not.

Pride washed through him. Yes, he did that, he played the Anakin Skywalker — he did a movie. "Yea, I did that.”

“I’ll leave you two to get to know one another, catch me before you two leave.” Each of you gave your byes to Ewan, and Hayden could feel his throat closing.

He was going to be alone with you, or as alone as you can get in a party.

“I really liked your movies.” You told the actor, and for a moment Hayden wanted to believe you meant it. That someone had actually liked what he helped made, but the truth was criticism was all he got from it.

“You don’t have to say that.” His voice was soft, and distance as he looked anywhere but your knowing eyes.

“I know. Saying things, you don’t have to means a lot more than one may think.” A ball got stuck inside his throat, and he couldn’t swallow it. He couldn’t swallow you. “I liked the movie; you shouldn’t let others affect your passion.” Your soft hand, with a few rings, rested on his shoulder. The intent meaning to be comforting only lit a fire inside him. And when you leaned up to kiss his cheek, you had completely set him ablaze.

“I hope to see you again; I had a nice time talking with you.” Just like that you were gone. The crowd consumed you, but even if you walked away from him — he could still remember everything about you.

The sound of your voice, the impulse in your eyes, the desire of your lips.

Hayden hated crowds, hated going to parties, but now he found it all not so bad. He recognized it to be all so exciting, he found you thrilling.

And began Hayden’s little ritual. He’d be invited out to a party, ask who was all going to be there and without fail the moment your name was mentioned he would be there.

It never how packed it was, the venue, the loudness of it all — somehow, he had always found you.

Music blared, a song you didn't even know capturing you. You danced, drink in hand, and a smile too joyful. It made the actor hesitate; you were having fun and the last thing he wanted was to interrupt it.

He hesitated for too long, and with an empty drink you deemed it time to finally get off the dance floor. But, for a moment you saw a glimpse of the man who you had met so briefly it left a lasting curiosity.

You stopped in your tracks and made the split decision to talk to Hayden, something he was forever grateful for.

It wasn't the only time and the next time you saw him he had shocked you by making his way to you. He approached you, and the shy actor you started to know washed away and a certain confidence overcame him with the familiarity of you.

Nerves always picked away at his skin, but he would never let that show - at least not in front of you.

It had started to become expected of the actor to make his way up to you. In fact, Ewan had bets with other mutual friends on how long it’d take for one of you to finally make your way to the other.

You’d be sitting at the bar, and the bar tender would offer you a kind smile while sliding a drink you didn’t order in front of yourself.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t order this.” It was common for a person to buy you a drink. However, it was uncommon for you to accept it.

“This from that man over there.” The guy said, pointing to a Hayden Christensen who sat staring at his drink. Not daring to look at you.

You gave the bartender a kind smile, taking the drink before making your way to the man that had been kind enough to buy it.

When Hayden saw you heading his way, for a moment his mind blanked, panicked. Why were you coming up to him? Did you want to talk to him? Did you actually remember him? Even through his panic however he remained seated. As much as he wanted to, he just couldn’t run away from you.

“Hello again.” His voice didn’t come out as shaky as he felt. In fact, you found his voice unwavering. As if he held a silent strength that made you want to listen forever.

“So, kind of you to remember me, Mr. Skywalker.” You place the drink beside his, a lip stain from your lip stick smudging the glass. “Not the best drink — I have to say.” It was as if you were challenging him. Checking him.

“Not up to your standards?” His question should have been innocent, but with the way he looked you up and down, a slight hesitancy when his gaze crossed your chest. “I’m sure it can’t be all that bad.”

He was teasing you, as if inside you weren’t making him squirm with a simple look.

Hayden wasn’t a fool when it came to girls, he didn’t have many girlfriends, but he had his fair share of experience in impressing them. So why did he keep feeling like he was twelve again looking at playboy magazines?

“Maybe my standards are higher than you think.” Your words had a cutting edge that sent shivers down his spine, and he could feel his pants tightening.

He reached for the glass you put onto the bar and angled it perfectly so his mouth would cover the stain you made.

All breath from your lungs left your body, not for a moment he stopped eye contact, his throat moved with the liquid going down and all you wanted to do was bite it.

This was a hard cry from the shy guy you had known from other encounters.

Placing the glass cup back down, he couldn’t stop himself from licking his lips. Your lipstick very faint on them. Everything in him tightened, his pants, his heart, everything.

“It not too bad,” he pushed himself off the stool, and made the very hasty decision to grab onto your waist. Pulling you up onto the chair he once sat, his arm caging you in.

His arms that show under his rolled-up sleeves. His arms that had veins slightly bulging, his arms that flexed a little when he noticed your dark eyes on them. Oh, you were so screwed.

“It’s very sweet, delicious.” He said words like he was already done undressing you, and you were all but waiting to be claimed, marked, fucked.

A humming fire lit inside you, deep, and it seared through you leaving nothing but agony in its wait.

“Hayden.” A low groan released from the man, his head resting onto your chest. You didn’t notice his hands tightening on the chair, stopping them from touching you. You didn’t notice his rough breathing, only the rasp in his voice as if it physically pained him to be so closed to you, but so endlessly far.

You pulled his head from your chest, and he wanted to let a whine escape him. He loved how you felt, how you smelled.

“You’re a bad idea.” You couldn’t persuade the desire to stare at his lips away. “I can’t risk bad ideas.” You were at a point in your career where one mess up and you won’t recover. “I can’t make a mistake.”

“Am I a bad idea, or a mistake.” The question baffled you.

“What’s the difference?” A mistake and a bad idea were both a slip-up.

He pushed your legs slightly apart, making himself comfortable between them. His fingers brushing your open thigh.

“A bad idea is a misstep before it’s acted on.” He was close, so close you could feel the heat of his lips hover over yours. Before it moved past them and up to your ear. “A mistake is after it’s been acted on.” His breathing was faint against the shell of your ear. “So, what am I?”

You didn’t let him move a moment further away before capturing his lips in yours. “A mistake.” You grinned against his mouth, and God he was screwed.

It had become a sacred dance between the two of you. A party on the weekend and you'd no longer needed a driver to bring you home. Hayden would personally escort you to your door. (Always falling into your bed.)

Every party, and he was there. Every event and he'd always find you waiting for him.

It was casual. Yet even in casualty you found security in his arms. His touch was gentle, tender - while his eyes were filled with longing.

Somewhere along the way you spent longer mornings together, left the parties earlier, talked longer into the night.

It was all new to you. Caring so much about a person. You never cared about another person thoughts so much. You never listen to someone words so intently, afraid of missing a word.

