#Lost Souls and the arrival of the Shadows

[womshame]

Female Cult Leader Reader x Male Yandere

Summary: When a cult leader's most devoted follower turns obsession into violence, Y/N must confront the dark side of worship — and the power of a love that refuses to let go.

Trigger/Content Warnings: Yandere behavior / obsessive love, Psychological manipulation, Implied/referenced murder, Religious cult dynamics, Emotional coercion, Mental instability, Power imbalance in relationships, Implied captivity, Violence (non-graphic), Dark romantic themes.

Word count: 6,450

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting elongated shadows over the dense forest. The air was thick with humidity, and the distant hoot of an owl echoed through the trees. A solitary figure, Y/N, stood at the edge of a clearing, eyes scanning the encampment that lay ahead.

The compound was a collection of rustic cabins arranged in a semi-circle around a central bonfire pit. Beyond the cabins, a modest chapel stood, its wooden cross silhouetted against the twilight sky. The scent of burning incense wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest.

Y/N took a deep breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead. As the newly appointed leader of the "Children of the New Dawn," she bore the weight of guiding lost souls toward enlightenment. The cult had been founded on principles of unity, spiritual awakening, and the rejection of modern societal constraints.

As Y/N approached the central gathering area, a group of followers emerged from the cabins, their faces alight with reverence.

"Welcome, Seeker," intoned Elias, a tall man with piercing blue eyes and a voice that commanded attention. "We have awaited your arrival."

Y/N nodded, acknowledging the greeting. "Thank you, Elias. It's time we begin our evening meditation."

The followers formed a circle around the bonfire pit, sitting cross-legged on the ground. Y/N took her place at the center, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on her face.

"Close your eyes," Y/N instructed, their voice calm and soothing. "Breathe in the energy of the earth, and let go of your worldly burdens."

As the group settled into meditation, Y/N couldn't help but notice a young man seated at the edge of the circle. His eyes remained open, fixed intently on Y/N. His name was Adrian, a recent addition to the cult, and his gaze held an intensity that bordered on unsettling.

Nights in the compound were unnaturally silent.

Y/N often walked the grounds alone after the group meditations, reflecting on the day's teachings and the growing number of followers who had been trickling in from nearby towns. Word of the cult had spread faster than expected, and what had begun as a spiritual refuge was becoming something else entirely.

From the moment they arrived, Adrian had stood out. It wasn’t just the way he lingered near the periphery of every group. It wasn’t just the way his gaze never wavered when it met Y/N’s. It was something deeper — like a current running just beneath the surface. Controlled, quiet… and dangerous.

Y/N noticed it most during the meditations. While everyone else surrendered to the quiet rhythm of breath and chant, Adrian watched. He never closed his eyes. He studied Y/N like someone who had found a secret too sacred to look away from.

And lately, it was getting worse.

A week after the first encounter, Y/N called a private meeting with Elias in the chapel.

Elias was among the first converts — devoted, intelligent, and utterly loyal. Y/N had come to rely on his insight.

“He’s always watching,” Y/N said, voice low. “I can feel him behind me even when I know he’s not there.”

Elias nodded solemnly. “Adrian. I’ve noticed, too. He never sleeps when the others do. I caught him outside your cabin two nights ago.”

That stopped Y/N cold. “What was he doing?”

“Just… standing. Looking at your window. When I confronted him, he smiled and said he was ‘listening for the divine voice.’” Elias paused. “He believes you speak directly to something greater. That you are something greater.”

Y/N ran a hand through her hair. “He’s misinterpreting everything. I’m not a prophet. I never claimed to be.”

“But you let them believe,” Elias said softly.

The words stung. It was true — the teachings had become more abstract over time, and Y/N had allowed that ambiguity to grow. Now it was turning on her.

Y/N stood and paced. “Keep an eye on him. But don’t confront him directly. If we exile him, he might lash out. I don’t want a scene.”

Elias nodded. “I’ll be subtle.”

But Adrian was never far.

That night, Y/N sat alone in her cabin, writing. A soft knock at the door broke the silence.

She hesitated. It was past curfew — none of the followers should be out of their cabins.

“Who is it?” Y/N called, standing.

“It's me,” came Adrian’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. “Please. I... I just need a moment of your time.”

Y/N opened the door a crack.

Adrian stood in the shadows, hands clasped in front of him, like a sinner at confession. His dark eyes seemed even deeper in the moonlight, black pools that refused to let go.

“I shouldn’t be speaking with you right now,” Y/N said.

“I know. But I can’t sleep. Not without... your voice.”

Y/N frowned. “What do you mean?”

Adrian stepped closer, and Y/N noticed something in his hands — a small wooden carving. He held it out, reverently.

“I made this for you. I carved it from the trees near the chapel. It’s... it’s how I see you.”

Y/N took the object. It was a figure — not a god, not a saint. It was unmistakably her. The facial features, the long robes, even the posture during meditation.

“You made an idol,” Y/N said slowly, stunned. “Of me.”

Adrian’s smile was radiant — and entirely unhinged. “You are the vessel. The voice of the New Dawn. I see what others are too blind to understand.”

Y/N’s stomach turned. “Adrian… this isn’t what we teach.”

“You say that,” he said, tilting his head, “but when you speak, it’s like the universe leans in to listen. You shine when you close your eyes, Y/N. I see it. And I know... I know I was chosen to protect you.”

Y/N stepped back. “That’s not your role here.”

Adrian’s smile dropped.

“Then what am I to you?” he asked, almost whispering.

Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

“I see.” His voice was cold now, distant. “They’ve poisoned you. Elias… he makes you doubt your divinity.”

Y/N opened the door wider. “Go back to your cabin, Adrian. That’s an order.”

Adrian stared at her for a long moment, his jaw clenched. Then he turned and walked off into the dark.

The next morning, Elias was gone.

Vanished. No note. No witnesses.

Only his boots were found near the chapel, half-buried in mud and surrounded by strange, spiraling symbols etched into the ground.

The compound was on edge. Y/N tried to keep order, to hold the group together — but Adrian’s smile grew wider by the day.

As if he knew something they didn’t.

As if he was waiting for something.

Or someone.

Three days had passed since Elias vanished, and his absence clung to the compound like damp air before a storm.

Y/N had done her best to keep the routines intact — the meditations, the fasts, the communal chores — but unease was spreading like mold. Each morning brought new signs that something was terribly wrong.

Dead birds left at the altar.

Scratch marks on Y/N’s cabin door.

Spiral-shaped messages written in burnt charcoal into the dirt, always circling inward: You Are Chosen. You Belong to Us.

And Adrian... Adrian was never far.

Unlike the others, who whispered fears about Elias or wild animals in the forest, Adrian seemed strangely calm. Serene, even. Y/N noticed he’d begun spending more time with other followers — murmuring things during chores, leading hushed talks by the firepit, sharing “lessons” Y/N had never taught.

And then one night, after an unusually quiet meditation, Y/N saw Adrian slipping into the forest with three others — including Jonah, the shy eighteen-year-old recruit who had barely spoken since arriving.

Y/N followed them.

