yolgart

[yolgart]

dealer!rafe takes floridakilos!reader shopping for the first time

it took him too long to notice. when he did, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the shittiest boyfriend alive ; how could he not realise how tense you were? how your arms were turning paler, prickled with gooseflesh? how you were so painfully uncomfortable in your clothes? the same revealing outfits, sheer fabric, that you’d wear during all those meetings.

you twiddled your thumbs in front of the wardrobe, it didn’t take up much space, you didn’t have many clothes. what clothes you did have were skimpy, revealing in a way that left you with hot flashes of discomfort from what you used to do. you’ve got a little white dress on, flowing and sleeveless, dipping down your chest to reveal the expanse of skin that was once littered with purple and yellow marks. chilling breeze, seeping through the open window, travelled from the coast to wrap it’s freezing claws around your legs.

your eyes shifted to the left, to rafe’s side of the closet. bursting at the seams with clothes that would drown you the same way it did that first night he took you here, tugging his hoodie over your head to warm your cold and exposed body. you swallow, trying to muster the courage to ask rafe something that was probably stupid, it felt stupid. but the skin on show was something that you felt disgusted by, a reminder of the life rafe helped you get out of. now, wearing the same clothes felt like a walking nightmare, hands all over your body and money tucked into every crevice. money stained with white snow, cutting lines on your stomach.

“rafe..?” your voice is barely audible, yet his head snaps up immediately, tossing his phone aside as he comes over to you, hands gently running up and down your bare arms, noticing the way you shivered at his touch.

“what’s wrong, baby?” rafe lifts his hands carefully from your arms, trying to settle the jittery feeling he gave you.

“uhm..this is so dumb- i wanted to know if…could i wear your shirt? over my dress?” you manage to ask, albeit timidly, avoiding his eyes completely and staring at a chip in the floorboards beneath your feet. moving automatically, rafe nods, opening his wardrobe doors to reveal the collection of t-shirts, slipping off hangers and shoved into the back of drawers.

“yeah, yeah, ‘course you can. why don’t you uhm, take your pick,” he mutters, guiding you softly to stand in front of the range, hands on your shoulders. faced with the different designs, textures and patterns, you’re stumped, having hoped rafe would just throw something at you. eventually your eyes zoned in on a navy blue shirt, and after multiple beats of silence you asked, unwilling to take it for yourself, “could i have that one..please?”. rafe doesn’t even hesitate, sliding it out of the hanger and tapping underneath your elbow to get you to lift up your arms, pulling the shirt over your head and brushing back your hair when it gets messy. “there..,” he mumbles, “don’t gotta ask next time, you can jus’ take it.”

you nod, hugging the warm fabric closer to yourself, basking in the feeling of it protecting you, an extension of rafe. in the meantime, rafe’s eyes drift to your closet space, barely filled and occupied by clothing too short, nothing warm, nothing that covers your arms or your legs. aching heart, the weight of what you’d been through settling down on him, he shakes his head, cursing himself for ever letting you go this long without proper clothes.

…

next thing you knew, he was leading you to the car, making sure you were okay, seatbelt secured, tucked in properly with a blanket over your legs, before driving off. when he said you were going to the mall, you had assumed it was to buy more clothes. just not for you. maybe rafe needed a new shirt after lending you his, maybe you should have given it back.

you are, however, gladly mistaken.

the moment you enter the bustling place, alive with people who have more spent more money in this place than you’ve ever even had your whole life, you feel out of place. subconsciously stepping closer to rafe, he tucks you under his arm, moving like a man on a mission as he flies past each irrelevant store until he finds one your eyes linger on for even the slightest second.

“wait, i thought we were shoppin’ for you,” you murmur, glancing up at him through innocent doe eyes, and he gives you a lopsided smile and shakes his head.

“nah, baby, i got plenty of clothes, we’re shoppin’ for you,” he smiles, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your head as he navigates you through each rack. happening across a jumper, teddy bear knitted into navy blue, you think it’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt. lost in the feel of pure comfort, you forget to check the price, fingers fumbling with the tag, getting a glance of three digits before a neat dot. the numbers lose clarity the moment the jumper is plucked from the railing, in the hands of rafe who furrows his brows, “watcha lookin’ at that for, baby? ‘s nothing, costs nothing, i’m payin’ so you don’t worry, ‘kay?” he waits expectantly for your little nod, and you comply, letting him wrap his arms around you, jumper in his hand. you try to catch a glimpse of the price a few times but he snatches it away before you can, kissing the top of your head each time with a quiet tut.

you walk out of that one store with three large bags, most of the clothes you merely glanced at and put back, while rafe picked it up again and stuffed it under his arm, dumping it all on the checkout counter at the end. the cashier was so excited to have such a big spender, you could have sworn she started scanning at a faster pace, so you didn’t even have time to object before another lady was folding each item and placing it into one of their paper bags.

this happened again and again. and it kept happening with each clothes store you went into - or rafe ushered you into. he’d buy anything, dismiss your protests when you refused and said, “i really don’t need anymore. in fact, this is all too much rafe, we should return some stuff!” he only kept going through the racks, even when you stopped and stood by the door as if trying to get him to come out too. he’d just hold up the items to you, watching as your eyes brightened, a small smile spreading across his face before he shoved it into the basket.

it didn’t stop there, either. perfume stores. jewellery stores. hair accessory places. shoe stores. handbag galore. he wouldn’t leave until your movements became a bit slow, and you began to sink your back further into his chest, the havoc of the mall beginning to get to you.

guilt was too, eating away at you for letting rafe spend god knows how much on you, not trying harder to stop him.

curled into the passenger seat of the car, vanilla and oreo milkshake cupped in both your hands while rafe loaded the car with the bags, the burden you felt you were being, made you want to be swallowed by the chair. growing up if you even wanted anything for yourself, your father would call you a brat.

you felt like one now.

spoilt rotten, taking advantage of your rich boyfriend.

rafe noticed, of course, when he got in the car how you had changed. you were shy usually, but this was different. in the car there was a discomfort he had tried too hard to get rid of, a guilt emanating from you he loathed. he undid his seatbelt, not yet pulling out the parking lot as he turned his body to you, removing the milkshake from your still hands. icy cold from the condensation, he clasped your fingers in between his palms, tilting his head to catch your eyes. “somethin’ wrong?”

your mouth felt dry. chewing the inside of your cheek raw and shaking your head unconvincingly. rafe dips his head lower to chase your downcast gaze, raising his eyebrows in a silent look of disbelief. “you shouldn’t have spent so much on me,” you mumbled, briefly flicking your eyes up to his, watching them narrow as they shoot back down.

“no, baby, not havin’ none of that shit. i wanted to buy it, you deserved it. i’d buy ya’ more too if you’d let me. can’t have my girl being uncomfortable d’you hear me?” he assured you, tilting your chin up as his thumb swiped over your lower cheek. you nodded, teeth sunk into the plush of your lip, which he then softly probed out with the pad of the same thumb. “good,” he leans forward to kiss your forehead, then nose, revelling in the corner that tips up the edges of your mouth into a sweet smile. “you can still take my clothes though, ya know, your cute in ‘em,” he teased, lightly pinching your cheek before he starts the car.

picking up your milkshake, you start sipping on it again, barely containing your lovesick smile at the thought of rafe actually wanting to take care of you.

[yolgart]

[yolgart]

slapping him saturday

[yolgart]

How it feels to read a really good fic and find the author has dozens more like it 

[yolgart]

young lust, xo | r.c

──𖤐 summary:

“You done tracing your name on me?” Rafe asked with a low voice, and you peered up at him, your lips tugged into a grin.

“Why, you got somewhere else to be?”

OR; losing all your innocence in the backseat

──𖤐 pairing: rafe cameron x reader

──𖤐 warnings: 18+! MDNI, pwp, p in v, sex in a public space (parked car, duh), hints of sacreligious behavior

──𖤐 word count: 1.1k

──𖤐 author’s note: don't know what this is. don't ask me, as usual, I was inspired by a song (it's obviously Diet Pepsi), i (imo) am not the best smut writer, angst is much more my forté, but it had to be written idk, happy dirty reading 👀

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The car was warm, despite the windows being down. A gentle breeze brought fresh air in and a heavy, scent of sex out.

You were laid on the backseat on top of Rafe, your limbs entangled in a way you weren’t sure where he ended and you started. Both of you were starkly nude, with only a small blanket covering your ass, in case an innocent person walked by. Yes, Rafe left the windows down while he fucked you, encouraging you to be as loud as you wanted, but he drew the line at someone seeing you naked. That privilege was his alone.

His finger was drawing circles on your lower back, while you were tracing your name on his chest with your index finger, your nail occasionally clinking against his gold cross chain. It was reflecting your face back at you, with the way it was polished. You had wondered countless times why he wore that, Rafe was probably the least religious person you knew. He said it was because it looked cool, but deep down you knew he liked how it dangled over your face when he was on top. It was kinda sacrilegious, which made it so hot.

“You done tracing your name on me?” Rafe asked with a low voice, and you peered up at him, your lips tugged into a grin.

“Why, you got somewhere else to be?”

Rafe rolled his eyes as he dipped his fingers into the curve above your ass, dragging you up so he could kiss you. You moaned a little into his mouth, your still sensitive cunt rubbing against his already hardening cock. How he managed to recuperate so quickly never failed to surprise you. You learned to stop questioning it, it only made him cockier.

“You ready to go again, baby?” Rafe mumbled against your lips, as you had expected him to. With a small sigh, you pulled away from the kiss to sit up, the blanket on your back sliding down.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?”

The corner of Rafe’s mouth ticked up into a grin as he moved his hands up your body, cupping your breasts gently.

“Can you blame me?” he rumbled, his voice deep with lust. “I mean, look at you.”