You had pride yourself, never letting a single person be the cause of a rethink. You knew what you needed, what was best for you, however the burn of wanting coiled inside you.

You had idea you were in so deep with him, and neither did he.

He never knew how much you valued his opinions, and you never knew the confessions he would whisper to you in your sleep.

You'd often text, talking about each other's day, your next available day and when you got the text he wasn't going to the next party - you couldn't describe what willed you to stay in also. Or what made you ask him to come over.

He did, no questions asked. The moment you open your door to see him his smile was contagious. And then you knew why.

It was because he was the person to bring joy, the person that was the quiet that you needed. You spent your life as being the 'life of the party'. Never missing a crowd, and you never knew how much you needed a moment of silence until Hayden sat the silence with you.

Was that the moment when things shifted between the two of you? Or was it when he brought dinner to your apartment after a hard day? Or maybe it was when you spent days doing nothing but being with each other?

You couldn't say the moment, but you knew and so did Hayden. Nothing about the two of you were casual. You both were too much to be any less.

It was late at night, the white silk satin covers laying over the two of you. The alarm on your bed side table clicking to 2:37 AM.

"Hayden?" Your voice was soft, a voice he engraved into his heart. "Hm?" Your hands were entwined, your fingers playfully pulling his, and his other hand tracing your shoulder as he held you in his arms.

"This is nice." Your voice remained a whisper, and he knew exactly what you meant. Nothing but the two of you, holding each other, in the comforts of one another.

Everything about this moment Hayden found so much more than nice. The smell of your shampoo, your hair carrying the scent of something delicate and captivating. The fragrance lingered all around them surrounding him until he found it impossible not to get lost in you, drawn to your entire essence.

"It is." He simply agreed, too distracted by everything you. Had he always noticed so many details? In the midst of it all, you had become the silence he craved, the kind that never needed to be filled. He wanted to say something, tell you about every thought in his mind and how they all came back to you. Yet, fear overcame courage, and yearning would be the compromise of his hesitancy.

"The world goes by so fast." The sound of your voice was tired, sleepy, but you had never felt more awake. "Sometimes I feel like it'll pass me by."

The tilt of your head gave him the perfect view of your eyes, the slope of your nose, the plump of your lips - like a sin that made time forget itself.

"Then I'll slow down my own world for a chance to be a part of yours." The words flowed naturally from his lips, and the tightness of your chest squeezed your heart in ways you didn't understand.

"You're too kind to me."

"I'm serious." The touch of his hand left yours as he rested his palm to the side of your face. "I'm not good at this but I'd still myself before ever passing you by."

He didn't rush you, he never did, and when his eyes fell back onto your lips and waited for you to answer his silent question. Everything blurred, when he started lean down. The aching need to kiss you became a burning of pure demand.

He never was harsh with you, somehow, he knew exactly what you wanted, what pace you needed, and how to make you plea for everything else.

The parties slowly started to lose its appeal to you. However, even if you've skipped out on a few of them this one you promise your attendee would be there.

A familiar beat of tune over washed you when you saw the man who had occupied your thoughts siting at the bar. Waiting.

"Hello there, Mr. Skywalker." Sliding onto the barstool beside him, Hayden couldn't control the smile that came with seeing you. "Hello, superstar."

Drinks flowed between the two of you followed by drunken giggles. The hour was becoming later and later, and he didn't stop you when you jumped off the stool, grabbing his hands and leading him.

Your feet dragged to the dance floor, a familiar song playing throughout the entire venue. You guided his hands onto your body, the weight and feel of them like a story you’ve read a thousand times yet could never find the ending.

It was intimate, and unnerving — wordless longing. Your two bodies moved closed to one another his hands lingering on your hip while his other rested in the crooked of your neck. Your own hands placing on his waist eyes closed as you breathed him in. Each step unhurried, each sway deliberate, and every glance full of trust, and a burning desire.

“I think I might need some air.” You didn’t, but you knew he did. Because even inside your own bubble the world always had a way of pressing on it. A person dancing to close, someone’s voice yelling over the music. But Hayden didn’t say anything because he would rather chop his hand off than move from you. Leave you. He didn’t even let the thought cross his mind, you just knew him too well.

“Let’s go,” his hand fell from your face and interlinked your fingers together, like it was natural for him, and it was. Just like it was natural to wrap your other hand around his arm.

Hayden inhaled the smoke into his lungs, giving him a relief he desperately craved. The moon was high, a sign of the late hour, and you didn’t notice the goosebumps spreading on your skin from the cold until the warmth of his jacket fell onto your shoulders.

He didn’t stop you from taking the cigarette from his mouth. Instead, he watched as your lips wrapped around the death stick - the end flickering with a lighted flame.

Your lipstick smudged the cigarette, a stain leaving in its trail. Hayden could feel his heart stop as you placed the newly marked stick back onto his lips.

He didn’t get the chance to toss the thing away, to pull your lips onto his mouth and kiss you desperately, to have your lipstick stain not just that but his mouth too.

Paparazzi surrounded the two of you coming from absolutely nowhere.

“Hayden! What are you doing with Y/N L/N?”

“Y/N is it true that you’re soon to be working in acting?”

“What are the two of you doing together?”

What are the two of you doing together? Could it be called casual when you were everything but? Was it friends with benefits when the two of you desperately wanted to be more? Was it fun when it felt so serious?

Questions kept being asked, and Hayden reached his hand out grabbing onto your waist, leading you away from them or attempting too.

Shots after shots were being taken off the two of you. You wearing his jacket, him dangling a cigarette in his mouth that had a clear and visible lipstick stain that matched perfectly to yours.

You knew that articles would be published of the two of you. However making your way home, neither of you cared as you fell into the bed, tangling in one another.

The sanctuary of privacy was shattered, but as Hayden kissed every inch of your skin you couldn’t find regret.

ITS OVER! This took so long simply because I had such writers block oh my goodness 😭.

I was thinking about making a part two and even a little mini-series but we’ll see.

Legit me getting my ass HANDED to me by writers block… I don’t wanna talk about it.

[writtenbyhollywood]

Where Her Heart Was

Main Masterlist Big Sky Masterlist

Pairings; Beau Arlen x dead!reader

Genre; psychological thriller, domestic horror, drama

Warnings; graphic depictions of violence and gore, murder, home invasion/intruder violence, blood and bodily harm, death of a loved one/spouse, grief and trauma, mental distress/emotional breakdown, minor in distress, creepy/disturbing imagery

Summary: Beau and his daughter Emily walked in on a gruesome and traumatizing sight.