The woods were alive with nighttime sounds — insects, cracking branches, the whisper of movement through brush. Y/N moved like a shadow, dark robe blending into the trees.

In a secluded clearing, Adrian had already lit a small fire. The others knelt around it, eyes closed, hands on their thighs. Adrian stood before them, preaching.

“Y/N saved us,” he said, voice soft but firm. “She pulled us from the filth of the world. But she still don’t see her own divinity. She still believe she just... like us.”

One follower opened his eyes, uncertain. “Didn’t she say we’re all equals?”

Adrian smiled with gentle, terrifying patience.

“She say that. But I feel the truth when she speak. I see it — the glow behind her eyes when she meditate. You’ve seen it, too. Haven’t you?”

The others nodded slowly. Jonah hesitated, then nodded last.

Adrian knelt in front of him, pulling something from his cloak — a small ceremonial dagger, carved from stone. Meant for rituals of harvest or cutting herbs.

Not for this.

“Devotion requires sacrifice,” Adrian whispered. “Are you ready?”

Jonah bit his lip. “What kind of sacrifice?”

“Just a small cut. Your blood, offered as a vow.”

Jonah, mesmerized, reached for the blade.

Y/N stepped into the clearing.

“Adrian. Put it down.”

All three followers jumped. Adrian simply smiled.

“I knew you’d come,” he said, rising to his feet. “I knew you’d hear the truth calling.”

Y/N crossed the clearing and gently took the dagger from Jonah’s hand. The cut was shallow, but it was never about the blood.

It was about the symbol. The act.

“This is not what we teach,” Y/N said, firm. “This is not the way. We don’t ask for pain. Only clarity.”

Adrian tilted his head, eyes glittering with something that wasn’t madness, but something colder. Deeper.

“You say that… but you surround yourself with the sacred. You are our axis, Y/N. Why pretend otherwise?”

“Because faith must be free. Not forced.”

He stepped forward, so close now that Y/N could feel the warmth of the fire reflected in his breath.

“Then look me in the eye,” Adrian said. “Tell me you don’t feel it. That you don’t see in me what I see in you.”

Y/N said nothing for a moment.

The truth was… there was something there. Not affection. Not spiritual connection. Something more primal. Mirror-like. A sharp edge.

“No,” Y/N said at last. “What I see is a man twisting belief into obsession.”

Adrian smiled — a soft, broken thing. A smile of disappointment and hunger.

“Then if I can’t have you through devotion…” he whispered, “...maybe I’ll take you through fear.”

Suddenly, he pulled a smoldering coal from the fire and tossed it in. Smoke billowed upward, thick and choking. Y/N coughed, grabbing Jonah’s arm to pull him back — but when the smoke cleared...

Adrian was gone.

By morning, three cabins stood empty.

Adrian’s. Jonah’s. And the two others who had followed him.

But they left something behind.

Inside each cabin, carved into the walls, were spirals. Hundreds of them. Scratched deep into wood.

And above each bed, written in blood:

THE OFFERING HAS BEGUN

Y/N stood in the middle of the temple, hands clasped behind their back, eyes on the flickering candlelight. Followers whispered in corners. Some had begun to fast more than they should. Others sat in stillness for hours, staring into fire, waiting for signs.

Adrian had vanished into the woods. But his influence hadn't.

Every night, more of his spirals appeared.

One was carved into the floor of Y/N’s cabin, though the doors had been locked.

Another burned into the back of the altar cloth — carefully, reverently.

And then Jonah’s bracelet was found, tangled in a tree branch near the forest’s edge, coated in dried blood.

Y/N knew what had to be done.

She packed lightly: a blade, a cloth, a canteen. She said nothing to the others.

But when she stepped into the woods, someone was already waiting.

It was Luca, a quiet follower who had once been one of Elias’s closest friends.

“I’m coming with you,” he said. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

Y/N hesitated. “This isn’t a journey meant for more than one.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “If he took Jonah, he could take more of us. I’m not letting him take you too.”

Y/N didn’t argue. She simply nodded.

And together, they followed the path of spirals carved into trees, painted on stones, drawn in dirt.

It took them until dusk to reach it — a clearing deep in the forgotten part of the forest, where even birds refused to sing.

There stood a structure, new but built in the old way: logs, twine, blood. A crude shrine of worship made by fevered hands.

At the center, bound by vines, was Jonah — pale, trembling, alive.

Luca rushed forward, but Y/N stopped him.

“Wait.”

From the shadows behind the shrine stepped Adrian.

His eyes glowed, wild and ecstatic.

“You came,” he breathed. “Just as it was foretold.”

“Let him go,” Y/N said coldly.

Adrian tilted his head.

“He offered himself. For you. For all of us.”

“He’s a boy, Adrian. He was scared. You manipulated him.”

“He believes. As I do.”

Y/N stepped closer. “You don’t believe in me. You believe in owning me.”

Something flickered behind Adrian’s smile — rage, sadness, obsession.

“I’ve seen your visions,” he said. “The dreams you hide. I saw them in Elias before he disappeared. He doubted you. I took that doubt away.”

Luca’s breath caught.

“You— you killed him.”

Adrian didn’t deny it.

“I freed him. The way I’ll free Jonah. The way I’ll free you, Y/N.”

He pulled a blade — not stone, this time, but steel. Clean. Precise.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

“You think death will bring me closer to you?”

Adrian stepped forward, slowly, like approaching something sacred.

“No. Not death. Transformation.”

He reached out — but Luca moved faster.

In a blur of motion, he tackled Adrian to the ground. The blade clattered across the shrine floor.

Y/N didn’t waste a second.

She ran to Jonah, cutting the vines with their own knife, pulling the boy free as his body slumped into their arms, sobbing.

Behind them, Adrian and Luca struggled — the fanatic’s strength against raw fury.

It didn’t last long.

A crack echoed through the trees — and then silence.

Luca stood, breathing hard. Adrian lay still, blood trickling from a wound at his temple, unconscious.

Y/N stared at him, heart pounding.

He had nearly turned everything they’d built into a prison of worship and blood.

“Let’s end this,” Y/N said.

Together, they burned the shrine.

It took hours. Smoke billowed into the sky, thick and black. The spiral carvings hissed as they burned. Jonah sat curled against a tree, eyes wide, watching flames consume the place where his innocence had almost died.

Y/N stayed silent, staring into the fire, until the final beam cracked and fell.

Back at the compound, Adrian was locked away in an empty cabin, guarded constantly. Some followers wept. Some cheered. Most were confused.

Y/N gathered everyone that night.

They stood beneath the stars, no torches, no altar. Just silence.

“I failed you,” Y/N said. “Not because I doubted, but because I allowed faith to go unchecked. I allowed obsession to wear the face of belief. That will never happen again.”

No one spoke.

Y/N looked at them — at their eyes, their hunger for meaning, for truth. And they knew the path forward would be slow, but possible.

Together, they could begin again.

Days passed. Adrian remained silent in his cabin, eyes hollow. Luca kept watch. Jonah began to smile again, little by little. And at night, Y/N sat outside, looking into the trees, listening to the silence.