You tutted at his compliment, grazing your nails over his chest, without applying any pressure, leaving a pink trail, that quickly faded again.

“Fine,” you sighed, as if you were doing him a favor, before pausing, tacking on a requirement. “Under one condition.”

“Anything.”

Your finger looped around the chain of his necklace. “I wanna wear your necklace.”

Rafe smirked at your request, turning the necklace to unclasp it, before putting it on you. The necklace felt heavy around your neck, the golden cross sitting snugly in the valley of your breasts, where Rafe’s eyes were zeroed in. A woman of your words, you reached behind you to grab his hardened cock, lifting your hips a little before sinking down on him with a small sigh, almost immediately full of him. You were still stretched out from the first time you had fucked, your cunt full of slick. Rafe let out a groan, his hands finding your waist to help you up and down his cock. Moaning, you leaned forward, resting your arms on his chest, your breasts bouncing in his face, the cross chain swinging between them.

“Jesus,” Rafe grunted and now it was your turn to smirk.

“No Jesus here, only me.”

Rafe rolled his eyes at you, his grip on your waist tightening as he snapped up his hips in quick thrusts, his cock driving into you in a brutal pace, surely bruising your cervix.

“Fuck,” you whined, your head bowed down, your body trembling with the pure pleasure of Rafe hiting your sweet spot over and over again.

The sounds coming out of the car were straight up obscene; your moans, mixed with a string of Rafe’s curses and consistent sound of skin slapping skin.

It wasn’t long until you felt the familiar tugging in your belly, your hands finding the rounded curves of Rafe’s shoulders, nails digging into his taut skin.

“You close, yeah?” Rafe groaned out, his rhythm staying constant and even, his brows drawn.

“Yeah, so close,” you whimpered, clenching your thighs, when your orgasm hit you, making your toes curl. Your head tipped back, as you let out a soft moan, the high stretching out with Rafe’s continuous thrusts.

“Fuck baby,” Rafe cursed, before he came, the familiar feeling of his come filling you. His hands held onto you tightly and if it weren’t for that, you’d just flop down on top of him. Instead, he carefully laid you down, his chest still heaving from after the high, the small cross chain stuck between your bodies.

“I can’t go another round,” you warned with a weak voice while you lifted your hips so his soft cock could slip out of you, his come dripping out of your cunt onto his thighs. Rafe only snickered, pushing your sweaty hair out of your face.

“Who said anything about a third round?”

You didn’t even have the energy the glare at him as he gently ran his fingers down your back in soothing patterns, which soon made you doze off. The two of you stayed entangled in each other until the stickiness became too unbearable and you untangled yourself to get dressed. The drive home was uncomfortable, despite the quick wipe down Rafe gave you with some wipes he still had in his car. A shower was much needed, where he was able to slip in a third round, because who were you to turn down lazy shower sex?

You hadn’t even noticed that you were still wearing his necklace, until a couple of days later. It was late in the morning when you woke up, blindly reaching for Rafe on his side of the bed, only to grasp air. Confused, you opened your eyes, looking around for him. It was odd for Rafe to leave the bed without waking you, but he was nowhere to be found.

It took you a second to see the small, velvet blue box on his pillow, a folded note next to it. Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you reached for the note, unfolding it, Rafe’s familiar chicken scratch handwriting on the paper.

So I can have mine back.

His note raised more questions than it answered, so you picked up the small box, opening it just to see your very own gold cross chain sparkling back at you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author's note: so... thoughts?

[yolgart]

can you pleaseee write exbf!rafe whos not over reader?? will come when she calls in the blink of an eye nd stuff ;-;

you call him at 1:42am. no message, no context, no apology. just his name lit up on your screen like a dare. you pull your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. you bury your face into your skin as the phone rings. he answers before the second ring.

“baby?”

rafe’s already in the truck before you respond. he doesn’t ask where you are because you still haven’t turned off your location since the breakup. he doesn’t ask why you called because he doesn’t need to know, he just needs you to be ok.

every broken sob into the phone is a fragment of his heart shattering. he clenches his jaw and shushes you through the device. he drives 100 in a 35mph zone, cuts off cars like a teenager with a new license, and curses at every red light. his hand is tight on the wheel, teeth sunk into his lip hard enough to draw blood.

he could’ve had his tongue down another girl’s throat and he would’ve dropped everything for you. not just because he’s not over you, but because you’re still his number one priority. and god help the person who tries to mess with you.

you’re sitting on the curb when he pulls up. hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, mascara cracked at the corners. his heart breaks a little. he thinks of every person who could have done this to you and plays out how he’ll kill them.

he kills the engine and steps out of the car. he doesn’t say anything, just scoops you into his big arms and carries you to the passenger’s seat. he buckles your seatbelt for you as tears stream down your face.

when he slides into the driver’s seat and drives. nowhere in particular. just far enough that the silence starts to feel like something warmer than regret. every so often he stares at you. long enough to analyze all your freckles, but short enough to keep the car steady.

“you okay?” he asks after a while. it’s the softest thing he’s said in months. you don’t answer. just lean your head against the window and let the ache breathe for both of you. rafe doesn’t push, doesn’t ask who hurt you this time, or why you didn’t call him sooner. he just keeps driving, hand drifting dangerously close to your thigh, like he’s trying to remember what it felt like to be allowed to touch you without thinking.

and when you finally fall asleep, head tilting toward his shoulder like instinct, he lets you. it’s the closest he’s been to whole in weeks, and he’d rather shatter all over again than miss it.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece

[yolgart]

AHHHHHHHHH need more corporate!reader and blue collar!rafe. i'm melting 🫶🏻

the other side II

part 1 -> here

absolutely love writing for these 2

You don’t expect to see him.

Not here. Not in your world. Not in the steel-and-glass quiet of your twenty-fourth-floor office where everything is curated and clean and the elevator dings politely when it opens.

But there he is.

Standing just past reception, holding a paper bag with a grease stain near the bottom, wearing boots that scuff the marble floor and a button-down that’s not quite buttoned right.

Your assistant, Alexa, doesn’t know what to do with him.

You watch from your office as she leans forward, smiling nervously, gesturing toward you. Rafe doesn’t seem fazed. He nods once, then glances through the glass wall of your office like he’s already seen you.

Like he knew exactly where you’d be. You open the door before she can buzz and he grins when he sees you. Not cocky. Just easy. Warm.

“Afternoon, corporate.”

You blink. “You… brought lunch?”

“Looks that way.”

He steps in like he belongs, and your office shrinks around him. He’s too broad for the doorframe. Smells like summer air and engine oil. You suddenly feel very aware of your own reflection in the glass, the high collar of your blouse, the pin still holding your hair back, the way your heels echo on the tile when you shift your weight.

He glances around briefly then looks back at you. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your Wall Street wizardry or whatever it is you do up here.”

“Strategic brand management,” you correct, though your voice softens against your will.

He holds out the bag. “Figured you probably forgot to eat. Looked like the type.”

You take it. It’s warm.

Your fingers brush his again. You wish they didn’t always feel like that, so solid, so sure. You swallow.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say. “I only brought you lunch to say thank you. It wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t an invitation?” he finishes, one brow lifted.

You flush. “I just meant it wasn’t… some exchange. You don’t have to match it.”

Rafe shrugs. “I know.”

“Then why?”

He tilts his head, smile faint but real.

“Wanted to.”

You hold his gaze. He doesn’t look away.

And maybe it’s something in the steadiness of his voice, or the way he’s here, here, in your world, where everything is filtered and scripted and safe, but your heart does that thing again. That hitch. That skip.

You glance down at the bag in your hands. “Let me guess. The same sandwich I brought for you?”

“Actually,” he says, looking suspiciously proud, “I asked the girl at the counter what you like to eat.”

You look up.

He smirks. “She said quinoa.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. Full and real and startled.

He grins. “That laugh just made my whole week, by the way.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You keep saying that,” he says, stepping back toward the door. “And yet…”

“And yet?”

Rafe turns, hand on the door handle, half in shadow and half lit by the sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“And yet you keep letting me in.”

The quiet stretches. You don’t fill it. He watches you. Thumb tapping once against the door.

Then, voice easy: “You busy Friday night?”

Your mouth parts slightly. “Why?”

He shrugs, all nonchalance. But there’s something behind it, something careful. Intentional.

“Thought you might wanna trade boardrooms for bonfires. Beer instead of your sad little lemon water.”

You raise a brow. “You’re asking me out.”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I am.”

You fold your arms. Try to look disapproving. “Was the quinoa a bribe?”

“Only a little.”

You should say no. You don’t belong in his world. He doesn’t belong in yours.

But you think of the way he said your name that first time, like it wasn’t just something you told him but something he’d kept. The way his hands are always a little dirty, but they always, always show up holding something gentle.

You nod. Slowly. “Pick me up at eight.”

He smiles.

And for the first time, he doesn’t call you corporate.

He just says your name.

Soft. Like he’s been waiting.

You almost expect him not to show. Not because you think he’d flake, he wouldn’t, but because you’re not sure this part of your life is real yet. The him part. But at 8:00 sharp, your phone buzzes.

I’m here.

And you don’t even have time to think before your heart leaps in your chest. You spot him from the window first. Leaning against his truck, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bouquet that looks a little too wild, like maybe he grabbed it from some roadside stand five minutes ago. The stems are uneven. The paper’s crooked. It’s perfect.

You smooth your dress one more time, something soft, not corporate, and make your way out.

The moment his gaze catches yours, he goes utterly still.

And then, he smiles. Slow. Helpless.

“Jesus,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Look at you.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck. “You clean up well yourself.”

He grins, but there’s a flicker of nerves behind it, like this matters more than he knows how to show.