2894 words

Beau Arlen’s truck grumbled up to the trailer, headlights washing over the dust and dry grass like a spotlight on a forgotten stage. The day’s heat still clung to the air, but night was falling fast, pulling a chill in behind it. He shifted into park, glancing at Emily, who was still buzzing with excitement in the passenger seat.

“I mean, actual pit passes,” she said again, eyes wide, the adrenaline of teenage euphoria pouring out of her. “That security guy was such a sucker. I didn’t even lie, I just said you were a cop and boom—free passes.”

Beau chuckled and shook his head, grabbing the keys. “Just don’t let your mouth write checks I can’t cash, alright?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Relax. It worked, didn’t it?” She was halfway up the steps before he was even out of the truck. “Hey, is she home? Y/N?” she called lazily, twisting the doorknob. “We brought news!”

Beau followed behind at a slower pace. “Keep it down. She’s probably out cold.”

Emily pushed the door open without hesitation, stepping into the trailer with the casual confidence of someone who didn’t expect to see anything more dramatic than dishes in the sink or laundry on the couch. She took three steps in—

—and stopped.

“Uh…” she muttered, her voice suddenly smaller. “Is this—?”

Then she saw it.

The scream that tore from her throat was instant and catastrophic, like something had crawled out of her soul and ripped her vocal cords to shreds on the way out.

Beau’s blood turned to ice. He ran.

He hit the hallway hard, the door at the end of it hanging slightly ajar. Emily was crumpled on the floor outside it, sobbing, shaking, her face pale and contorted with terror.

Then he looked up.

And his heart stopped.

The room was painted in red.

Not figuratively. Not metaphorically.

Literally. Blood was everywhere—splashed on the walls in great arcs, dripping in slow, heavy rivulets down the headboard, soaked into the mattress like it had rained inside. The air reeked of iron, sweat, and something rotten. Thick. Pungent. It hit the back of Beau’s throat like acid.

Y/N was on the bed, her body unrecognizable at first glance. Naked. Torn. Splayed open like a specimen on a butcher’s slab. Her legs were spread, one bent unnaturally beneath her, the other dangling off the bed at an awkward angle. Her chest was opened—not cut, but ripped—her sternum split and cracked, ribs curled outward. Her heart was missing. The cavity gaped like a hollow, black pit, still oozing with thick, dark blood.

Her hands were shredded. Fingernails torn off, knuckles broken, the flesh of her palms peeled back like she’d tried to claw her way through the walls. One arm had been nailed to the headboard with a sharpened piece of broken wood—probably from the nightstand Beau now saw splintered on the floor.

Her face—

Beau’s knees nearly gave.

Her face was a mess of agony and mutilation. One eye was gone, the socket punched through and crushed. The other stared blankly at the ceiling, dilated and lifeless. Her lips were ripped, her jaw partially dislocated—one side of her mouth stretched grotesquely, like something had held it open and torn at her teeth. Blood had soaked into her hair, turning it into a matted tangle against the pillow.

Across the wall above the bed, written in uneven, smudged streaks of blood, were the words:

"BELONGED TO ME."

The letters were jagged. Desperate. Human fingers had written that. Fresh, still wet in some places, like whoever did it had been here minutes ago.

Emily dry-heaved beside him, convulsing as she tried to crawl away from the room, her sobs dissolving into whimpers. “Oh my God, oh my God—what the fuck—what the fuck is this—” she repeated over and over, her voice cracking.

Beau couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

It was like the world had narrowed to a single, blood-soaked frame.

She’d been slaughtered. Not killed. Not murdered. This wasn’t just rage or hate. This was obsession. This was personal. Ritualistic, almost. As if the killer had wanted to leave a message—no, a performance. A horror show for them to walk in on.

And the worst part—

There was no sign of forced entry. No kicked-in door. No shattered glass. Nothing broken on the outside.

He stepped into the room—just one step—and stopped when he heard it.

A breath.

Not his.

Not Emily’s.

From behind the cracked closet door.

Something wet shifted inside.

Beau’s hand went to his hip—empty. His gun was still locked in the truck.

And something was in there with them.

Beau’s fingers twitched, searching for his gun—empty holster. His mind screamed for action, but his body froze.

The closet door creaked open slightly. His breath hitched in his throat, chest tight as the low, wet sound came again. That breath. It was wrong. Jagged. Too ragged for anyone who was still alive.

His instincts screamed—get the hell out—but Emily was still sobbing uncontrollably on the floor, eyes wide and glazed, too lost in her panic to even realize what was about to happen. Beau couldn’t leave her behind.

He grabbed a metal lamp from the nightstand—heavy, sharp-edged—and crept forward, every step making a sickening squelch on the blood-soaked floor. The stench was unbearable now, the thick, iron tang of death clinging to the air like smoke.

His fingers gripped the door’s edge. He flung it open with a force that made his heart stop.

The man inside was crouched—huddled, really—hunched like an animal, his body thin to the point of grotesque, skin stretched taut over bones that seemed too big for him. His face was pale, almost waxy, eyes wide and feverish, lips cracked into a grin that made Beau's stomach flip.

The man’s hands were covered in blood—fresh blood—and he was holding something, something wet and slimy, clenched in his fingers. Beau’s gaze darted to it.

It was Y/N's heart.

Her still-beating heart.

The man didn’t even flinch when Beau gasped. He just chuckled, a low, unsettling sound that scraped like nails on glass.

"Found it," the man rasped, his voice hoarse. “She was hiding from me, you know. She didn’t understand. But I always knew.”

He lifted the heart, dangling it in front of him like a trophy. Blood dripped from his fingertips, splattering the floor.

Beau’s breath was caught in his chest. Every inch of his body screamed at him to do something, anything. He swung the lamp hard, cracking it against the man’s shoulder. The blow made the man grunt, but his grin never faltered.

The man’s body jolted from the hit, and he dropped the heart to the floor with a soft plop. The moment the heart hit the carpet, the man snapped, his face twisting into something sick, almost childlike. He scrambled for it, his hands clawing desperately, but the moment he touched it, he froze.

“No...” the man whimpered, his voice cracking like a broken child’s. “She’s mine. She was mine.” His eyes darted wildly between Beau and the blood-splattered bed. “I—I loved her.”

Beau didn’t wait. He grabbed the lamp again, shoving it into the man’s face, driving him back into the corner of the closet. The man’s head hit the wall with a sickening crack.

“You don’t get to say that,” Beau growled, voice thick with fury. His heart pounded as he held the lamp against the man’s chest, pinning him to the corner.

The man gasped for air, struggling weakly beneath Beau's weight. His grin twisted into something far darker now, eyes widening in madness.