One evening, Luca sat beside them.

“You saved us,” he said quietly.

Y/N shook their head. “I nearly destroyed us.”

“No,” he said. “He tried to destroy you. And we followed him. But in the end… we came back.”

Y/N looked at him — truly looked.

And saw loyalty without blindness. Care without worship.

“I’m glad you were there,” she said softly.

Luca smiled. “I always will be.”

For the first time in weeks, Y/N felt something close to peace.

The forest remained dark. The spirals might return. But now, they would face them together.

And devotion, if it returned, would never again demand blood.

[shadow-543a]

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[thedeadstoryteller1]

𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔅𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡| 𝒮𝓎𝓁𝓊𝓈 𝓍 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒩𝒮𝐹𝒲

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Sylus waited two centuries for you. A cursed love, a lost soul, and a final chance to end the cycle. Blood, sex, and destiny collide at a masquerade ball as you give yourself to him the vampire who has always been yours. Eternity begins tonight.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Blood Kink, Soulmate, Blood Play, Dark Romance, Masquerade Ball, Touch Starved, Possessive Lover, Rough Sex

𝔄𝔯𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔱: Chaloobie on X

𝔗𝔞𝔤𝔰: @cordidy @cafekitsune (for the banners) @carnallydepravedsanctum (for the edits) (If you want to be on my permeant tag list lmk)

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔱: 3071

Blood.

Blood trails down your neck, slipping between your breasts.

Pain.

The sharp drag of fangs against your skin.

Venom.

It seeps into you, making your body hum—numb and alive all at once.

Desire.

It curls hot and tight in your belly as you press closer to the man behind you. The man with blood-red eyes and hair as white as snow.

You feel the chill of his touch skimming your fevered skin. You feel the hard length of him grinding against the curve of your ass.

"Mmmm," he purrs into your ear, voice rough velvet. The sound alone makes your thighs clench, seeking any kind of relief.

His mouth is still on you. Still savoring you. Each pull from his lips makes your blood sing for him.

To him, you taste like sin—sweet, intoxicating, addictive.

His tongue laps at your punctured skin before he breathes against you, sending shivers racing up your spine.

"I am yours," he growls, low and ragged. "I'll wait for you..."

You jolt awake, gasping.

Your skin burns where his mouth once was. Phantom touches linger—his cold hands, his teeth, his voice whispering promises you can't forget.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. Your heart thunders in your chest like you’ve lived it, not just dreamed it.

But it was only a dream... wasn't it?

You press trembling fingers to your neck. No punctures. No blood. And yet, you swear you can still feel him there, as if the memory is stitched into your skin.

A shadow moves at the edge of your vision. You snap your head toward it—but nothing's there. Just the pale glow of the moon outside your window.

Still, you can’t shake the sensation. His voice, low and rough, echoing through your mind:

"I am yours. I'll wait for you."

You bury your face in your hands, trying to breathe, trying to forget.

But deep down, you know you aren't imagining him. He isn't just a dream.

He’s a memory you can't quite grasp, a presence that refuses to let you go.

And he’s waiting.

Later that night, you slip into your gown—a breathtaking creation of black silk and blood-red accents that clings to your curves and glitters under the light like spilled stardust. The mask you choose is just as stunning: intricate lace and sharp edges, hiding your eyes but revealing just enough to leave the imagination wanting.

The Hunters Association spared no expense for tonight's gala. A grand celebration for a new sponsor whose identity remained secret—whispers of power, money, and connections spreading like wildfire among the elite.

You arrive at the masquerade ball and immediately, all eyes turn to you.

You don't just enter the room—you command it.

The chandeliers overhead sparkle like frozen rain, the music swells in a haunting waltz, and laughter and clinking glasses fill the vast hall.

But none of it matters.

Because you feel it—before you see it.

The weight of a stare. Heavy. Intense. Unyielding.

It burns against your skin, hotter than the ballroom's heat, sharper than the finest blade. You shiver in your heels, heart stuttering.

You lift your chin, scanning the masked faces swirling around you—predators and prey, dancers and liars.

And there, across the ballroom, half-shrouded in the shadows beneath the grand staircase—

A man.

Tall. Pale. Impossibly magnetic.

His mask is simple, black and silver, but you know it’s him. You feel it deep in your bones.

White hair gleaming under the lights. Eyes that blaze like molten garnet.

He stands perfectly still, watching you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Your breath catches. Your body remembers him before your mind can even think. The dream, the touch, the bite—it wasn't just a fevered fantasy.

It was a warning.

And now... he’s here.

He doesn’t move.

Not at first.

He simply watches you—like a wolf deciding when to strike.

The crowd shifts and spins between you, dancers weaving intricate patterns on the marble floor, masks flashing like mirrors under the chandeliers.

But you feel it. That invisible thread pulling tighter between you both.

Your heart pounds in your throat, your hands trembling against the folds of your gown. You should look away. You should run.

But you take a step forward.

Then another.

As if pulled by something ancient, something inevitable.

The crowd parts like a living tide, as if the world itself knows not to stand in your way.

Still, he doesn’t move. He waits.

And when you are close enough to breathe in the cold, electric air around him, he extends a gloved hand.

No words.

Just a simple, devastating invitation.

Your fingers tremble as you place your hand in his. His touch is firm—cool, but burning a path straight through you.

Without a sound, he pulls you into the dance.

You melt into his chest, the music fading into a dull roar as he leads you effortlessly across the floor. His body moves like a dream—strong, predatory, utterly in control.

You can feel the way he watches you behind that mask. Not just your body—your soul.

Every spin, every step, every subtle press of his hand against the small of your back is a silent claim.

Your pulse races. Your thighs clench. You can’t tell if it's fear, desire, or both.

And when he leans down, his breath feathering against the shell of your ear, you almost whimper.

"You feel it too," he murmurs, voice like silk over steel.

A shudder runs through you.

You open your mouth to speak—but his hand tightens just slightly on your waist.

"Not yet," he whispers. "Soon."

Then, just as suddenly as he appeared—he releases you.

You stumble back, breathless, dizzy.

The crowd swallows him whole. He vanishes like smoke.

Leaving you alone on the dance floor, heart pounding, body aching, and a single, burning thought echoing through your mind:

It was him.

And he’s just getting started.

"(Y/N)! Who was that?" You jump at the sound of Tara’s voice, she appears beside you, grinning and sipping her drink without a care. Still dizzy, still reeling from what just happened, you stammer, struggling to find words.

"I— I don't know," you manage, your heart thundering. "He feels... familiar. Like I've met him before."

Tara laughs, giving you a playful nudge. "You say the strangest things sometimes. Come on, let's dance!"

Before you can protest, she grabs your hand and pulls you back onto the dance floor. Laughter bubbles out of you—wild, carefree—and for a while, you lose yourself in the music, in the lights, in Tara’s infectious energy. You drink, you dance, you laugh harder than you have in what feels like forever.

Maybe you had a bit too much to drink. Or maybe you were still riding that high-strung wave of unease. Either way, you know one thing for sure: you need to find a bathroom.

"Tara, I’ll be right back," you shout over the music.