“These are for you,” he adds, gently thrusting the flowers forward. “They, uh… don’t match your usual vibe, but—”

You take them gently, fingers brushing his. “I love them.”

Something in him eases. He looks like he might melt, right there on the sidewalk.

You expect the diner. A dive bar. Something casual. Instead, he surprises you. Twenty minutes out of town, you pull up to a tiny old greenhouse that’s been converted into a little café, half garden, half glass walls, strung with warm fairy lights and flickering candles.

You glance at him, stunned. He watches your reaction like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

“You said you liked surprises,” he says quietly. “Figured you deserved somethin’ good.”

You can’t speak for a beat.

Because no one’s ever done this for you, not like this. Not so carefully. Not so… earnest. And it’s in the way he holds the door for you. The way he looks at you the whole time, even when the hostess tries to make polite small talk. The way he pulls your chair out, waits until you’re settled before he sits down. Like this is the most important thing he’s done in years. You talk over flickering candlelight, the warm scent of herbs and woodsmoke in the air. The stars outside blur against the glass.

He barely touches his drink. Barely looks away from you.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he says softly at one point.

You tilt your head. “Which part?”

“That you shouldn’t have to shrink to fit anywhere.” His voice is rough, quiet. “You—you walk into a room and the whole damn place should make room for you. I see that every time I look at you.”

Your breath catches and he watches you like he can’t believe you’re really here. Like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he looks away. And then softer, more unsure: “Do… do you even know what you’re doin’ to me right now?”

Your heart stumbles.

“Rafe,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” His voice is hoarse.

“I think you’re doing the same thing to me.”

When he walks you to your door hours later, his hand hovers at your lower back, not possessive. Protective. Like he’d break himself in half before letting anything happen to you.You turn to face him, the door at your back. His gaze drops to your lips, then lifts. And God, the way he looks at you, like you’re the first good thing he’s ever had the courage to want.

“I was scared,” he admits softly. “You coulda had anyone, sweetheart. You still could.”

You shake your head. “I wanted you.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Then hardens, turns to purpose.

He steps closer, tilts his head. “You sure?”

“Very sure.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not rough. Not wild. It’s reverent. Like a vow. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“You just tell me when you want more, baby,” he whispers. “I’ll be here.”

And somehow, you know he means every word.

Taglist (tagged anyone asking for more of these two): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf,

[yolgart]

WHY are all my friends SCATTERED ACROSS THE WORLD and not IN MY HOUSE for a SLEEPOVER

[yolgart]

5 LIL' THINGS

Rafe does as your bf...

-> Rafe x F!Reader

intro

There were a lot of things people said about Rafe Cameron.

Most of them weren’t nice.

Words like reckless, selfish, and volatile were tossed around with such regularity you’d think they were stitched into his DNA.

And maybe some of that was true. He could be a pain in the ass, even on a good day. But then there were the other things.

The things no one talked about.

Like how he’d tilt his head just slightly when he was pretending not to care but actually cared more than he’d ever admit. Or how he’d mutter something sarcastic to cover up the fact that his eyes softened whenever he looked at you. The kind of things that didn’t make headlines but stayed tucked away in stolen moments and quiet gestures.

Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t a perfect boyfriend. But if you paid attention, he was so much better than perfect.

He was Rafe.

And sometimes, that meant big, messy declarations of love. But most of the time? It was the little things. The ones that slipped through the cracks but left their mark anyway. The kind of things you couldn’t forget, even if you tried.

1 | Midnight Runs for Ice Cream

It started as an offhand comment. You were sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, mumbling something about how a bowl of chocolate ice cream would fix everything wrong with the world. You didn’t expect Rafe to hear it, let alone act on it.

But twenty minutes later, he was pulling up in his truck, headlights slicing through the darkness outside your window.

“Get in,” he called, leaning out of the driver’s side with his trademark smirk. His hair was messy like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his hoodie hung loosely on his frame, but there was something about the way he looked at you: like he’d move mountains just because you said you were craving dessert.

You didn’t need convincing.

In the car, it took all of five minutes for an argument to break out over toppings.

“Hot fudge is the only acceptable option,” you insisted, crossing your arms dramatically.

Rafe scoffed, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Please. Caramel’s where it’s at. You just don’t have taste.”

“Oh, I have taste,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes. “You’re the one with the palate of a toddler.”

He glanced over, his smirk widening. “Toddler, huh? That’s bold coming from someone who’s about to order sprinkles.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “And don’t even bother denying it. I already know exactly what you’re getting.”

The audacity.

“You don’t know me, Cameron.”

“Sure I do.” His voice was low, teasing. “Chocolate ice cream, hot fudge, and a mountain of sprinkles.”

And, annoyingly, he was right.

By the time you got back to your place, the ice cream was already melting, but neither of you cared. You leaned against the counter, savoring each bite like it was heaven in a cup. Meanwhile, Rafe stayed perched a few feet away, one hip propped against the edge, arms crossed casually.

He wasn’t eating anything. He never did. But his eyes lingered on you, soft and warm in a way that felt unguarded, like the weight of the world didn’t matter for a little while.

“Why are you staring?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I’m not,” he muttered, looking away, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin.

But he was.

And even though he’d deny it later, you knew that Rafe loved these moments.

Just you, the quiet, and the faint hum of the world outside.

2 | Personal Handyman

It was a lazy afternoon when you casually mentioned the faucet in the kitchen was leaking again. You didn’t think much of it. It was a small problem, something you’d fix when you got around to it. It wasn’t worth stressing over.

But apparently, Rafe thought otherwise.

You were in the living room when you heard the sound of his truck pulling up outside. A moment later, there was a knock at the door, followed by the familiar voice of Rafe Cameron calling your name, low and a little rough.

When you opened the door, he was standing there, toolbox in hand, looking like he’d just walked off a worksite.

“Uh… what are you doing here?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fixing your sink,” he said matter-of-factly, brushing past you and making his way to the kitchen without waiting for permission.

“Rafe, I didn’t-”

He cut you off with a wave of his hand. “You mentioned it. I’ll take care of it.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the way he just acted, like it was no big deal. But you knew better.

Rafe wasn’t exactly Handy Manny. But for some reason, when it came to you, he’d drop whatever he was doing and show up, ready to tackle whatever needed fixing.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as he knelt down by the sink, inspecting the faucet like he actually knew what he was doing. It was kind of endearing, watching him concentrate.

He grumbled to himself, clearly getting frustrated as he fumbled with the wrench. “This thing’s not going in right…”

You couldn’t resist. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

He shot you a glare over his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

It took him a bit longer than expected, a few more muttered curses under his breath, but eventually, the leak stopped. He leaned back, wiping his hands on a rag, a proud look on his face.

“Done,” he said, standing up and brushing the dust off his jeans.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, I didn’t think you were the handyman type.”

“I’m not,” he admitted, smirking, wiping his hands one last time. “But I’ll do it for you.”

It wasn’t the words that made your heart skip a beat, it was the sincerity behind them. Because Rafe wasn’t the kind of guy who did things for anyone else. But for you?

Anything.

3 | The Protector

The bonfire crackled, flames dancing in the cool evening air, throwing long shadows across the beach as the sound of waves crashed softly in the background.

Everyone was spread out in small groups, drinks in hand, laughing, talking, and basking in the glow of the fire. It was one of those nights where everyone felt a little too wild, a little too free, but you felt calm. Like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Except... Rafe had been watching you.

Not in the creepy, overbearing way, but in the subtle, Rafe kind of way. He was always nearby, his eyes scanning the crowd, just making sure no one got too close. He made sure you had a drink in your hand, not too much, just enough so you didn’t have to worry about someone else trying to buy you one.

He had a sixth sense for noticing when someone came too close to your space, his jaw tightening just slightly as he made his way over to draw you into a conversation, his hand resting at the small of your back like a silent warning to anyone who might have been eyeing you.

“Got everything you need?” he’d ask, his voice low and steady, as he plopped down next to you.

You grinned, giving him an exaggerated wink. “Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for being my personal bodyguard tonight.”

His lips quirked up at the corner, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I’m always looking out for you." The words felt like more than just an empty promise. They were a truth, simple but intense in the way only Rafe could be.

As the night stretched on, the bonfire began to fade. The crackling wood sounded more like a whisper now, the heat slipping away into the cool night air. You were just about to get up to grab more firewood when you felt a familiar weight settle over your shoulders.

Rafe’s hoodie. You didn’t even have to ask.

You didn’t even notice he’d stood up, not until he returned, draping the fabric over you in one smooth motion. “Don’t want you getting cold,” he muttered, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a second too long, like he was debating whether he should say more. But then he was back to his spot, his eyes scanning the beach again, always on alert, always looking out for you.

"Thanks," you murmured, pulling the hoodie tighter around your frame, the faint scent of his cologne making you smile.

"Anytime," he replied, his voice low, but it was the kind of ‘anytime’ that meant forever.

And that’s exactly how it felt. Forever.

4 | Has Your Back

It was supposed to be a simple night out.

A few drinks, some laughs, the usual. Dinner at a local spot with Rafe and his friends, the kind of casual evening that would slip by unnoticed in the grand scheme of things. But then, Ruthie opened her mouth.

"Honestly," she started, swirling her drink around nonchalantly, "I don't get it. How'd someone like Rafe end up with you?"

The words stung, and you could feel your cheeks flush. Ruthie had that uncanny ability to hit below the belt without even trying. You shot her a sharp look, about to respond, but before you could, Rafe’s demeanor shifted.

One moment he was laughing, holding court with the guys, the next he was leaning in with an icy calmness that made the air around him tighten. His hand shot out, resting protectively on the back of your chair, his body angling just enough to block Ruthie’s view of you.