“I loved her,” he repeated, his voice rising into a frenzy. “She—she was supposed to stay. She wasn’t supposed to leave me—she—she couldn’t leave me.”

Beau recoiled, disgust coiling tight in his stomach. "You killed her."

The man’s eyes snapped to Beau’s, pleading. “She was mine.”

Then, with an unnatural, quick motion, the man reached up and grabbed Beau by the wrist. His grip was strong—desperate—and Beau could feel the unhinged force behind it. His nails dug into Beau’s skin like claws.

Beau staggered back, but the man didn't let go, dragging him closer. His face contorted, eyes full of delirium, and his words slurred in a fevered whisper, “She was supposed to stay with me... you—you took her from me.”

Beau's mind scrambled. This man—he's lost it.

He shoved the lamp into the man’s stomach, knocking him back into the wall, hard. The impact made the man’s breath hitch, but still, he lunged, a manic animal without reason.

“No—no! I won’t let you—I won’t let you take her from me!”

The man swung wildly, a knife flashing from his pocket—faster than Beau expected. Beau barely managed to avoid the blade as it slashed across his arm, the razor-sharp edge slicing through the sleeve of his shirt and cutting deep into flesh. Blood welled up instantly.

“Shit!” Beau hissed, but it was enough. The man’s grip was weakening.

With everything he had left, Beau shoved him backward again, finally breaking free. The man’s body slammed into the closet’s wooden frame with a wet crack. He hit the floor, groaning in pain—but his eyes never lost that crazy gleam.

Beau stood, chest heaving with adrenaline, heart pounding in his ears.

The man was panting now, covered in Y/N's blood, twitching in an almost spasm-like motion. The broken knife was still clutched tightly in his hand.

“I... I just wanted her back,” the man whispered, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, the madness in his voice only growing. “She was supposed to stay with me. I... I loved her.”

Beau took one last, long look at him. Then he turned to Emily, still trembling in the corner, eyes wide and horrified, the image of the man—the monster—burned into her mind.

With a grim resolve, Beau pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing the sheriff’s department. But as the phone rang, the man’s quiet, broken mutter reached his ears one last time:

“She was supposed to stay... you—you took her from me…”

Blue and red lights stuttered across the trailer's aluminum walls, painting the blood-soaked hallway in a surreal, flickering nightmare. Deputies swarmed the scene—gloves snapped on, cameras flashed, evidence bags crinkled. The air buzzed with static from radios and hushed voices speaking of things no one wanted to say out loud.

Beau stood outside, his arm wrapped in gauze, blood crusted beneath his nails, the taste of copper still in his throat. Emily was beside him, wrapped in a blanket two sizes too big, her eyes hollow, staring straight ahead. She hadn’t spoken in over an hour.

The man—her killer—was dragged out in cuffs, barefoot, blood-streaked, still grinning like he’d won something. One of the deputies shoved his head down to duck him into the back of the cruiser. The man looked up, catching Beau’s gaze.

“Still with you,” he whispered through cracked lips. “She’ll always be with me.”

Beau didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Emily flinched. Her hand found Beau’s—cold, trembling—and he gripped it tight.

The trailer was quiet. Hollow.

The blood had long since dried. The forensic team had taken every sample, scrubbed for prints, removed the mattress and part of the drywall. But the smell still lingered. Not blood exactly. Not death. Just… absence.

Beau stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Emily was beside him, wearing rubber gloves that hung loose on her wrists. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to.

“I’ll do the wall,” she murmured.

He nodded.

They worked slowly. No music. Just the sound of the brush sweeping against the fresh drywall, the scrape of the trash bags as they threw out the last ruined things: bloodstained linens, cracked frames, splintered furniture. At one point Emily stopped, her face pale, as she pulled a single earring from beneath the dresser.

Y/N’s.

She didn’t say anything, just handed it to Beau.

He held it like it was made of glass.

Three and a Half Months Later

The sky outside the trailer was a muted gray, spring rain tapping gently against the windows. The smell of wet dirt drifted in through a cracked window. Inside, the world had slowed.

Emily dragged the last unmarked box out from under the bed, brushing away the dust with the sleeve of her hoodie. “This one’s heavier,” she muttered.

Beau sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-empty beer in his hand and a stack of old photo albums at his side. His eyes flicked to her. “You sure you’re up for more?”

Emily gave him a faint smile. “Yeah. I think… I want to remember the good stuff.”

They opened the box together.

The first thing inside was a leather-bound journal, thick with years of use, its corners softened and pages dog-eared. Beau’s breath caught. He knew this one.

“She wrote in this after your birthday last year,” he murmured. “Didn’t let me read it. Said I’d ‘lose all respect’ for her if I saw how emotional she got.”

Emily laughed quietly, leaning into his side. “She cried when she gave me that necklace. Told me not to get used to her being ‘sappy.’ Then made me promise never to call her soft again.”

Beau smiled. “She was a marshmallow.”

“She was a cactus pretending to be a marshmallow.”

They flipped through the journal together. Most entries were short. Observations. Frustrations. Half-written poems. One was a list titled “If I Disappear, Remember This:”

1. I hate mushrooms

2. The password is Emily’s birthday reversed

3. That green dress only looked good because of the earrings

4. Tell them I loved them. Both of them. Every damn day.

Emily blinked rapidly. “She knew…”

Beau rested a hand on her shoulder. “She always knew how to leave a mark.”

Beneath the journal were other things.

An old hoodie of Beau’s, torn at the sleeve—one she’d always refused to give back. A Polaroid of her asleep on the couch with Emily’s cat curled on her chest. The edges were curled, but the image was soft and full of life.

Then came a shoebox inside the box, its contents meticulously organized. There were letters—unsent. Some addressed to Beau. Some to Emily.

Emily opened the one with her name on it and read silently. Her lip trembled, but she didn’t stop.

Beau unfolded his own.

“I don’t know how to be a parent, but God, I try. I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I feel like I’m standing outside the window of your life, knocking, waiting to be let in. But I love you. Even if you don’t call me mom. I love you like you’re mine. I just want you to know that before it’s too late.”

He didn’t realize he was crying until Emily reached over and touched his arm.

“She was,” Emily whispered. “She was inside the window. I just didn’t say it enough.”

“You don’t have to,” Beau said softly. “She knew. We both knew.”

There was more in the box.

A cheap friendship bracelet Emily had made at summer camp. A movie stub from their first night out as a family, crumpled and nearly unreadable. A lipstick-stained napkin from the bar where Beau proposed—she’d drawn a little heart on it while tipsy, and he’d saved it without telling her.