She winks at you, already twirling into Simmone’s waiting arms.

The gala sprawls through an ancient mansion, beautiful but confusing—a maze of shadowed corridors and towering doors. You wander, heels clicking softly on the marble floors, trying door after door.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath, opening a heavy wooden door... only to find a bedroom instead of a bathroom.

That's when you feel it.

The weight of a stare.

The heat of a presence.

Right behind you.

"Lost, kitten?" The voice is low. Velvet over steel. It rolls through you, sending a shudder of ecstasy down your spine.

You whip around, your breath catching.

"Who are you?" you whisper, voice trembling, pleading.

You feel him step closer, his breath brushing your ear, the heat of his body caging you in.

"Think, my darling," he murmurs.

Your mind spins, memories slipping through your fingers like water. You don’t know him—or you shouldn’t—but your heart, your soul, they know.

They remember.

Bound by a curse older than the stars themselves—a vampire who fell in love with a mortal. A mortal who damned her own soul to never fade, to always return, lifetime after lifetime.

He always finds you.

Century after century.

And this time is no different.

Your lips part as the name tumbles out, torn from the depths of your very being:

"S–Sylus." Your heart cracks open. "My love."

The moment the words leave you, his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is raw. Brutal. Starved. You kiss him back with a fire, a desperation born from centuries of yearning. He grips you tightly, as if terrified you might vanish again.

Two hundred years of hunger, of aching loneliness, pours out between you. He kisses you like a man who has lived only for this moment. And you cling to him, heart shattering, body melting, soul finally, finally whole again.

Without realizing you've been pinned against a wall, moving with every breath of the intense kiss. Sylus' body trembles as he holds you, his hands shaking not from fear—but from the unbearable need coursing through him.

"You remember." he whispers against your throat, voice ragged. "You're mine."

He drags his hands up your thighs, pushing the delicate fabric of your gown higher and higher until it pools around your hips. You gasp when you feel his hand slide between your legs—his fingers groaning softly when he finds you already wet for him.

"Fuck," he hisses. "You're perfect. You're beautiful."

Your hips buck into his touch, seeking more, desperate for him the way he is desperate for you. His fingers tease you—slow circles, cruel and tender all at once—until you're panting, grinding shamelessly against his hand.

"Please, Sylus," you whimper, voice breaking.

That’s all it takes. The last thread of his self-control snaps.

He undoes the front of his slacks with one hand, freeing his cock, thick and already dripping for you. He doesn't waste time—he can't.

With a guttural growl, Sylus aligns himself with your entrance and pushes in, inch by devastating inch, filling you in one slow, merciless thrust.

You cry out—half pleasure, half overwhelmed sob—as your walls stretch to take him. He buries his face in your neck, trembling against the need to just fuck you into the wall right then and there.

"So tight," he groans against your skin. " Made for me."

He starts to move—slow at first, grinding deep, savoring every desperate gasp and whimper you make. But it doesn’t stay slow for long. The centuries of longing crash down on him, ripping the control from his body.

He fucks you with deep, brutal strokes, each one slamming you harder against the wall. Each one claiming you in body and soul.

Your nails dig into his back through his shirt, your legs trembling around his waist. But he holds you like you weigh nothing—like you’re precious, sacred.

"I'm yours," you sob, clinging to him. "Always yours, Sylus."

He kisses you—rough, messy, teeth clashing—and you feel him lose himself completely.

His hands are everywhere—on your breasts, your hips, your throat—possessive and worshipful all at once. You can feel him pulsing inside you, close, desperate.

He shifts, angling his hips, and suddenly he’s hitting that spot inside you that has your vision going white.

"Come for me," he commands, voice a broken growl. "I need to feel you."

It’s too much—his voice, his body, his love burning into you—and you shatter around him with a scream, clenching him tight.

Sylus snarls against your throat and follows you over the edge, thrusting deep one final time as he pours into you, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

He doesn't pull away. He stays buried inside you, holding you tight, his forehead pressed against yours.

"I’ve missed you," he pants. "It took longer to find you my love.”

You can only cling to him, tears mixing with laughter as you realize: this time, he’s yours forever.

"Take my blood," you whisper, voice trembling with need, gazing into his crimson, desperate eyes. "I don't want to be parted from you again. I don't want to leave you alone, waiting for me to return."

Sylus' chest heaves, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know there will be bruises later—but you welcome them, you want them.

"Break the curse...?" he pleads, his voice breaking, as if he's scared to believe it could really happen. As if your love, so deep, so ancient, that now it was blossoming into a new life. And yet he vowed to never take your blood unless you asked. Everything changes tonight. 

You cup his face, thumb tracing his sharp cheekbone, eyes shining. "My darling," you breathe, "it ends tonight. Forever."

He groans, the sound low and guttural, feeling your slick walls still clutching him tight, his cum already dripping from your swollen hole. But he's hard again inside you—aching, throbbing—with a need that is no longer just physical.

It’s soul-deep.

Without another word, he leans in, trembling, mouth brushing over the sensitive skin of your neck. You arch into him, baring your throat in surrender.

"(y/n)," he growls against your skin, and then his fangs pierce you.

Pain blooms, sharp and dizzying—and then it’s swept away by pleasure so intense your vision whites out. His cock throbs inside you, grinding deeper, and you can feel his mouth greedily sucking your blood, drinking you down, taking you into him.

Your body spasms, helpless against the sudden orgasm that rips through you— pleasure and pain, life and death, love and eternity all blending into one.

Sylus growls again, deeper, possessive, as he drinks, hips thrusting shallowly, grinding against your sore, sensitive walls as he bonds your soul to his.

You feel it— a snap, like a tether finally locking into place.

The curse shatters. The bond forms. Forever.

Sylus pulls back, his mouth bloody, his eyes glowing like molten rubies. He looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever needed, ever wanted, and finally—finally—you are.

He cradles your face in his bloodstained hands, his forehead resting against yours, cock still pulsing inside you.

"I love you," he rasps. "In this life. In every life."

And with a slow, savage thrust, he begins moving again, needing to seal the bond not just with blood— but with every inch of himself inside you.

Your blood still slicks his lips, your neck throbbing from where his fangs pierced you— but you don't care. You want more.You need more.

Sylus lifts his head, blood dripping from his mouth, staining his sharp teeth. His eyes burn so fiercely they almost glow. He looks wild, ravaged—no longer a man, but a creature driven by ancient, feral hunger.

He cups your chin roughly, smearing blood across your jawline, your lips. You shudder, the eroticism of it making your walls flutter around his still-pulsing cock.

"Taste it," he commands, voice shredded raw with lust.

You obey without hesitation, parting your lips as he presses his bloodstained thumb against them. You suck it in, tasting yourself—coppery, sweet, alive.

Sylus shudders violently, letting out a broken moan.

"Fuck," he groans, "you're so perfect kitten."

He shifts you suddenly, the movement drives him deeper, forcing another helpless moan from your throat.

Then— he leans in and licks the wound he made, slow and possessive, his tongue hot and slick against your skin.

The sensation sends another bolt of pleasure through you, your pussy clenching down hard around him.