"Watch it, Ruth," he said, his voice low, but there was an edge to it. "You might wanna take that back before you piss me off."

You could feel his gaze, intense and unwavering, but there was something else behind it. A playful edge that suggested he wasn’t taking Ruthie’s words too seriously, just looking out for you. You swallowed the heat that had risen in your chest, deciding to hold your ground and respond on your own terms.

"I'm not some charity case, Ruth," you shot back, keeping your tone even but firm. "If you’ve got a problem, maybe we can talk about it later."

Rafe’s lips twitched into a barely there smile as he let you handle it. He wasn’t going to fight your battles for you, but the way he hovered, close enough to let everyone know he was ready if things escalated, was enough to settle the tension.

"And just so you know," Rafe added, looking directly at Ruthie with a mockingly sweet tone, "you can keep your thoughts to yourself. I like her just the way she is."

There was a beat of silence, and Ruthie’s eyes narrowed, but she backed off, giving you a pointed look before taking another sip of her drink.

The night resumed, but you could feel Rafe's hand on your back as he leaned into you, giving your shoulder a quick squeeze.

Later, as you and Rafe walked out of the restaurant, he nudged you with a softer grin. "You handled Ruthie pretty well," he said, his voice a little quieter than usual. "Impressive."

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by his sincerity. "You think so?"

Rafe nodded, his gaze softening. "Yeah. She can be a lot, but you didn't back down. I respect that."

You smiled, feeling a warmth you weren’t expecting. "Thanks, Rafe."

He pulled you a little closer, his arm around your shoulders. "Anytime. I’ve got your back." And in that moment, it was clear.

His admiration for you was genuine, and he'd always be there, quietly protective in his own way.

5 | More Than Words

After a long, draining day, you stumbled through the front door, exhaustion weighing heavily on you. The world felt too loud, too overwhelming, and you just wanted to escape for a while.

To your surprise, Rafe was already on the couch, his laptop resting in his lap as he looked up at you, eyes softening the second he saw how tired you were.

Without a word, he set the laptop aside, his usual cocky demeanor gone. He just knew.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

He didn’t need to.

Moving toward you, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you onto the couch, guiding you gently between his legs, holding you like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. His hand softly brushed through your hair, the quiet comfort of his touch calming the chaos of your mind. He didn’t need to say anything; his presence was enough.

"Hey," his voice was quiet, soft against your ear. "I know today was tough."

You nodded, leaning your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. He didn’t try to fix anything. He just held you, grounding you with his steady presence. His fingers found yours, the simple act of holding your hand more meaningful than any words could be.

In the silence, you realized something: with all the messiness inside him, all the brokenness he carried, Rafe knew how to find peace in moments like this.

And in this small, quiet space, you found it too.

Wrapped in his arms, the weight of the world seemed a little less heavy.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

[yolgart]

the other side

corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

You don’t notice him at first.

You’re too busy swearing at your flat tire and digging through your bag with growing frustration, nails clicking against your phone as the screen flashes no signal for the third time. Your blazer’s too warm, your heels are killing you, and the corner you’re stranded on smells faintly of motor oil and something vaguely fried.

The city has never felt so uninterested in your existence.

You sigh, stepping back from your car with your arms crossed and your patience unraveling thread by thread.

That’s when you hear it, boots on pavement. The low hum of a country song bleeding from someone’s parked truck. And then a voice, casual and rough-edged, like gravel under honey:

“Looks like your Beemer didn’t get the memo she’s not built for potholes.”

You glance up.

He’s leaning against a rusted pickup parked across the street, arms folded, expression unreadable. T-shirt stained with oil, work gloves shoved in the back pocket of his jeans. Blonde hair messy, sunlit at the tips. A smear of something dark across one pretty cheekbone. Tan, toned forearms. Smirking like he knows something you don’t.

You look him over. Slowly.

Then back to your tire.

“I’m fine,” you say, like it’s a full sentence.

He doesn’t move. Just raises a brow. “Sure you are. Just figured I’d offer. But hey, maybe she’ll fix herself outta sheer respect.”

You narrow your eyes. “You work at that garage over there?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m just loitering, intimidating rich girls for fun.”

Your mouth twitches before you can help it. “How charming.”

He shrugs. “That’s what they say.”

There’s a pause. The wind picks up, ruffling the collar of your crisp, white shirt and his dirtied t-shirt in opposite directions.

Finally, you cave. Just a little.

“You know how to change a tire?”

Rafe grins like he’s been waiting for you to ask. He doesn’t ask for permission. Just tosses his rag onto the sidewalk, drops into a crouch beside your tire, and whistles low under his breath.

“Well, well. You really did a number on her.”

“She hit a pothole.”

“She hit a crater,” he says, fingers brushing the rim. “That wheel’s crying for its mother.”

You hover beside him, unsure of where to stand. You’ve never been this close to grease before, real grease. The kind that stains fingernails and smells like summer heat and sweat and long hours. The kind that doesn’t wash off easy.

He glances up at you once, just once, and grins. “Relax, corporate. I won’t bill you for breathing the same air.”

Your mouth opens. Then shuts again.

“I don’t work for you,” he adds. “I work around you. Big difference.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your silence makes him chuckle. He returns to the tire, tools out, movements fast and practiced. Like he’s done this a thousand times and could do it blindfolded with a cigarette in his mouth and still make it look easy.

You shift, arms crossed again, watching as his t-shirt rides up just a little when he reaches for the jack. His back muscles flex beneath sun-bleached cotton. His knuckles are scraped. There's a thin scar on his forearm, like a brushstroke of silver across the tan.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking.

You bristle. “I’m observing.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

“I don’t appreciate being called that.”

“Noted.”

A beat.

Then, softly, “You don’t stop me, though.”

You pretend you didn’t hear that.

He finishes fast. You blink and suddenly the car’s lowered, the spare tire’s on, and he’s wiping his hands on that tragic-looking rag again, standing upright and stretching until you hear something in his back crack.

“All good,” he says, stepping back. “Should get you home fine. Maybe don’t go joyridin' over sinkholes next time.”

You exhale. You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath.

“Thank you,” you say, quieter now.

He looks at you then, really looks. And for the first time, the teasing fades. Just a flicker. Just long enough for something else to settle in its place.

“You’re welcome.”

You reach into your bag automatically, but he lifts a hand.

“Don’t.”

“It’s just—”

“No charge,” he says. “Wasn’t work. Just help.”

You pause. “Still. I’d like to do something.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out. Then, with a lopsided grin, “Then do somethin’. Surprise me.”

...

You don’t even know why you’re doing it.

You tell yourself it’s gratitude. Courtesy. Basic manners. The way you were raised.

You tell yourself you’re not doing anything special when you order two sandwiches from that café your coworkers love, the one with the flaky bread and too-many adjectives on the menu. You even get lemonade. The good kind, fresh-squeezed and slightly overpriced.

It’s just a thank you. That’s all.

You keep telling yourself that as you drive fifteen minutes out of the glass-and-steel part of town (the financial district where you work), past the manicured sidewalks and into something rougher. Older. Sun-beaten and rusted. Potholes and chain link fences. Cigarette smoke curling lazily from a stoop. A teenage boy tosses a basketball toward a hoop that’s missing its net.

Your heels clack against the uneven pavement as you walk. Every step sounds too loud. Your dress is all clean lines and quiet wealth, and you feel it, the contrast. You’re a silk ribbon in a world of grit.

You find the garage easy enough. You recognize the truck parked out front. His truck. And he’s there.

Half under a car, all grease-smudged arms and rolled-up sleeves, one boot planted on the ground, the other leg bent as he slides further under.

“Rafe?” you call, voice a little uncertain.

A pause. The sound of a socket wrench stopping mid-turn.

And then, from beneath the car, a familiar voice, lazy and warm, like sunlight through old blinds.

“Well, look who’s wandered down from Olympus.”

You cross your arms. “I brought you lunch.”

A metallic clatter. Then he’s sliding out on the creeper, blinking up at you like he’s not sure you’re real. And for a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, your hair pulled back, your heels dusted from the walk, your fingers curled around a brown paper bag like it’s something holy. Like you’re something holy.

“You get lost on the way to brunch, sweetheart?” he drawls finally, lips twitching.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I thought you might want a sandwich.”

“You thought right.”

He sits up, wiping his hands on a rag that looks even worse than the last one. You hand him the bag, and when his fingers brush yours, warm, rough, real, you pretend your stomach doesn’t flip.

He peeks inside. “This from one of your fancy spots?”

“God forbid,” you say dryly. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your street cred.”

Rafe grins, all teeth and trouble. “You’re startin’ to sound like me, corporate. I’m a bad influence.”

“I’m aware.”

He eats sitting on the bumper of the truck, feet planted wide, watching you through his lashes between bites. You sit beside him carefully. The heat of the metal seeps through your dress. His shoulder is warm next to yours, sun-baked and solid.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” he says after a moment, voice lower now.

“I know.”

He glances sideways. “But you did.”

You don’t look at him. Instead, you trace the edge of your lemonade cup with one perfectly manicured nail. “You helped me. I was trying to be decent.”

“Mm. That what this is?” His gaze lingers, a little too long.

You finally look back. There’s something different in his eyes now...not amusement. Not laziness. Just…interest. Direct and undistracted.

“You sure ’s not curiosity?” he adds, voice barely above a hum. “Maybe you wanted to see what kinda place a guy like me crawls back to.”

You hold his gaze. “And what kind of place is that?”

He shrugs. “One where you don’t belong.”

You raise your chin, defiant. “Maybe I do.”

He laughs, low and disbelieving. “You’re wearin’ thousand-dollar shoes and talk like you’ve got an assistant named Margot.”

“She’s called Alexa, actually.”