At the bottom was a flash drive labeled “DO NOT WATCH UNLESS YOU MISS ME (you will).”

Beau and Emily looked at each other, then plugged it into the laptop.

The screen lit up.

Y/N appeared, slightly out of focus, sitting on their old porch swing in the fading light. Her hair was in a messy bun, no makeup, wearing Beau’s flannel.

“Okay,” she said, laughing. “If you’re watching this, I’ve either died, vanished, or gone full apocalypse prepper and you’re looting my stuff.”

Emily covered her mouth, tears welling up again.

Y/N looked into the camera, eyes soft. “I just wanted to say this. I love you both. I’m not always good at showing it, but you two are the only thing in this damn world that ever made me feel like I belonged somewhere.”

She paused, as if composing herself. “Emily, don’t let the world make you hard. You’re tougher than you think—but softness, that’s your strength too. Beau… if you’re crying, I swear to God I’m gonna haunt you. Also, stop drinking straight from the milk jug, it’s gross.”

Beau let out a laugh that cracked in the middle. Emily snorted through a tearful smile.

“I love you. Both of you. You made my life bigger than I ever expected. That’s all I needed. That’s all I wanted. Take care of each other.”

The screen faded to black.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Then Emily leaned her head on Beau’s shoulder. “You think we’ll ever stop missing her?”

“No,” Beau said quietly. “But I think… someday it’ll hurt a little less. And maybe, instead of breaking us, it’ll remind us how lucky we were.”

They sat there surrounded by memories—by pieces of Y/N’s laughter, her love, her irreverence and her fierce loyalty—and for the first time, the silence didn’t feel empty.

It felt like presence.

Like she hadn’t really left at all.

[writtenbyhollywood]

omg this is by far my favorite acc! Could u do a part 2 of take one,forever? Set in the future when they’re married. Reader left the show in the early seasons but came back again towards the end.

But shes now married to Jensen. And they really act like those fun married couples. Maybe they even bring they’re kids on set sometimes ?

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ take one, forever²,

summary. you were once the star of the tvshow supernatural, alongside jared and jensen. eventually, you quit the show but you'll come to find out that a decade later, no much has changed.

pairing. jensen ackles x actress!reader genre. extra fluff!!

wordcount. 681

notes / warnings. oh, to be jensen's wife 🤭 thank you for the request sweets!

ᯓ★ read part 1

Years later, the forest's still freezing.

You’d think they’d have figured out how to warm up a damn set by now, but no—Vancouver’s still doing its icy, pine-scented thing. Only difference?

Now you’ve got his jacket and his ring.

“Careful,” Jensen calls from across the clearing, “you’re about to bust your ass on that moss.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

He laughs—deep, warm, easy. That laugh you’ve known for over a decade now. “Promises, promises.”

You flip him off, and he winks back like the absolute menace he is.

They talked you into coming back for the final season—“full circle,” they’d said. “Nostalgia,” they said. Really, it was just Jensen, smirking over his coffee one morning and going:

“C’mon, babe. Just one more run. For old time’s sake. Plus, the kids’ll love seeing Mom on screen again. We can make it a family adventure.”

And like always—like always—you’d caved.

So now you’re here. On the same damn show you started all those years ago. Same woods. Same demons. Only now, there’s a wedding band on your finger and a pair of tiny boots sitting by the craft services table, covered in mud and jelly donut glaze.

“Mom!” comes a squeaky voice from behind you.

Speak of the devil.

You turn just in time to see your youngest barreling toward you, arms outstretched like a missile of pure, joyful chaos.

“Hey,” you laugh, bending to catch her. “What happened to staying with Daddy?”

“She wanted gummy bears,” Jensen answers, jogging over with your son balanced on his hip and a juice pouch between his teeth. “And apparently, that was more important than, you know, listening to instructions.”

“She’s got your stubborn streak,” you tease.

Jensen huffs, shifting the weight of your son, who’s now trying to unzip his coat with sticky fingers. “She’s got your everything, babe. I’m just along for the ride.”

You brush a kiss to her forehead, holding her close while she babbles about a giant fake demon head she saw near the props truck.

Jensen watches you the whole time—fond, smug, like he still can’t believe this is real. Like he’s still falling for you even with a diaper bag slung over one shoulder and applesauce on his hoodie.

“Y’know,” he says casually, “you in flannel again is doing things to me.”

You arch a brow. “Jensen.”

“What? I’m just saying. It’s nostalgic. Sentimental. Romantic.”

“It’s sticky,” you deadpan, pointing to a spot on your sleeve where your daughter’s wiped her face. “And covered in god-knows-what.”

“Still hot.”

You laugh, trying to swat him, but he leans in and steals a kiss anyway—quick and warm, just enough to make your heart flutter. Ten years in, and the man still kisses you like it’s the first time.

“Okay, people!” the AD shouts. “Places for rehearsal!”

“Duty calls,” you sigh, passing your daughter off to Jensen and smoothing your hair as best you can.

“You got this,” he says, squeezing your hand before he steps back. “Go remind them who the real badass of this show is.”

You flash him a grin, cheeks flushed, heart full. “Try not to get upstaged by a toddler while I’m gone.”

“She already owns me. It’s over.”

As you walk toward set, flannel flapping behind you, you hear Jensen whisper something to the kids. Then a tiny voice calls out:

“Go, Mom! Kick the monster’s butt!”

You look back—and there they are. Your whole world, waving at you with gummy-sticky fingers and juice-stained smiles.

God, how did this all happen?

How did freezing woods and flirty banter become marriage and two wild kids and a love story still unfolding?

You don’t know.

But as you step back in front of the camera, same forest, same show, same smirk from across the set—you know one thing for sure:

You’d do it all over again.

Even the Wendigo.

Maybe.

If there’s coffee.

And if Jensen promises to keep looking at you like that—like you’re still the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

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

[writtenbyhollywood]

A Goodnight Kiss

Jake Hill Conley x Lisbon!reader

Fluff!

Warnings:none

Literature class was always quiet.

Jake always sat two rows behind her. Always. He’d watch her narrow shoulders, the way her fingers nervously flipped through pages, the pen between her lips when she was deep in thought. She barely spoke to anyone, always heading off to be with her sisters during breaks. She didn’t really have any friends.

Whenever Jake saw her, she had a book in her hands—reading like she was starving for it, like the real world didn’t matter.

That Tuesday, the teacher handed out a sheet of paper with a bold title across the top: Assignment – Psychological and Social Analysis of “Carrie.”