Sylus growls, rutting into you harder, faster—like he can’t get deep enough, can’t get close enough. And then— his fangs scrape along your collarbone, your breast, leaving stinging, shallow scratches. Marks. Claiming you. Painting you with little lines of blood.

You whimper his name, clutching at his hair as he worships you with mouth and cock, drinking tiny sips from the cuts he makes, never enough to hurt—only enough to own you.

Your head falls back against the wall, lost to the overwhelming sensations. Pain. Pleasure. Blood. Sex.

"Cum for me," Sylus growls, voice dark, rough. "Cum with my teeth in you, my cock in you. My blood mixing with yours."

And when his fangs sink into your breast, right over your pounding heart— you scream his name, cumming so hard you black out for a second, convulsing around him as he pumps you full of his seed again, marking you inside and out.

He stays there, buried in you, drinking, gasping, whispering promises against your skin.

Sylus cradles you against the wall, still sheathed inside you, panting raggedly. His crimson eyes glow, wild and reverent. Then, with one clawed nail, he makes a shallow, precise cut along the strong curve of his neck. A bead of dark, shimmering blood wells up instantly—thick, rich, intoxicating.

He cups the back of your head and pulls you closer, his voice low and commanding:

"Drink, kitten."

Your heart races—not with fear, but with aching, desperate need. You part your lips and press them to his wound, tasting his blood for the first time.

It's molten heat, velvet darkness, forbidden ecstasy sliding over your tongue.

You suck greedily, your hands clutching his shoulders as the blood—his essence—pours into you. And you feel it immediately. The venom woven into his blood ignites in your veins, burning away your humanity with every pull you take. Every swallow draws you closer to the abyss... and to him.

Your legs tremble around his waist, your body writhing against his, overwhelmed by the flood of pleasure and pain. You moan against his throat, lost in the high, the transformation.

Sylus groans deep, low, a sound torn from his chest as he feels the bond snapping into place— eternal, unbreakable.

"That's it, my love," he rasps.

Your vision blurs, your heart thunders once, twice... and then stops.

In that instant, you die in his arms. But you are not lost.

You are reborn.

The world rushes back to you, sharper, hungrier, every sensation magnified a hundredfold. Your teeth ache with new fangs, your skin hums with unnatural power, your soul sings with his song.

Sylus lifts your head from his neck, gazing down at you with raw, savage pride. You lick the last traces of his blood from your lips, smiling wickedly.

"Forever." he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. "Our souls are bound."

And then he thrusts into you again—soft, delicate, passionately —claiming each other not just in blood, but in body and soul.

This time, when you cum, it shatters something inside you, making you truly his.

The curse breaking. 

The bond forming.  

Together Forever.

Hello loves ! I'm thinking about calling my following The Ferrymen (since you all share my stories) Thank you all so much for reading until the end ! Don't forget to show some love ... it would mean so much to me. If you like my stories so much and want to be personally tagged in ALL my work please let me know ! I would most def do that for y'all. Sniffing Pleasure will be out soon hehe in the meantime I hope you enjoy Vampire Sylus ( I love him and Astarion sooooo much)

Anyways,

Much love and kisses to all!

~The Deadstory Teller~

[pasukiyo]

A PLACE IN THE SEA OF STARS

anakin skywalker x f!naberrie!reader word count: 10.4k (my longest yet... i'm so sorry) warnings: two idiots pining, pining, reader is padme's younger sister (whether biological or adopted is up to you), first time having sex, soft smut, angst synopsis: a life spent in padmé amidala's shadow and never once did she ever think she'd be envious of her sister. that is, until anakin skywalker walks his way into her life and she finds herself praying that one day, he'd look at her the way he does at padmé, that she'll be given a place in the sea of stars, that her destiny will include him.

read on ao3

 It came as no surprise that Anakin Skywalker would be enamored with her second-to-oldest sister.

 After a life spent behind Padmé Amidala’s shadow, she’d grown accustomed to it— being overlooked. But for once, just this once, she wished history wouldn’t repeat itself, wished the prophecy could be rewritten and for once, let it be her who was chosen, who was noticed. 

 But of course, it’s futile. 

 You can sink to your knees and pray to whatever higher being is in the sky but at the end of the day, there are millions of lost souls just like you doing the same. You can have faith, you can believe that someday you’ll be heard but with each silent day that passes, your voice still falls on deaf ears. 

 She’s done her time playing the fool who sinks to her knees and pleads with the night sky to find her a place in the sea of stars, so that she may fit in a constellation too. She’s been the statue who's been made to wait— and she’s started to crumble. 

 She remembers the day she started to pray like it was yesterday. It was the day she first met Anakin Skywalker, back when he was only a Padawan, still searching for his own place in the world. Her parents were restless then, having heard of the multiple assassination attempts on their dear second oldest daughter. Of course she was worried too, but she still could feel the guilt that settled into the marrow of her bones when she found herself pondering whether her parents would react the same way if it had been her life at stake instead. 

 She remembers helping her eldest sister, Sola, and her mother with dinner in preparation for the arrival of their sister Padmé and her Jedi escort. She’d been tasked with bringing a bowl of fruit to the table and she remembered nearly being trampled over by her nieces, Ryoo and Pooja, as they squeal Padmé’s name, sprinting for the door. 

 She remembers huffing, mumbling a curse in an alien language beneath her breath just as their guests step inside, looking up from where she leaned over the table, dropping the bowl down onto the surface. She remembers her breath catching in her throat when her gaze found a sea of blue that put the Naboo waters to shame. 

 Padmé’s lips curved into a grin as she exclaimed her sister’s name, circling the table to capture her in an embrace. Her sister wrapped her arms around her and her chin found Padmé’s shoulder as the blue that took her breath away crashed into her and she swore everything changed in that moment. 

 She remembers the first time Anakin Skywalker looked at her. It was a brief, friendly locking of the eyes but a fleeting moment for him felt like lightyears for her. His eyes were the blue of the water where the sun’s reflection gently ripples and warps. They were the blue of the sky after it rains and the sun begins to spill through the cracks of the wall of clouds. 

 She’s never understood what it meant to be speechless, for something to literally steal the breath away from her lungs. But from the moment her eyes met his, she began to understand. 

 “Anakin! This is my youngest sister,” Padmé announced, pulling away from their embrace. Her spine stiffened when her sister introduced her and she watched as his full, pink lips moved to form her name. His voice is like nails scraping against the itch she can’t reach on her back, his voice is like velvet she can swallow, deliciously soft and rich against her throat. 

 “It’s nice to meet you,” Anakin dipped his chin in greeting, the silly, little braid falling off his shoulder. She drained the lump that had formed in her throat, bowing her head. Her lips trembled and her breath was shaky as she prepared her salutations but her words fell dead on the tip of her tongue when Padmé’s squeal permeated the room. 

 “And my eldest sister Sola!”

 And just like that, all attention rolled away from her and onto her eldest sisters but she still watched him, heart beating against her chest. 

 And that was the moment she began to pray. 