“Of course she is.” He finishes the last bite of his sandwich. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“So are you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

And he freezes.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

But enough. A hitch in his breath. A flicker in his expression. Like maybe he’s been called a lot of things, but not that. You stand up, brushing nonexistent dust from your skirt. The moment breaks like glass under a heel.

“I should get back,” you say.

He nods once, slowly.

“Hey,” he calls just as you’re walking back to your car.

You pause, turn.

Rafe’s leaning against the truck again, arms crossed, head tilted. That same half-smile playing on his lips, but softer this time. Thoughtful.

“You ever get tired of boardrooms and bullshit, you know where to find me.”

You arch a brow. “And what would I find, exactly?”

He grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

A/N: they're my new obsession

[yolgart]

thinking about brother's best friend!rafe who got a secret tattoo...

“Don’t kiss me.” He murmured, and you pouted. Rafe sighed, withdrawing a hand from your waist to pull down his bottom lip, revealing the swollen skin inside.

Your eyes widened. “Did you…” You reached out to touch his lip, but he grabbed your wrist. When your doe eyes met his, he slowly loosened his grip, and you traced the pad of your thumb across the flesh, a contented sigh leaving him. “You got a tattoo.”

“Yes.”

“Of my name?”

“Yes.”

“You hate pain.”

“I’m never doing this shit again.”

You laughed, tipped your head back, before unconsciously pulling him into a kiss. He didn’t get the chance to stop you, and when your lips met his with a dulled sting, it melted the moment he tasted you. Felt you. Pain was always bearable with you.

all of this is prompts from my book hehe

[yolgart]

[yolgart]

ೃ࿔:･ bsf!rafe gets caught staring at you

the air smells like greasy pizza and chlorine. too many people are packed into kelce’s backyard with music that’s always one speaker blowout away from full collapse.

you’re in a hoodie that isn’t yours—his, obviously—sitting on the edge of the hot tub with your legs in the water, sipping a white claw.

and rafe? rafe’s doing that thing again.

the one where he’s not talking, not really listening, just watching you like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks. like he’s memorizing the way your nose scrunches when you laugh, or how you talk with your hands even when you’re tipsy, or how your foot brushes his thigh under the water without even realizing.

someone notices before you do.

“dude,” topper says, with the kind of smirk that makes rafe want to punch him and himself at the same time. “you’re staring.”

rafe doesn’t look away. just shrugs, lazy and unapologetic.

“so what if i am?”

topper raises a brow. “you look like you’re about to bite her.”

rafe rolls his eyes but doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. because you’re laughing at something sarah said, all flushed and golden under string lights, and it guts him.

because that’s his laugh. it should be. he’s the one who knows your coffee order and which songs make you cry and that you always check under your bed twice before sleeping. he’s the one who holds your hair when you’re sick, who keeps a toothbrush for you in his bathroom drawer, who knows you trace your name on your leg when you’re anxious. he’s memorized every inch of your being.

and still, he’s just your best friend.

you catch him mid-stare about ten minutes later, a slow glance over your shoulder like you felt it. the heat of his gaze burning through your spine.

“what?” you ask, teasing, grinning. “do i have something on my face?”

“nah,” he says. too quickly. too quiet. “just lookin’.”

you narrow your eyes, but you don’t press. you never do. maybe because part of you likes it. maybe because you want him to keep looking. maybe because you already know.

a little later, when you lean into his side and drape your arms around his neck in that drunk and tired way you always do, rafe lets his hand settle on your waist.

he doesn’t say a word, but his jaw’s clenched, his knuckles white, and god help the next guy who touches you like they think they can.

because rafe doesn’t just stare. he claims. silently. greedily. like he’s owed you in every lifetime, and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @43hughes @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife

[yolgart]

Three times where Anakin’s jealousy was harmless, even fun, and one when it wasn't.

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Reader/OFC.

Summary: Every time he sees her across the room and forgets to breathe, forgets that damn code that complicates his life. She knows exactly what she’s doing, she’s beauty, power, and temptation wrapped in one impossible woman, and everyone wants her, but she only burns for him. Every time he sees her with someone else, Anakin’s composure cracks a little more.

Word count: 7.141

Warnings: Anakin, a warning itself. A little bit of smut, not graphic, there, toxicity there, jealousy, a creep, violence and blood. (let me know if i miss something).

Author’s note: Hiii, two times in one day, count yourselves lucky. First time writting for our sweet beloved Ani.

This is inspired by hours and hours of clone wars and this tiktok. It goes without saying that all this is fictional, I don't want to upseat anyone, this is for fun.

With that being said, enjoy, hope you like it. Lots of love, ME.

(gif credits to the owner)

The air was thick with expensive perfume, velvet words and politics. Senators with fabricated smiles moved like currents through golden light, their laughter overlapping with the soft strings of the Nabooian quartet tucked into one corner of the ballroom. Glasses clinked. Conversations sparkled. 

Anakin felt her before she even entered the hall properly. The soft tug in his chest told him she was close, and when she stepped into view, adorned in metallic green robes that kissed the floor, hugged her curves and shimmered as she moved, he nearly forgot to breathe. 

And so did everyone else. 

She looked like a whispered sin.

Men turned. Women glanced. Senators whispered. Generals approached her. Every damn set of eyes in that room followed her. Of course they did because she looked like the brightest star of them all. 

Anakin could feel them, sense their intentions as they approached her with too-wide smiles like the itch of static across his skin. Their attention wasn’t polite, it was hungry.

His eyes saw her having polite smiles, he heard her laughter, rare but dazzling, curved through the air like sunlight on water, and it struck him, standing across the room in ceremonial Jedi robes, how damn bright she was.

And how many men wanted to bask in her glow.

She was the kind of woman people gravitated toward. A quiet sun in the middle of a storm. A cathedral in a world of shacks, commanding awe. 

He stood across the ballroom, robed in Jedi formality, a guest and a ghost. His hands stayed folded behind his back, his expression neutral. But inside, he was seething as yet another advisor leaned just a little too close, whispering something into her ear that made her smile, and his fingers curled into a fist.

For hours, she moved like light across the floor, drawn into every orbit. People hoarded her attention, called her name, asked for things, fed off her warmth. She smiled, laughed, and even joked. All while never looking at him. Not even once.

Then it happened, some Republic attaché leaned in to say something, too close, and she turned her head to hear him better, her shoulder brushing his chest. His hand hovered just behind her waist. Not touching, not quite.

But Anakin felt it, felt the heat surge like a detonation in his chest. A sharp, hot pang hit low in his gut.

He hadn’t touched her in weeks, some mission in some Outer Rim dustbowl, he couldn’t even remember the name now. All he could think about in that moment was the ghost of her skin under his callus fingers, soft, smooth, velvet-warm and seared into his memory like a brand.

And now others were close enough to smell her perfume.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, willing the fire down, but it simmered. Oh, it simmered. Another man stepped up to her side, clearly emboldened. Flirting again. Anakin’s knuckles whitened behind his back.

She plucked the flower the man offered her, twirled it between her fingers, and, finally, looked up. Across the room, past every other face. Right at him and her smile changed. Slow. Private. Not for anyone else. She knew what she was doing and she loved it. He could feel the pulse of her amusement, soft and golden behind her ribcage, glowing just for him.

And that was enough to cool the burn. For now.

She excused herself a few moments later, slipping away with the tail of her gown floating behind her, weaving through polished diplomats and oblivious senators. He waited precisely ten seconds before following, every step practiced restraint.

The cool night air of Coruscant swept over the balcony, a quiet haven away from the noise and glitter of the gala. The hum of air traffic and muffled music were distant, irrelevant things. All Anakin saw, all he ever saw, even in his dreams, was her.

She leaned against the railing like she owned the city, like the stars were her playthings. The wind caught her hair just enough to make him ache.

“You looked cozy in there,” he said, voice low, sharp at the edges. “Your... fan club seemed enthusiastic tonight.”

She didn’t turn. Just let the silence stretch, knowing it’d get to him. It always did.

“Fan club?” she echoed at last, tone light, teasing. “Sounds like jealousy, Skywalker.”

Anakin scoffed and folded his arms. “Interesting choice of company tonight. You always did like the dramatic types.”

She turned, one brow lifted. “You mean politicians?”

“I mean men who seem to forget that you are clearly out of their league.” He stepped closer, boots nearly silent, heat radiating off him in waves.

“You know,” she continued, tilting her head slightly to the side, “if I do have a fan club, I’m pretty sure you started it. That whole brooding stare-from-across-the-room thing? Very compelling.”

His jaw ticked. “Right. I’ll remember to blink next time I watch you let half the Senate fall in love with you.”

Her eyes glittered as she turned to face him. “You were watching.”

“You knew I was.”

“Practically vibrating,” she teased. “If you glared any harder, you’d have ignited the Chancellor’s carpet.”

The Force crackled faintly between them, quiet, intimate, like the brush of fingers on bare skin. He didn’t have to reach for her emotions; they poured into him like sunlight and wildfire. She was amused. Charged. Testing him.

She took a step closer. Barely there, but it was enough. “Maker, you’re jealous,” she murmured, delighted at how much tension it was in his jaw and arms. “That’s adorable.”

That did it.

In one smooth, sudden motion, Anakin pressed her back into the shadows of the balcony, out of sight. Her breath caught as the cold stone met part of her spine and his body followed, flush against hers, every line of him pressed with unrelenting intent, the warmth of his palm burning the small of her back. His metallic hand caught her jaw, tilting her face up, not rough, but firm.

His eyes burned gold in the dark as the shadows wrapped them in silence, covering their secret. 

“Do you know how hard it is not to touch you when they do?” he hissed, breath hot against her cheek. “Not to shout that you’re mine?”

She smiled slowly, challenging. “You don’t need to shout.”