“Pairs. Find your partner and turn it in by next Tuesday. That’s it, you’re dismissed,” he said, and the room exploded like someone had lit a match in gasoline—whispers, chairs scraping, people rushing out the door.

Jake watched her get up from her desk calmly, her expression as quiet and distant as always.

She didn’t have friends. No one really dared to talk to a Lisbon—people were always whispering about them, saying Cecilia’s name like it was some kind of cursed spell. But Jake didn’t believe in curses.

So, he left the classroom and searched through the crowd for her locker. When he found her, she was standing in front of it, sliding a couple of books inside. She took a deep breath, like the weight of the day was pressing down on her back.

He walked up slowly and tapped her shoulder lightly with the tip of his finger.

“Y/n, right?” he asked, and she turned to look at him, slowly, like she wasn’t even sure who she was.

She nodded.

“Wanna partner up? I mean—for the Lit project,” he said, stumbling over his words, his voice catching awkwardly in his throat.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. For a second, Jake wanted to say: “I’m not like the other guys—I don’t care what your room looks like”, but he stayed quiet.

“Sure,” she said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips—and it warmed something inside his chest he hadn’t realized was cold.

“Well… you could come over to my place to work on it. I can talk to my mom,” she said in a shy, quiet voice, and Jake had to lean in to hear her over the noise of the hallway.

“Oh—yeah! Yeah, that’d be great. Is tomorrow afternoon okay? Or whenever you’re free,” he said quickly, trying not to sound too eager. She gave a soft laugh, and he smiled too, noticing how her cheeks scrunched a little when she laughed.

“Tomorrow afternoon works. Jake, right?”

He nodded, still smiling.

She nodded back, her gentle eyes meeting his for a moment.

Then the school bell rang—sharp, loud—snapping them both out of the calm bubble they’d somehow slipped into.

“See you tomorrow, then,” she said, closing her locker with a soft click before disappearing into the hallway crowd.

Jake stood there for a few seconds, staring down the hall like he’d just woken up from a really good dream.

The Lisbon house was quiet.

The other sisters had gone out to help Mrs. Lisbon with a church bazaar. Mr. Lisbon stayed in the living room, watching a football game with the volume turned low. And, by some divine miracle, Jake was alone with Y/n Lisbon.

They were in the bedroom the sisters shared. The atmosphere in the room was both melancholic and delicately feminine.

If the boys at school knew he was there, they would definitely crowd around him the next day, asking stupid questions about what he’d seen inside—what the Lisbon girls’ room was like, what kind of dust mites lived in their pillows.

But Jake wouldn’t be able to answer any of that.

Because the only thing he could see was her.

Y/n Lisbon, sitting cross-legged on a faded floral bedspread, her hair loose in a graceful mess of strands, flipping through the pages of Carrie like she was searching for something very specific.

“Well… we can start the social analysis now,” she said softly, eyes on the marked page and the notebooks spread out before her.

Jake blinked, snapping out of his thoughts.

“Right, yeah,” he replied too quickly, shifting awkwardly and trying to look more focused than he actually was.

She glanced at him for a moment. A tiny smile—barely there, without showing her teeth—touched her lips and faded just as naturally as it had come. Then she turned her attention back to the book, flipping a few more pages with delicate fingers.

“Have you ever read Sylvia Plath?” she asked, gently, still not looking up from the paper.

Jake took half a second to respond, more absorbed in how the light from the window traced her profile like a charcoal sketch.

“Just The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. It was required reading at another school… but I liked it,” he admitted, a little embarrassed.

Y/n nodded slightly, like she approved.

“That’s a start.”

Jake found himself smiling for no reason. Everything about her seemed so absurdly calm and, at the same time, so full of something he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was sadness. Maybe strength. Maybe both.

He watched her silently, eyes tracing the line of her nose, the curve of her lashes, the way her brow furrowed just a little when she was concentrating.

She was like some ancient sculpture—one you ache to touch but know you can’t. She had the beauty of something sacred, though not unreachable.

He felt like he could really love her, if she let him.

“What is it?” she asked suddenly, still not looking directly at him.

Jake blinked, caught in the act.

“Nothing… it’s just… you seem to really like books.”

She gave another half-smile and murmured,

“I do… I like the feeling of being a little outside of reality,” she said, straightening her posture and letting out a small sigh.

Jake nodded, and they returned to the assignment.

Even though, for Jake, it was impossible to focus on writing—

—not with her soft voice reading lines from the book like a lullaby.

Jake walked down the stairs of the house.

Outside, the crickets had begun to sing, and the sky had turned a deepening shade of blue as the first stars timidly began to shimmer. The Lisbon house was glowing from within, its lamps casting a warm, golden light that softened every corner.

The sisters had returned from the church bazaar with Mrs. Lisbon and were now helping prepare dinner — light footsteps, hushed voices, and the scent of something baking in the oven filled the air.

She was walking ahead of him, guiding him to the front door. With each step, Jake watched how the lamplight spilled across her hair, making each strand glint like gold.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” she asked softly, eyes on her own feet, her arms gently crossed behind her back, as if trying to hide the nervous energy in them.

“Don’t worry… I promised my mom I’d be back in time for dinner,” Jake replied, now standing too close, feeling the air between them grow thick and quiet.

He opened the front door slowly, letting the cool night breeze brush across his face.

Before stepping out, he turned to her one last time. He smiled without showing teeth and ran his hands down the front of his jeans, trying to calm himself.

“Well… I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said, trying to sound casual, even though his heart was pounding from the way her eyes looked at him.

She gave a soft laugh, and the sound stayed lodged in his chest.

Y/n glanced over her shoulder, checking that no one was around. Then she turned back to him — slowly — and stepped a little closer.

Their breaths met in the chilly air of the open door. Without saying anything, she leaned in and placed a feather-light kiss — just off to the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night,” she whispered, pulling back slowly, her eyes shining beneath the warm light of the house.

Jake stood frozen, eyes slightly wide, lips parted. But then he collected himself, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“G…good night. See you tomorrow,” he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.

She smiled back — a smile that showed the most beautiful teeth he had ever seen — and gently closed the door, leaving behind only her light scent and a racing heart beating on the other side.

[writtenbyhollywood]

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. 

[writtenbyhollywood]

[writtenbyhollywood]

⋆˙⟡ fbi, open up!

summary. the fbi shows up at your door. these agents are a little... unconventional.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x civil!reader genre. idek. just weird

wordcount. 736

notes / warnings. trauma and early seasons typical dean winchester flirting. beware.

You don’t even get the door halfway open before a badge flashes in your face.

“FBI,” the taller one says, all business. He’s got that too-handsome-to-trust kind of face—sharp jaw, kind eyes, hair that’s one shake away from a shampoo commercial.