 She prayed, even though the looks he’d given Padmé didn’t go unnoticed. The way he watched her, even when she wasn’t the one speaking, the way he’d soak in every word, every praise for her that fell past her parents’ mouths. The way he stared longingly at her sister when he was certain nobody was watching— and no one was, for their attentions were on Padmé, save for hers. 

 It was typical. 

 It should come as no surprise that everyone would worship the ground her sister— the former Queen, current Senator of Naboo— walked on. She’s not surprised that someone young and benign like him would fall in love with her sister— she’d only seen it happen more times than she ever really cared to count. 

 And she’d never really cared about all the suitors on their knees at Padmé’s feet before— they were her sister’s problems, not hers. She’d never even really envied her sister, at least in that sense. 

 But everything changed the moment Anakin stepped through the door. Everything changed the moment their eyes met, if only for the most fleeting of seconds. 

 So she prayed. 

 Inside the inner realms of her mind, she sinks to her knees and stares into the void above her, the stars that beamed down at her twinkling, almost as if they taunted her. She swallowed her pride, folding her hands together and raising them to her chin, brow dipping as she pleaded with the higher being in the sky to hear her cry. 

 “Please, hear me, Maker,” she whispered into her mind, externally staring at Anakin, internally losing her gaze amongst the stars as if the Maker himself would appear between them. “Hear my plea. Whatever destiny you’ve pre-written for me, please be sure it includes Anakin Skywalker.”

 She didn’t see Anakin Skywalker again for another year after that. 

 Apparently, being a Jedi means he’s constantly from place to place, but next time they do end up in the same place, it’s even more fleeting than the last. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever see him again, if she was foolish to continue hoping that he might notice her, that he might even love her. But she still remembers the way his eyes flickered in recognition when they caught hers across the courtyard of Theed Royal Palace. His hair was longer and he didn’t have that ridiculous braid or tiny ponytail on the back of his neck anymore. The Chancellor was speaking to him and another Jedi with umber hair and a matching beard, but his attention was on her. 

 He looked… darker. As if the years of war had finally begun taking its toll on him. But he’s still the same man he’s always been, still the same one she’s dreamed about. He even looked better.  

 They don’t get the chance to talk, only share knowing glances, as he was on duty and their paths unfortunately didn’t cross. But that gleaming in his eyes, the one that blazes with knowing is all the kindling in the pit of her belly needs to bloom, to blossom into a raging wildfire. 

 So, she prayed again. 

 “Maker,” she said into that night sky inside of her head. The stars shone brighter, as if to laugh at the foolish girl beneath them. She ignored them of course— because she truly believed that one day, she’d prove them wrong. “Please. Hear my plea. Let Anakin Skywalker see me again. Give me a place in your sea of stars and make sure it is in Anakin Skywalker’s orbit.”

 She doesn’t see him again for another two years. 

 But still, he lingers, just like a phantom weaving through every corner she passes, cloaked in shadow. She sees Anakin Skywalker everywhere she goes— in the lakes of shining waters out in the country, in the rain that falls on a dark, cloudy day, in the litany of stars that idle in the sky. 

 She sees him in her dreams, staring the way he did at Padmé. Only, in her dreams, his gaze finds her. Almost like he had that day in the courtyard, but in her dreams, his eyes would linger longer. 

 His voice calls out to her whenever she’s sleeping and it lingers in gooseflesh on her skin, frosting over her bones. She’ll open her eyes when he calls but she’s never truly awake. Alas, if dreaming is the only way she’ll see Anakin Skywalker again, she’d gladly succumb to her sleep and trick herself into believing it is real. 

 Except tonight, she does not think she can take it much longer. 

 “Anakin,” she whispers one day when she peels her eyelids open after he calls. She says his name like it’ll be the last time she ever will. That look is on his face again— the one she’s seen so many times directed at her in her dreams, she’s nearly forgotten it wasn’t meant for her in the first place. 

 She used to wake and long for sleep to come again, just so she could watch him look at her like that. 

 But three long years of waiting and foolishly praying to beings who do not hear have begun to rust the illusion she’s deluded herself into hopelessly believing in. Three long years of silence and she’s finally cracked. She is broken— she sees it now. She’s grown weary of hoping he’d be the one to fix her. 

 His lips curve to form a smile and for three years, she’s fooled herself into believing it could be for her— truly be for her, outside of her dreams. But to be forthright, she’s tired. She’s grown tired of pretending, tired of clinging onto the dying embers of mere memories of how a man looked at someone that wasn’t her— but rather her sister. She’s grown tired of hoping, waiting, praying that one day, he may wander back into her life and thread his way into the tapestry that her destiny’s been woven into.

 Tonight is the night she forfeits with her palms to the sky, tonight is the night she yields to the stars that have taunted her for far too long and admits her defeat. That they were right all along. Tonight is the night she blows away the ashes she’s desperately held so close to her chest and sealed away in secret urns inside for far too long. 

 Tonight is the night she lets go. 

 When she wakes the following morning, birds chirp outside her window. Sunlight spills into her room as it rises over the mountains across the lake and she yawns, stretching her arms over her head. Today is merry— it is the day her sister, Padmé Amidala, marries. 

 Today is merry but instead, she feels dread seep into the marrow of her bones. She’s happy for her sister, really, she is, but it serves only as a reminder that her time is ticking, and time has turned vexing. It serves as a reminder that she must make haste to find her own purpose, to find someone who will cherish her the way she’s spent many fortnights dreaming about. Sola’s already married and found her purpose, and Padmé’s had her entire life laid out before her since she was only fourteen years of age. 

 Sola, the wife and mother, Padmé, the Queen and then the Senator, and then there’s her. Unsure. Undecided. An ellipsis. 

 She’s envious. How could she not be? She’s envious that she’ll never be the perfect mother like Sola, envious that she’ll never live up to Padmé’s legacy, she’s even grown envious of the stars: they simply idle in the night sky but even their idleness has a purpose because their places have reason, to create constellations that in turn, tell stories. 

 She knows that after today, the pressure of fulfilling whatever destiny’s been written for her will only further suffocate her. She will suffocate beneath the weight of this pressure and she will be expected to continue breathing. She’s tried for so long to keep the air in her lungs but it’s so hard when with each day that passes by, the darkness grows more appealing. 

 She’s tried so hard to find the right path she’s supposed to take, but there are so many roads, so many choices and so many consequences. She’s afraid— and it’s why she’s allowed herself to hide in her sisters’ shadows for so long. But it feels so stifling now. 

 She sighs and blinks up to the terracotta ceiling. And then of course, dread wears her bones for an entirely different reason. Because it’s inevitable that she’s going to see Anakin Skywalker today. And things will be different. 

 It’s been lingering like an annoying, little insect since Padmé announced she’d invited her Jedi friends to the wedding, ever since she heard Anakin’s name being read off the list. Things were certain to change because he is but a mere guest, and not the groom. 

 It may have come as no surprise that Anakin would fall for her, but it certainly came as a shock that Padmé wouldn’t fall for him. 

 It makes her flesh blaze with a strange anger she’s not quite sure how to describe. How could her sister have something she so desperately wanted but not pursue it? How could she reject Anakin when he would willingly break and bend to her every whim? Why must her sister take his infatuation for granted— why could it not be given to her instead?