He growled softly, teeth clenched. “Right, because you’re the one who loves to be loud.”

She didn’t deny it. “I love to shout your name,” she purred as her fingers found his belt, tugging him even closer.

Their mouths crashed together in a kiss that had no business being soft. It was hot, messy, desperate, brutal in its restraint. Tongues sliding, biting, fighting for dominance, hands gripping wherever they could, pulling the other deeper, like the weeks apart hadn’t worn their restraint down to shreds.

He groaned into her mouth when she bit his lip, and she gasped when he pressed his big leg slid between hers with sinful precision, and Anakin swallowed the sound greedily.

The world outside didn’t exist. There was only this, this fire, this want, this ache they weren’t allowed to name. And the Force around them swirled, tight and humming, their shared emotions tangling like limbs in the dark. Possession. Desire. Frustration. Love, blistering and untouchable. 

They kissed like they were starving. Like they might not get the chance again. Like it wasn’t enough to be his in secret, she wanted to be his in blood, in breath, in everything.

When they finally pulled apart, panting, her lipstick smudged, his hair a mess, and her dress rumpled, he still didn’t move.

He leaned his forehead to hers, eyes closed, hand on her cheek now, softer. But the tremble in his chest hadn’t gone.

“You are mine,” Anakin whispered.

Somewhere inside, he knew this was dangerous.

But her hand running in his hair, tugging softly, her lips swollen and smirking beneath his, and the feeling of her emotions bleeding into his own, her heart thudding against his. “Always.”

It all made him reckless.

Made him Anakin.

The halls of the Jedi Temple bathed in a golden wash of sunlight that stretched through high windows. It was a sanctuary, quiet and disciplined, above any kind of distraction. 

Anakin stood with his arms crossed, flanked by a line of teen knights finishing saber drills under his supervision. The hum and clash of practice blades echoed through the open-air courtyard, mid morning sun painting golden light across the pale stone floors.

He was focused, they all were. Until he wasn’t anymore.

A tug. It started like a subtle itch in his chest. That familiar flutter of energy in the Force that only she caused. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Then came the whispers. The laughter. The telltale shift in attention that shouldn’t be happening in a Temple. 

Anakin turned and there she was. She had always made a mockery of Jedi rules just by simply existing.

She moved through the courtyard like a comet, bright, elegant, entirely out of place and somehow right there. The sun kissed her skin and made her glow. Hair swept back, face glowing, wearing that rich blue gown that fitted her like a globe and stole breaths left and right. 

Poor young Jedis, they barely stood a chance.

He watched, arms still crossed, as they began to trip over themselves for her, far too eagerly.

A taller knight stumbled forward, lightsaber already off, bowing too low. “Senator, would you care for a demonstration?”

Another, younger, grinned, straightening his robes with unnecessary flair, puffed up his chest and opened his mouth to talk, but was cut short by a third that stepped in beside her, charming and overly familiar. “Senator,” he said, smirking, offering his arm. “Perhaps I could escort you to the Grand Hall? The Temple’s layout can be disorienting, after all.” 

“Actually,” another interrupted, “I was just about to take my morning walk, can I show you the gardens?”

Anakin narrowed his eyes. The younger knights, barely past their trials, surrounded her like moths to flame. Soon, he was sure the entire practice floor was about to break in spontaneous combat displays.

They were all smiles and flushed cheeks, tripping over each other for a chance to impress her but all she did was smile politely, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. 

Anakin moved, dangerously calm, all coiled control and silent warning. The kind of movement that sliced through space like a saber unsheathed, needing no sound to be final. He stepped into view like a storm rolling over a bright sky. Shadows clung to his silhouette, jaw set, blue eyes hard. He towered over the young knights who were still mid-stammer and mid-swoon.

Her eyes found his instantly and a smile, bright, amused, knowing exactly what this was, appeared on her tempting lips. “General Skywalker,” she greeted, honey-smooth and just this side of smug.

“Senator,” he said, voice all clipped politeness, but there was a glint in his eye only she could read. “You’re expected elsewhere. Please—come with me.”

It wasn’t a request. Not really.

She tilted her head, clearly entertained, and followed without protest. Behind her, the poor knights stood shell-shocked and heartbroken.

Anakin took her the long way, through narrow passages and shadow-laced halls that only he would know. Hidden corridors carved into the Temple’s bones, tucked from sight and sound. No one followed. No one dared. No one ever did when he didn’t want them to.

The tension thrummed between them. Unspoken. Electric. She could feel it through the thread they never dared name. That quiet, intimate current that pulsed like a live wire between their hearts. It made her skin prickle and her mouth curl.

“You’re brooding,” she said lightly, brushing his hand with hers.

“They were drooling,” he replied, jaw clenched, walking too fast.

She laughed softly. “You’re a menace.” Force humming quietly between them in familiar warmth. 

He didn’t deny it. Just opened the door to his quarters and tilted his head towards the inside. His eyes burned hotter than the twin suns. “They were idiots.”

“They were children,” she said, shrugging off her shawl. “It was flattering, sure. But harmless.”

She stepped into his space and reached for his tunic, smoothing invisible wrinkles just for the excuse to touch him.

His hands found her waist like magnets, urgent, desperate. Like his world only started spinning when she was close. Like he’d been starving for the feel of her. “You’re mine,” he muttered, voice rough, low.

The second she pressed against him, the tension snapped. His shoulders dropped and his breath hitched. She always did this to him, only she ever could.

The smile she gave him lit up every star in his chest.

“Possessive much?” she teased, lifting her gaze beneath her lashes. Her hand rested against his chest, gentle pressure just over his heart. “You’re lucky that’s sexy.”

“They don’t even see you,” he growled, lips brushing the edge of her jaw as he inhaled her. “Not really. Not like I do.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, threading through the waves of his hair, soft and slow. His anger began to dissolve under her touch.

“I know that,” she whispered, grounding him. “You don’t have to prove anything, Ani.” Her lips brushed his, featherlight. “I only have eyes for one Jedi Knight,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

A sharp breath left his lungs, forehead pressed to hers. He didn’t speak. Just stood there and felt her. Let her presence, her truth, her kiss soften all the edges. As it always did.

“You’re the only one,” she said, voice softer now, brushing her lips against his. “The only one who gets to take me home.”

He said nothing. He just clenched his jaw and looked at her like she was the entire galaxy, beautiful, untouchable, and he didn’t know how to protect her from it without claiming her. But he was ready to go to the end of time to keep her safe, even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

She kissed him, soft and slow, with reverence, her thumb brushed along his jaw and his hands finally moved. One slid around her lower back, the other tangled in her hair, cradling her like something both sacred and dangerous.

“You were planning to come early,” he said, voice rasping low. “Just to see me.”

She smiled against his lips. “Took you long enough to figure it out, my love.”

He kissed her, deeper, hungrier. Less about proving, more about having. Reverence disguised as hunger. Possession disguised as devotion.

They didn’t speak again for a while. Not when she tugged him toward his bed. Not when his hands ran down her back like he was mapping out the constellations of her skin. Not when his mouth marked her skin like scripture. Not when she gasped his name like it anchored her. Not when he murmured her name like a prayer. And definitely not when the Force pulsed around them, holding the world at bay.

She had come early and now, thanks to him, she’d come more than once… And would definitely be late to her meeting, with love bites and traces of him in places only he could see later in the night.

But that had always been the danger, with her, time bent, it didn’t really matter. The world waited. Only she existed.

And if anyone asked, well, he was General Skywalker. And no one dared question him.

She was trying to work. Key word, trying. Because trying didn’t stand a chance when Anakin Skywalker was in the room. Her focus kept going to him.

He wasn’t even doing anything, not really. Just existing, sprawled across the soft seating like it was his throne, golden and smug. His presence filled the space like a storm fills the horizon, vast and crackling, impossible to ignore. She could feel him under her skin, behind her ribs, humming through her bloodstream even with five feet and a desk between them.

And he knew it, of course he did, he could feel the effect he had on her.

“You know,” he said casually, leaning back and resting the back of his head in his intertwined fingers, “we should go away.”

She didn’t look up from her datapad. “Go away?”

“A vacation.” He was already picturing it, voice wrapped in sunlight. “Just the two of us. There’s a place, far, far from here, remote, beautiful, where no one would recognize us.” He looked at her. “I will be like we are an actual couple instead of Senator and Jedi.”

Her fingers paused above the screen, the weight of the idea pressing into her chest like warmth. She could see it too, for a moment. Feel it like a dream she wanted to believe in.

“I would love nothing more,” she said honestly. “But I can’t, Ani.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” he sat up, affronted, like she’d personally insulted the sun. “It’s two weeks. The Senate can survive without you. Miraculously, I know.”

She sighed, still not looking at him. “I’m sure it can. But I have propositions to review, bills to finalize, votes to prepare. Important meetings—”

He stepped around her desk and popped a dramatic hip like the galaxy's most petulant god. “More important than me?”

She narrowed her eyes, slow and sharp. “You know exactly what you mean to me.”

“Do I?” he said dramatically, crossing his arms and turning around like a tragic holo actor. “Because right now it feels like my heart is being shoved to the bottom of your schedule.”

She let out a breath and leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach as she studied him.

“Our love is everything to me,” she said carefully. “But my work matters too. It matters for people who don’t have the luxury of sneaking away. Our work matters, Anakin. What we do matters.”

“To me there’s nothing more important than you,” he said standing there with his back to her, arms crossed like a storm cloud, radiating disappointment in dramatic waves.

She stared at his back, lips twitching. “That better not be a pout.”

“No,” he grumbled, “it’s… noble heartbreak.”

She laughed softly, Maker help her, she adored this ridiculous man. “You’re such a menace.”