The other one’s already sizing you up, less polite about it. His badge lowers slower. “Agent Bonham,” he adds, smirking. “This is my partner, Agent Allman.”

You blink. “Like... the Allman Brothers?”

Agent Bonham—clearly the cockier one—winks. “Big fans.”

You lean on the doorframe, still in your pajamas, coffee half-made in the kitchen, murder still raw in your mind. “Right. The FBI’s really sending classic rock stans door to door now?”

Agent Allman—Sam, according to the badge he flashed—gives his partner a look. You file it away as interesting, not incriminating. Yet.

“We just need to ask a few questions,” Sam says, voice calm, like he’s afraid you might bolt. He’s not wrong.

You step aside. “If it gets you out of the hallway before Mrs. Crenshaw across the hall calls the HOA about ‘suspicious men,’ go for it.”

They walk in. Dean—aka Agent Bonham, which you're almost 100% sure is under a fake name—starts nosing around like he owns the place. Sam stays close to the door, watching you like he’s already piecing you together.

“I already talked to the cops,” you say, flopping onto the couch. “Said everything I knew.”

“Humor us,” Sam replies. And the way he says it... it doesn’t sound like protocol. It sounds like concern. Or curiosity. Or both.

You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Fine. My boss—Greg—was a nightmare. Walked around like he was untouchable. Screamed at interns, made everyone miserable. So yeah, not exactly mourning him.”

Dean raises a brow. “So you don’t miss him.”

“About as much as I miss dial-up internet.”

He snorts. Sam’s lips twitch but don’t crack a smile.

“But,” you add, voice dropping as the memory crawls its way back to the front of your mind, “what I saw... it wasn’t right.”

Dean straightens a little. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you say slowly, as if saying it out loud makes it sound crazier, “I saw something pull him out of his office. Something tall. Human-shaped. But the sounds it made—”

You pause, trying to find the words that don’t make you sound insane. “They weren’t normal.”

Sam leans in, eyes soft. “What kind of sounds?”

“Like... clicking. Bones snapping. Wet breathing. Like a person with a broken rib cage trying to growl.” You shiver. “It didn’t talk. Not exactly. But it wasn’t quiet either.”

The agents exchange a look. Quick. Subtle. But definitely something.

You catch it. Your stomach knots. “You’ve heard that before?”

Dean’s mouth opens, then closes again. Sam gives you a careful shrug. “We’ve heard a lot of things.”

“Okay, well, I’m not saying it was some... demon monster whatever, alright? I’m just saying... it was weird. And I’m still trying to convince myself it had a really bad cold and I was in shock. That’s all.”

Dean gives a low whistle. “That’s some shock.”

“You weren’t there,” you shoot back.

There’s a silence. Not awkward. Just loaded.

Then Dean, ever the charmer, drops onto the arm of the couch. “So, you got a boyfriend who can vouch for you that night? Alibis are stronger when they come from someone who doesn’t sleep in your succulent shelf.”

You raise a brow. “That’s your opener? Really?”

Sam coughs. You glance at him, and he looks away—but not fast enough to hide the smirk threatening his lips.

You point between them. “Do all FBI agents flirt with witnesses?”

“Only the hot ones,” Dean says, deadpan.

Sam mutters, “Unbelievable.”

You laugh—finally. The sound feels foreign in your throat, like it doesn’t quite belong yet. But it’s there.

Dean winks. “Hey, if you remember anything else, call us. Day or night. Especially night.”

You snort. “That sounded less FBI, more Tinder.”

But when Sam hands you the card, his fingers brush yours. Just a little. Just enough.

He doesn’t say much, but the look he gives you? It sticks.

And you? You’re still not convinced the thing you saw was real. Still clinging to logic. But something about them feels just as strange.

You watch them go, heart racing a little faster than you’d like.

You want to believe it’s just adrenaline.

But part of you—small, scared, stubborn—knows better.

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

[writtenbyhollywood]

Unexpected Surprise

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Summary: The reader surprises her husband during one of their conventions for the final season of Supernatural.

Warnings: None

MASTERLIST

----

From where I stood backstage I could hear the crowd of Supernatural fans burst into laughter over the story Jensen was telling them about that involved our four year old son tumbling off his bike down the little hill at the park near our house. I didn’t have to pull the curtain to see his reactions as there was a monitor back here and judging by the grin on his face I could tell what was coming next.

“So now Miles is at the bottom of the hill quiet as a lamb and I kid you not, this was Y/N’s reaction. OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, MILES!” Jensen was now out of his seat mimicking the way I chased after Miles that day which only sent the crowd into another fit of laughter.

“Oh hell no, can I have a mic?”

The thing is neither Jensen nor Jared knew that I hopped on a flight to come to their con in Vancouver so me stepping on stage is bound to take them both by surprise. The assistant handed me a microphone and I climbed the steps to the stage. The crowd cheered even more when I came into their line of sight.

“Meanwhile this was Jensen, HE’S GOT HIS HELMET ON HE’S FINE!” I tried to drop my voice to mimic him and he immediately turned to look at me with such disbelief written on his face.

“Y/N!” Jared pushed Jensen out of the way on his way over to me; the tall beast picked me up with his arms wrapped around me in a bone crushing hug, if nobody that knew a thing about us they’d swear that the moose was my husband with his enthusiasm.

“I haven’t seen my beautiful wife in two weeks and you pushed me out of the way to get to her first. Put her down now!” Jared turned to look at him and from the monitor on this side of the stage I could see Jared sticking his tongue out at his friend refusing to put me down just yet.

“I haven’t seen her in three weeks so shh.” Since my arms were squished to my sides I couldn’t do anything more than stick my face into the crook of his neck which had the fans cooing at the sight.

“I missed you too Jared, now put me down, the air is thin up here.” Finally giving in, Jared placed my feet back onto the ground and steadied me only for my husband to do the same thing but this time I wrapped my legs around his waist and my hands immediately found their place in his grown out hair.

“Hi handsome.”

“Hi beautiful lady, this is a nice surprise.” Jensen took a couple steps back to where his stool is and the way that he did it so effortlessly too had the crowd whistling suggestively. Once I was seated Jensen brought his mic up to his mouth.

“Get your minds out of the gutter.” Although he used his dad voice, his face was saying the complete opposite, happy with the fact that his fans now had a memory that they’re never going to forget.

“Where’s my kid?”