 She thinks it must be some cruel trick the Maker is playing on her, dangling Anakin in front of her like that, cursing him with an unrequited love when she was right there. She thinks it must be the Maker’s— damn him— cruel way of taunting her, as if the sneering stars had eyes, his eyes. Even if part of her is relieved Anakin is not marrying her sister, it still feels like a blaster wound to her chest, puncturing her skin and searing her insides. 

 She hears her name called from outside her room’s door and groans. 

 “What do you want?” She replies in displeasure as the door slides open. Her eldest sister, Sola, steps into the room and glowers at her youngest sister’s tone. 

 “Well, good morning sunshine,” Sola remarks and she rolls her eyes. Sola makes her way towards the bed, dropping a dress the color of fire onto the mattress. “Is there a reason for your ill-temper today?”

 She pushes herself to sit upright, wrinkling her nose at the dress as she takes a fistful of it in her hand. “Orange?” She scoffs, tossing it back down onto the bed. “I thought we were wearing blue?”

 Sola shrugs, plopping down onto the mattress. “Padmé changed her mind last minute,” she says. “I suppose if we wore blue, we’d mesh with the background, don’t you think?”

 She sighs and flops back down against her pillows, one arm folded over her stomach, the other folded behind her head. Sola pokes her forefinger against her knee and she grumbles, narrowing her eyes at the ceiling. 

 “Now, answer the question,” her oldest sister insists. “What’s the matter with you?”

 Her eyelids flutter closed and she wishes more than anything that she could simply wink out of existence. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be here for Padmé, she does, but she’s uncertain how she could possibly explain how she feels to Sola in a way she could understand. It’s exactly this that’s made her feel so alone all these years. 

 She’s never had someone who could understand her, really get her. She’s always been different from her sisters, even before marriage and coronations and political promotions. It’s something she’s certain her sisters have known, that even her parents must’ve known. She’s never been jovial and nurturing like Sola, or clever and independent like Padmé. She’s always preferred silence and privacy, and maybe that’s been her problem. But it’s all she knows, being alone. 

 Sola’s never spent years yearning for a boy who yearns for another, so she couldn’t possibly understand. She doesn’t think she could even make her understand. 

 She sighs, lolling her head to the side until her gaze finds Sola’s. 

 “Not looking forward to wearing that dress for the entire evening,” she says instead. Sola’s eyes roll and she leans over to pinch her calf beneath the covers. She hisses and swats her sister’s hand away as she clicks her tongue, moving out of the way. 

 “Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” Sola tries to reason. 

 “It’s hideous,” she deadpans. 

 Sola deflates with the acceptance of her defeat. She grabs her sister’s knee, giving it a shake. She glares at her older sister. 

 “Come on, that can’t be the only reason why you’re in such a foul mood,” Sola insists, her bottom lip rolling in a pout and she swears it’s almost comical how her eldest sister can act like such a child. It’s a wonder how she has children of her own. 

 She blinks at Sola as a sort of realization creeps onto her eldest sister’s face and she blinks, internally grimacing. For she knows that whatever is bound to come out of her sister’s mouth next is going to be completely and utterly wrong. 

 “I think I get it now,” Sola’s tone is softer, her face falling to match it. “You’re upset you’ll be the last of us to be married.”

 And there it is. 

 She internally cringes at just how wrong Sola is but she says nothing, further prompting her sister to lean forward, reaching for the hand that rests on her stomach. Her muscles stiffen when she takes it and she wills herself to stay still. It was better to let Sola say whatever she had to say than recoil and deny it— it’s not like she had any better excuse anyways. 

 “I know it can be tough,” she begins. “Feeling like you’re left out. Believe me, I had my fair share of it. I was so jealous of yours and Padmé’s relationship when you were younger because I was so much older, I felt like I just didn’t quite fit in with you two.”

 Her eyes finally meet Sola’s and she begins to see her eldest sister in a different light. All this time, she’s believed she’s the only one who’s felt this way— lost, left behind. While this isn’t quite the same context, she still feels her heart tremble in her chest for her sister, still feels like something’s shifted. It’s at least one thing they can understand each other on. 

 “But then, I found my husband. And then I had Ryoo and Pooja,” Sola continues. “And it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

 Sola’s grip tightens around her hand and she leans forward to place her other one on top. “I know it must seem hard, seeing as both Padmé and I are married— well, almost anyway.” Her lips curve into a soft, reassuring grin. “But you’ll find that same happiness one day. I just know it. So don’t fret, little sister.”

And there, she fears, is where her sister misses the plot. 

 She almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous this all sounds. She remains silent, however, and Sola gives the back of her hand one last reassuring pat before she lets go, sliding off of the mattress. 

 “Anyways, I’m going to breakfast. You should come too before all the blue waffles are gone.”

 She watches as her eldest sister slips out of the room, the door sliding closed behind her and she sighs, digging her knuckles into her closed eyelids until the galaxy shimmers before her. How could Sola have come so close to understanding her one minute only to read her so wrong the next?

 She doesn’t make any effort to get out of bed and in all honesty, she wishes she could simply stay here forever, or at least for the rest of the night. At least long enough that she doesn’t have to face Anakin Skywalker. 

 Because even though she’s already promised herself that she’d let him go, she wasn’t entirely certain she could hold true to her own word when she sees him again.

 The day goes by in a blur. In the blink of an eye, she’s wearing a satin dress in that deep orange she finds hideous beside Sola who stands beside Padmé. Padmé stands facing her husband-to-be, fingertips delicately placed in his palms as they recite their vows. 

 The sun paints the villa’s terrace with an orange glow and she watches it sink beneath the mountains across the lake from the corner of her eye. The sunlight looks like fire rippling in the gentle waves of the water below and she has to look away because she thinks of Anakin, how his eyes glimmer just the same. 

 She’s determined to keep her gaze away from the audience, however, because she knows he’s there, the incarnation of all she’s ever wanted, of all her bad ideas, of everything she cannot trust herself with in one. She searches the ground below, watches the way her dress ruffles with the breeze, like fire askew in the wind. 

 Padmé says something that makes the audience erupt in laughter and it startles her, so much that the hair on the back of her neck erects. When she flinches, she makes the mistake of blinking up— right into the eyes she’d been bound to avoid all night. 

 The world around Anakin Skywalker seems to stir until it’s all wet, blurry hues of orange, green, and white. Anakin is the only one she sees in high resolution— she can see every lock of wavy, dark blonde hair, every rippling wave in his irises, the scarlet line that slices just beside his right eye. She’d never seen this scar before— it must be new. 

 But what’s the most peculiar of all is that she meets his eyes— she meets his eyes. She’d blinked up to find he’d already been staring, already transfixed on her by the time their gazes met and his eyes had illuminated with that same knowing gleam she’d seen in them that day in the royal courtyard. 

 Anakin Skywalker is looking at her and she is not in a dream. It’s both momentous and utterly devastating all the same.