“And yet here you are,” he said, not turning around. “Still not on vacation with me.”

She stood, walked towards him and slid her hands around his waist, resting her chin between his shoulder blades. “What can I do to prove to you that you matter the most to me?”

“The damage is already done,” he said with great theatrical flair.

A laugh almost escaped her lips, but she pushed it back, and in a swift motion she stood in front of him. Her fingers found his jaw, warm, strong, and tilted his face down to hers.

“My sweet sweet Ani,” she whispered, her lips slow, hot, reverent, against his, making him melt, just a little. “If you want proof,” she murmured, “then let me show you what you mean to me.”

She kissed him, soft and deep, hands threading through his hair possessively, it silenced every protest he thought about making. 

The kiss was heated, frantic, like they’d been starving for each other and finally allowed to feast. It was instant combustion. No slow burn, no delicate teasing. Just raw need, all fire and ache and knowing. He exhaled into her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair, then moved down to her waist, clutching like gravity itself had shifted and he was grounding himself. 

When her mouth grazed his neck, what was left of his composure unraveled like silk. She tasted like stars and defiance. He kissed her like she was air and flame all at once. The fire she lit inside him was hers alone to command.

He walked them back, blindly, not breaking the kiss, not once, her mouth still pressed to his, until she hit the bookshelf. He pinned her there, one hand cradling her head so she wouldn’t knock into the shelves. Books toppled behind them like falling stars as his mouth found her throat, her collarbone, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he’d been dying to say.

She gasped, breathless and burning, and he kissed her harder, like he needed to brand himself into her soul.

Then he moved again, his hands were already back on her, mapping the lines of her body like sacred territory. He knew every curve, every reaction, how she’d shiver when he kissed just below her jaw, how her breath caught when his fingers traced her spine. They collided again, lips bruising, hands insistent.

But it wasn’t just need, it was knowing. The kind of knowing that came from worship and war, from battles fought side by side and promises whispered in the dark. 

When the desk hit the backs of her thighs, he lifted her onto the desk, the other shooting out to sweep everything off the surface in one violent motion, datapads, files, a stylus, a small potted plant, all crashing to the floor as if the whole galaxy could wait while his was mouth still on hers, and she pulled him in like gravity had given up and left only them. They moved together in a rhythm as old as time, sharp gasps, soft moans, whispered names, a symphony of want and devotion echoing off polished wood and walls that had seen too much and still not enough.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, her heels locking at the small of his back, pulling him into her, into this, and he thrust into her, the sound she made shattered him. Her head fell back, exposing her throat, and he kissed it reverently, like a knight bent before a goddess. 

She was wrapped around him, tangled in his body like ivy on stone. Her hands were in his hair, his tunic, her voice in his ear, guiding him, worshipping him. His mouth dragged over her neck, her chest, every place that made her tremble.

His hands moved over her body like he knew every inch of her in his bones, because he did. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t guess. He knew her like he knew the hilt of his saber, like breath, like instinct. He knew what would make her gasp, what would make her moan, what would unravel her completely. And she gave herself to it, to him, because she knew him just the same.

When the desk groaned in protest, he lifted her into his arms, and she laughed breathlessly against his mouth as he carried her to the little velvet sofa, limbs tangled, breathing ragged. He continued to worship her there, whispering her name like it was a secret spell that bound the universe together. She pulled him in with her eyes, with her hands, with the soft, broken sound she only ever made for him.

Every movement, every sound, every glance between them was instinct, history, devotion. They didn’t have to speak. They knew.

And when they finally collapsed on the floor, sweaty, undone, breathless and wrecked and more whole than ever, he hovered over her, brushing damp hair from her face, his heart pounding against hers.

“You are everything to me,” she whispered, cupping his cheek.

His lips curved into a crooked smile as he pressed his forehead to hers. “No,” he murmured. “We’re everything.”

The gala was crowded, loud, and glittering with too much fake gold and not enough sincerity. She floated through it like she always did, charming, gracious, intelligent. Every word laced with purpose and diplomacy. She was dazzling, magnetic. Untouchable.

Anakin had been watching her from across the room, he always is, with admiration, with love blossoming in his chest, but tonight his jaw was clenched so tightly it could shatter in any moment. 

Senator Vanto of Andosha was practically glued to her side, as he had seemed to be lately. He had been circling for weeks like a blood-slicked nexu. It started with a look across the Senate, followed by sugar-drenched pleasantries echoing in marble halls and smiles that lasted a second too long, then a fleeting compliment with a lingering hand on her back. Then he started to get more bold, a too-close whisper over a datapad, every time she laughed the man leaned in closer, taking every possible opportunity to have a hand on her, his eyes devouring her like a predator savoring the kill.

Anakin had seen it all, every touch, every glance from the Senator over the last few weeks, and it burned through him like acid, each and every single time, and she didn’t see it. Or worse, she refused to.

Now, in that glittering cage, every time he even breathed close to her, every time she flashed that too-perfect public smile, Anakin’s vision blurred at the edges. And when the senator started parading around with a hand on the small of her back, his filthy hand on her smooth velvety skin, fingers grazing the open back of her gown like he had the right, like he could, Anakin’s blood boiled.

And she, she laughed, not her real laugh, the one she gave him in quiet moments beneath tangled sheets, but the polite one she wore in public. It didn’t matter. It burned all the same. 

Without a word, he turned on his heel, strides clipped and purposeful. He didn’t care who saw. Let the whole damn Senate speculate. Let them whisper. He didn’t care. He launched his fighter and left.

By the time she got home, the apartment was dark. Cold. But not silent. Anakin was there, pacing like a caged animal, shoulders tight with barely restrained fury.

She didn’t even get her shoes off before the storm hit. “Something wrong Ani?” she asked, the door barely clicking shut behind her.

He turned, the heat in his eyes sparking like wildfire. “You really have to ask?”

She blinked at him, confused, tension curling at the edge of her spine. “I don’t understand.” She frowned, “If you’re upset about something, say it. Don’t just, brood,” she said, unwinding the earrings from her lobes. 

“I’m not brooding,” he snapped. “I’m trying very hard not to explode.”

She scoffed. “Well, you’re doing a terrible job.”

“Just like you were at keeping Senator Vanto’s filthy hands off you,” he said, sarcasm dripping like venom. 

Her breath caught. “Are you really going to start again?” she snapped, looking at him through the mirror in the room, pulling the pins from her hair, letting it tumble over her back. “I’ve told you, he’s a colleague. That’s all.”

Anakin stood dead center in the room, arms stiff at his sides, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. “A colleague who practically breathes down your neck every time you’re in the same room. And you let him!”

Her laugh was cold, sharp. “Let him? You think I let him?”

“I don’t think,” he said, voice jagged. “I saw you with my own eyes!”

“I was doing my job!” she said loudly, turning towards him. “Talking, negotiating, building rapport, which is what I’ve always done. What do you want me to do, Anakin? Be rude? Push him away in front of the entire Senate chamber just to make  you feel better? Throw a drink in his face and declare I belong to you?” 

“I’m asking you to see it,” he bit out. “He touches you like he owns you.”

“I don’t belong to anyone!” she yelled, sharply and coldly. 

“I thought you said you were mine,” he said, lower now, his voice breaking at the edges.

“I’m not a possession, Anakin.”

“No,” he said, quieter, rawer. “But you are mine, just as I’m yours, because we chose each other. Because what we have is real. And he’s trying to take you from me,” he said, touching his chest.

Her laugh then wasn’t cold, it was shattered. “You sound insane.”

He stepped closer, too close. “And you sound blind.”

The room froze.

Her face hardened, voice tightening like she was holding back something sharp. “Do you hear yourself right now? He’s not the problem here, Anakin. You are.”

That cracked something in him, clean through the middle, cracking his chest open.

“No,” he said, voice rising. “I’m the one who’s stuck waiting while he gets to stand beside you, hover over you, touch you. Me, the man that has loved you since the first time he saw you, who would burn the galaxy down just to keep you safe, gets crumbs behind closed doors! So excuse me if I’m sick of pretending this doesn’t bother me!”

Her heart stung like it had been slapped. “You think this is easy for me? Hiding, lying, splitting myself in two just to make this work—”

“Then maybe it’s not worth it,” he snapped.

She flinched, like he’d hit her. Her mouth opened, then closed, her voice caught behind the pressure building in her chest. 

The silence that followed was instant and total. The air turned to glass between them, fragile, sharp, suffocating, waiting to shatter.

Her voice dropped to just a whisper. “Is that really how you feel?”

He faltered. He didn’t mean it. But pride, stupid, stubborn pride, held his tongue hostage and wouldn’t let him soften. “Maybe it is.”

Her breath hitched, then turned away from him, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “Then go,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, holding herself together with the last thread of her control she had before shattering.

Anakin didn’t move, said nothing. His jaw ticked, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He stared at her back for a long moment, at the way her shoulders rose and fell like she was holding it together, barely.

He wanted to take it back. Maker, he wanted to. He wanted to cross the galaxy that appeared between them and fix it, he wanted to hold her and not go.

But he didn’t, and instead turned on his heel and walked out, again. Jumping on his fighter and going away, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of their home.

The silence echoed through the apartment like a thunderclap as she stood there, still in her gown, her earrings in her hand, hair loose caressing her back, and shaking. The lights hummed softly above her. The room felt cavernous without him in it.

And all she could do was stand there, alone, tears pulling in her eyes, surrounded by the wreckage of what they’d built, and wonder, maybe this time, they’d broken something they couldn’t fix.

A full day passed.