“He’s napping in one of the rooms backstage, where are my manners? Hi everyone, how are we doing tonight?” The fans cheered once more and I took that as a good sign. Jensen nudged my legs open so that he could stand between them with his back to me and just as if we were home, I didn’t hesitate to rake my fingers up his back and through his hair. By the look on Jensen’s face, the fans could tell how much he had missed my touch and if we’re being honest, I missed having him around too.

“Look at him, he’s like a puppy.” Jared shouldn’t be the one to talk when he himself is a sucker for head scratches.

“Says the actual puppy.”

“You know Jay I’ve gotta say, you do look extra handsome today. Dark colours really look good on you.” The olive green shirt and his black jeans was an excellent pairing.

“Thanks darlin and you look gorgeous as always. Alright, back to why we’re really here. See, my wife shows up here and threw me off, we were taking questions. Who’s the next lucky person?” Jared squinted his eyes to search the crowd until his eyes landed on the Castiel cosplayer.

“You in the trench coat, let us haveth thy question.”

“Uh hi, my name’s Sara and my question isn’t about the show but it’s for the Ackles.” A woman’s voice filled the auditorium and by her tone I could guess what her question was going to be.

“Shoot.”

“What is one thing that you both love that your son does and do you guys plan on having another one?” Jensen dramatically leaned back on me at the second part to her question, he hadn’t voiced his opinion on having another kid running around the house so this should be fun.

“Miles is a mama’s boy and every night he makes sure that Y/N is the one who feeds him his dinner, gives him his bath and cuddles with him until he falls asleep and from my point of view I adore their bond, I think it’s amazing.”

“Miles is at the age now where you know, kids mimic what they see and his new thing is wearing daddy’s hat backwards and he’d get me to fill his sippy cup with juice or water so that he could join Jensen on the couch to watch whatever he’s watching on tv.”

“I actually saw the photo you had posted on Instagram about that and I thought that it was cute, he’s Jensen’s mini-me.”

“Definitely and about baby number two, Y/N and I haven’t discussed it but I’m sure if it does happen we’ll both be over the moon about it.”

I didn’t fly all the way from Texas to Vancouver, Canada to just see Jensen, I came because I had something important to tell him and this lovely lady set it up so nicely for me to break the news.

“You know I’m so glad you said that Jay because we’ve got give or take six months left of being a family of three.” Jensen didn’t fully process my words until the crowd went insane at my announcement. He immediately turned around to face me, shocked by what I said.

“What? You- shut up!”

“Surprise!” He cupped my face in his hands before planting a celebratory kiss on my lips.

“When did you find out?”

“Yesterday and I hopped on a flight first thing this morning to come tell you.” Jared bounded over to wrap his arms around Jensen.

“Congratulations you two!”

“Thank you Jared.”

I didn’t want to take up anymore time on their stage so I quickly kissed Jensen’s cheek and told him that I’ll see him afterwards. I waved to everyone in the crowd on my way off the stage and passed the mic back to the assistant.

For the rest of the panel, the boys messed around on stage and Jensen got a whole lot of congratulations on our growing baby inside of me. Coming closer to the end Miles woke up from his nap and Jay called out for me to rejoin them on stage.

“Daddy!” Miles stretched for his father and Jensen immediately took him from me, happy to finally have his son back in his arms. The band played music to close off the event and some of the other cast members came out on stage to join the fun. With Miles on his hip, Jensen pulled me into his side to kiss me once more in the midst of all that’s going on around us.

Although we hadn’t planned for another one, I have no doubt in my mind that he or she is going to be loved unconditionally by us and by extension, the Supernatural family.

[writtenbyhollywood]

More teen!dean please ?

⋆˙⟡ milkshakes & car dates,

summary. skipping school with dean is always a great idea

pairing. teen!dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 895

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

The school day drags like wet paint.

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

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

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

You nearly drop your pencil.

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

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

And honestly? You are.

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

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

And weirdly… you kind of think he means it.

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

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

Your girl. Your stomach flips.

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

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

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

“No I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had fun,” you say softly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Best. Shake. Ever,” he says.

“You didn’t even finish it.”

He grins wider. “Didn’t need to.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say.

He smirks. “Not if I see you first.”

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

[writtenbyhollywood]

can u make being lee byung hun’s young non-showbiz gf,, but the oc is like rlly rllly prettyyy ( prolly like alexandra saint mleux she’s so gorg) so there are artists/influencers that are trying to hit on her,, but then lbh posted their pics n like hard launched her n stuff to show that she has a bf ??? 😭🥵🤍

MINE | LEE BYUNG-HUN

PAIRING. lee byung-hun x fem!reader

─────౨ৎ─────

yourusername

liked by kyliejenner and others

yourusername siri play guess by Charli xcx

view comments

user6 yo are u single?

randomuser @/user6 interesting thing to say

ynswifey I would love to call u mine

tom.m107 answer ur dms

elliot_hockey22 god damn

ynandmore why r there so many men here omg

user @/ynandmore Frl get outta here

user39 petition for u to be more active on ig

yourusername

liked by byunghun0712 and 45, 298 others

yourusername gold jewelry is *chefs kiss*

view comments

missynandmore thank you for feeding us more content

userrro barking rn

emma.89t where is your top from?

ynswifey comme back home. the kids miss you

zam_129 4+4

jessw_wch I missed your posts

yourusername @/jessw_wch I missed doing this

nate.trmly 🔥🔥

yourusername

liked by emmachamberlain and 78, 243 others

yourusername turn that shi up

view comments

chase.acheck yo when r u inviting me 😂?

girlworld @/chase.acheck keep dreaming dude

byunghun0712 ❤️

liked by author

leo777.champ anybody know if she’s single?

user1 @/leo777.champ even if she was I don’t think she would date u

trenttkwn you fine asf

girlblogger @/trenttkwn the testosterone in these comments is insane

yourusername

liked by ynfanpage and 69, 539 others

yourusername gateaway car

view comments

nicholasgalitzine 🔥

mel.and.issa queen

jack00s where u from

byunghun0712 @/jack00s she doesn’t want to talk to you

jack00s @/byunghun0712 who tf even r u? acting like you know her

missynyln AHHHH IM GONNA HAVE A HEART ATTACK

user45 what cam do u use???

yourbestfriendsuser kiss me

yourusername @/yourbestfriendsuser come here 💋

byunghun0712

liked by yourusername and 49, 109 others

byunghun0712 never been more thankful and lucky to have you

view comments

user wait what

yourfriendsuser GOD I LOVE YOU BOTH

ynandmore this is news to me

girlblogger @/ynandmore to all of us actually

yourusername IM THE ONE THATS LUCKY

liked by author

nicholasalexanderchavez @/yourusername happy for you, I think