She hadn’t moved much, buried under blankets, curtains drawn to shut out the light that mocked her with its warmth. Her datapad buzzed every few hours with messages and alerts, unanswered. The Senate could wait. The galaxy could wait. For the first time in years, she let herself unravel. The senator, the leader, the unshakable voice of reason, reduced to someone wrapped in silence and tears. There was the steady hum of sorrow beneath her skin and the raw ache of something lost, sobs coming and going in waves, breaking through moments of numb silence. She tried to hate him. Tried to hate herself. Neither feeling stuck. Only grief for what might already be gone did.

By late afternoon, the tears had run dry, replaced by something hollow. She pulled herself out of bed, her muscles aching like she had fought a war in her sleep. The shower steamed the mirror, the water was hot, steady, cleansing, grounding her just enough to feel like maybe she could start over.

Maybe.

But she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

She was wrapping her robe around her when the knock came. She frowned, confused. No one was supposed to visit. The few people who might, had the good sense not to.

When she opened the door, Senator Vanto stood there.

Concern painted across his features like a poor artist’s attempt at sincerity. “You weren’t at the Senate today,” he said, stepping inside uninvited. “People were asking. I was worried that you perhaps were ill.”

She blinked, unsettled. “I... wasn’t feeling well.”

He smiled, taking a slow, familiar step toward her. “I figured as much. I thought maybe I could help. Maybe you needed someone to talk to.” His eyes dragged over her, landing on her exposed collarbone where the robe dipped. “Or just someone.”

A chill slid down her spine and she tightening the piece of clothing around her.

She moved toward the sitting area, creating distance, hoping he’d take the hint. “Thank you for your concern, but really, I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said smoothly, following her, “but maybe it’s time you stop pretending you don’t need anyone.”

He looked her over, the flush skin, her bare legs, her wet hair. “You need someone who can take care of you,” He reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. 

She stepped back, discomfort. Her skin prickled, but not the way it did when Anakin touched her. There was no warmth here, no tenderness. Just a creeping, nauseating wrongness.

“I said I’m fine.” Again, she rounded the sitting area and tried to put as much distance between them as she could. 

But he followed, again, too closely, too comfortably. With every inch she gave, he took more.

“You’ve always kept yourself surrounded by politics, war, rules, men who are never really there for you. Jedi who disappear when it matters most.” He said it with meaning, with venom. “But not me,” he sat and pushed her to sit with him. “I wouldn’t leave you alone, not even for a second.”

Her knees hit the cushions before her mind registered what had happened. Her stomach turned. “Vanto—”

“I mean it.” His voice dropped. “You need a man who’s strong enough to handle you. Someone who knows what to do with a woman like you.” His eyes drifted down. “Someone who knows how to touch you.” His hand landed on her thigh, firm, possessive. 

Her blood froze. The hand was not delicate, not gentle. It burned. Her skin crawled under it.

“I can give you what he never could.” His voice slithered around her. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

She tensed, tried to inch away, but his hand gripped tighter. “Let go of me,” she pushed his hand away. “It’s time for you to go,” she said, standing sharply.

He stood too, moving in close, cornering her. “Come on, darling,” he said with a twisted smirk on his lips. 

She backed up. Her robe slipped slightly off one shoulder, she yanked it up with trembling fingers.

“You can stop pretending now. No one’s watching.” His hand caught her arm.

She yanked back. “Don’t touch me.”

But he didn’t stop and his grip tightened. “I’ve seen the way you look at me—”

“There’s no way I look at you,” she snapped, breath catching. “Let go of me.”

“No more playing game,” he smirked again.

“Stop it—” she twisted, trying to break free.

“No more hiding.” His other hand gripped her side, fingers digging through the thin robe like claws.

She gasped. “Please, no.”

The fear started creeping up her throat like acid.

Her skin was on fire where he touched her, not in the way Anakin lit her nerves with heat and reverence, but like poison seeping into her bones.

“You’ve got no one here but me.”

She whimpered, voice cracking. “I said no—please don’t—”

He leaned in, tried to kiss her.

She twisted, shoved against him, her voice shaking, heart in her throat. “I said no—!”

And then—The door burst open with a crash.

A wind tore through the room as if the stars themselves had followed him in.

Anakin stood there, eyes burning, jaw locked, the fury of a thousand suns radiating off of him. His voice was low, guttural, animalistic.

“Get. Away. From her.”

Vanto startled, letting go just long enough for her to stumble back. She shoved him hard, scrambling to the other side of the room.

And before she could even breathe, Anakin crossed the room in three strides. The Force lifted Vanto off the ground like he weighed nothing, like a ragdoll, choking him mid-air. His feet kicked helplessly as Anakin stalked forward.

“You dare to touch her,” Anakin growled, his voice was cold. Controlled, but barely. 

He threw him against a wall and with his free hand, took his lightsaber and ignited with a snap-hiss of blue death. “You hurt her.” His face was carved in stone, his rage blistering, terrifying, as he pointed with his saber at him.

“Try fighting like a man,” Vanto stood up, coughing. “Without your Jedi tricks.”

Anakin’s lips twitched. A slow, dangerous smile, not at all kind. “Oh, it would be my pleasure.”

The saber shut off with a snap, and he launched forward.

The fight was brutal. No rules, no honor, just raw and animalistic fury unleashed in the flicker of a heartbeat. 

She stood frozen, robe clenched tightly around her trembling frame, breath caught in her chest as she watched the man she loved, her sweet Ani, unravel.

Anakin was a storm, all fire and anguish and vengeance, striking with the kind of force that only came from years of buried grief, unspoken heartbreak and possessive love in every strike. Metal met flesh with a sickening precision. Blood splattered. Vanto swung wildly and desperate, landing a few hits, but they barely registered. 

Anakin was relentless, built for combat. Designed for it. He wasn’t born like that, for war, but he was made into it. War had carved him into a weapon, he was honed by pain, but underneath the fury still lived the boy who once only wanted to protect the people he loved. And now, seeing her hurt, that boy was screaming and the man he had become answered with rage.

“Anakin, stop!” she cried, breathless, panic bleeding into every syllable. “Don’t—please, he’s not worth it!”

In the chaos, as she tried to break them apart, to stop the devastation, Vanto’s fist swung. It wasn’t meant for her. But it found her anyway. It hit her, colliding with her cheek, sharp and brutal.

The sound, sickening, wrong, echoed through the room like a thunderclap. She gasped, stumbled, a cry of pain tearing from her throat as she crashed into the side table and fell. The thud of her body hitting the floor split the air.

Everything stopped. He punched her. She was on the ground, pain flashing in her glassy eyes, blood on her hand and a cut in her porcelain skin.

The sound she made, that wounded sound, more raw than war, more real than anything he’d ever heard, broke something in him so violently that his breath left him in a single, strangled gasp. 

The world narrowed and all he saw was her, his word had fallen hurt and all his anger turned to something worse. 

She was hurt. Because he hadn’t stopped it. Because he hadn’t been fast enough. Because he had left and was almost too late, again.

That was it, he snapped. 

Anakin tackled Vanto with everything he had, not as a Jedi, but as a man who had seen the only thing that kept him sane, the source of his happiness, hurt and afraid. There was no humanity left as he charged. The punches came fast, the anger white-hot. He didn’t hear Vanto’s protests, and didn't care because all he saw was a danger to her. He threw him across the room, pinned him again, and hit him harder.

All he felt was heartbreak made flesh, striking out at the thing that dared hurt what mattered most to him.

Every hit said: You don’t touch her. Every hit said: You don’t get to make her afraid.  Every hit said: She is mine to protect.

Only when Vanto was unmoving, groaning, bleeding, broken on the floor, did Anakin stop.

He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, fists trembling with fury. His eyes were wild, dark with something primal, something unbearable. A small whimper reached his ears and he turned around. She was still on the floor, broken and shaken.

The door opened again. Security. Too late.

Anakin rushed to her side, kneeling, hands shaking as he cupped her face. “Are you okay?” His voice cracked, desperate. “Look at me. Tell me you’re okay, please.”

He touched her cheek, gently, like she was made of light and grief and might vanish or shatter if he pressed too hard, and she whimpered at the contact. It wasn’t fear this time, nor pain. But because something in her had broken open, and he was the only one who could hold it together.

“This is all on me,” he breathed, horror and panic folding into his voice. His eyes burned, rimmed red. “Maker, forgive me—” His breath stuttered. “I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve—”

Her wide, tear-glossed eyes met his. “You came back,” she whispered, voice so small it broke him. Her trembling fingers touched his cheek, catching a tear as it slid down his face. “You came back right when I needed you.”

His face twisted with emotion, grief, relief, love that nearly broke him in two. “Of course I did,” he choked out. “I’ll always come back.”

Her lip quivered. “Don’t leave me again,” she pleaded. Her voice was broken, raw, but somehow softer.

He closed his eyes, forehead resting against hers, as if that could fuse them together and keep the world from breaking them again.

“Never,” he whispered, voice raw and aching. “My love, never.”

Behind them, security restrained Vanto’s broken, barely-conscious body. There was shouting. Movement. But none of it touched her. None of it touched him. But none of it mattered.

She leaned into Anakin’s touch, into the only thing that felt real, like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. And maybe it was. 

“Just hold me,” she whispered. “Hold me like only our love matters in this world. Hold me like only you know how to.”

Even if the fire of his rage still clung to him like a second skin, he was hers, and she was his. He was the safest place she had known. 

He was home.

Without a word, Anakin gathered her into his arms, carefully, reverently, as if she were made of sacred things. He held her like she was the only truth he’d ever known, the only fight that ever mattered.

And in that moment, with her curled against his chest, with her tears soaking his tunic and his heartbeat steady against her ear…

The galaxy could’ve ended, and neither of them would have noticed.

[yolgart]

save me frat boy hayden

[yolgart]

i'm actually very normal if you ignore everything i have ever said and done

[yolgart]

reblog to give your headache to elon musk instead