 She isn’t quite sure whether to look away or not. This is what she's mooned over more times than her pride will allow her to admit. She’s dreamed this many nights, for Anakin Skywalker to simply look at her and now he is. Anakin Skywalker is looking at her and she should feel elated but instead she feels… conflicted. 

 Does her heart flutter in her chest? Sure. 

 Does her stomach twist itself into knots? Certainly. 

 She felt so confident just the night before when she threw her hands up in surrender to the black sky, admitting her defeat to the stars who spent many moons mocking her that she was done. She felt so confident that she was ready to move on, to let go of this desire she’s harbored for Anakin for so long. 

 With the simplest of looks, Anakin Skywalker has proven capable of crumpling the paper walls she’d placed around herself. She was left feeling feeble, exposed and any sense of courage she thought she had was now lost. 

 Because three years of waiting and praying to higher entities who did not hear her pleas could not cease overnight. Her attraction to Anakin Skywalker could not cease in hours. She thought she’d extinguished the last flames of her withering hope but, as it turns out, a single dying ember remained. It means a part of her still yearned for him. A part of her still burned for him. 

 She wonders now, that he’s still looking at her, what possibly goes on inside his head. Why does he look at her now? Why does he stare, why do his lips twitch before curving in a smile when their eyes meet, why do they irradiate the longer her gaze lingers on his? Why does he not look sad at the wedding of the woman he loves? Why does he not even look at Padmé?

 Her mind swirls like a tempest— churning with unhinged, vicious anguish. She has to look away before the acid that bubbles in her throat can come to fruition but she can’t, and Anakin seemingly can’t tear his gaze away from her either. It’s all the more sickening and earth-shattering nonetheless. Her heart swells and pounds in her chest, the border of her vision beginning to blur with the familiar sting of tears. Her head is aching and it’s all just too much— she needs an escape. 

 “I now pronounce you, husband and wife.”

 She blinks away her emotion to the best of her ability, using the end of the ceremony as an excuse to look away as the crowd around her thunders with applause. Her mind is reeling and she feels like her head is spinning as she subconsciously claps her palms together, the sound muffled like water in her ears.  The watercolor around her stirs until it’s clear again and the entire world suddenly seems to move again— it’s her, this time, that’s in slow motion. 

 The cheering sounds like thunder, the applause like rain pelting against a window, and her mind begins to crumple, just like metal. She longs for escape, to flee and to be beside herself for the rest of the night. Padmé and her husband begin walking back down the aisle as their guests congratulate them, tossing flower petals into the air above them. She thinks that this is her chance to escape, she thinks everyone is distracted enough that no one will notice her leaving. 

 They never cared to notice her before anyways. 

 She begins to shuffle away but she doesn’t make it very far before her stomach lurches when someone clasps a hand around her wrist, tugging her forward. She snaps her head to the source to find her eldest sister, Sola, with her face illuminated by a grin. 

 “Come on!” Sola exclaims, dragging her down the aisle and back inside the villa. “It’s time to party!”

 Dread drains the blood from her cheeks but she’s given no time to protest before she’s being dragged down the aisle, right past Anakin Skywalker. She doesn’t dare look up but she feels him when she passes by, a mere brush of the arms, the feeling of his elbow brushing going just as fast as it came. 

 And it’s still enough to make liquid of her insides. 

 She drowns in a sea of people as she and Sola find Padmé, wrapped in their mother’s arms. She can hear her heart drum in her ears as Sola releases her hand to draw Padmé into an embrace, tears streaming down the apples of her cheeks. Everyone around her is so happy and she should be too— but she still feels like she’s beside the altar, caught in the trap Anakin has seemingly laid out for her. 

 A tear that’s been painfully dormant in her eye falls and she’s certain her distress shows on her face but it must be easily mistaken for tears of joy, because Padmé pulls away from Sola to turn to her, drawing her in for a hug. Her sister’s arms wrap around her body, a palm on her back, the other cupping the back of her head. Even Sola reaches forward to give her upper arm a reassuring squeeze, undoubtedly thinking back to the conversation they’d had earlier. 

 “Don’t cry for me, baby sister,” Padmé laughs tearfully beside her ear. She can feel Padmé’s smile against her shoulder. She pulls away and rubs her palms up and down the length of her arms. “I’m still the same Padmé I’ve always been.”

 She’s unable to reply— again, she’s misunderstood. But it’s her sister’s wedding day, she won’t burden her with her own confliction. So she swallows the boulder-sized lump in her throat, curving her lips just enough to form a tight-lipped smile. 

 “I’m just… happy for you,” she manages. Padmé cups her cheek and soothes the pad of her thumb over her skin before Ryoo and Pooja draw her attention away. Padmé’s hands fall from her arms and finally, she can breathe. 

 But even that is momentary. 

 “You make a perfectly fine bride if I do say so myself, Senator.”

 Her spine stiffens. She knows that voice. And she knows exactly who is near when she hears it. 

 Padmé laughs and tosses her hands. “Obi-Wan,” she greets him just like an old friend would, pulling him in for an embrace. “And little Ani.”

 How is it that she’s already seen him more tonight than she has in the past three years? She sees Anakin’s dark boots from the top of her vision, not daring to tear her gaze from the ground. 

 “Padmé,” Anakin’s deep, enriching voice sounds and rumbles deep in her belly. She shifts uncomfortably where she stands, desperate to flee. She thinks she can manage it now— Obi-Wan and Anakin are engrossed with Padmé now, right? 

 She begins to make her first attempt of escape, taking slow, careful steps to the side until her second effort crumbles when Anakin speaks her name. 

 Ice frosts over her spine and she’s no choice but to acknowledge the man she was so intent on avoiding the entire evening. Padmé and Obi-Wan are engrossed in their own conversation but Anakin’s gaze remains on her, eyes even sparkling when she finally meets them. 

 Her mouth is a desiccated oasis and her throat feels like a desert as it constricts painfully when she swallows. Still, she manages to breathe out, “Anakin.”

 It’s the first time she can ever recall having a true, proper conversation with him. The last time being when they said their goodbyes that very first time before he and Padmé left for the Lake Country. It’s confusing how this is everything she’s ever wanted yet, she feels an urge to push it all away. 

 Anakin clears his throat and his eyes flicker to his feet for a moment as if he could possibly be nervous before they find hers again. “You look good,” he says and her heart stops beating in her chest. “That dress is beautiful on you.”

 She thinks she could punch him. 

 Or kiss him. 

 She has to look away, or she may very well do the latter. 

 She wonders if this is some cruel, senseless joke the Maker is playing on her. She wonders if she’d upset him by unlatching herself from his hook and this is his way of reeling her back in. She hates that it has the potential to work. 

 “I…” she stammers and closes her lids frustratedly, willing air back into her lungs. She shakes her head— she cannot be here any longer. She may very well explode if she has to succumb to this torture for even a second more. “…thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

 And then, she bolts. 

 She’s lost track of how long she’s been locked in her room, sitting in the window, staring at the moonlight that ripples in the water below. It was long enough for the chatter downstairs to quiet to murmurs until it finally ceased altogether. The villa is now quiet and suddenly, her room feels suffocating. 

 With a sigh, her feet meet the floor and she pushes away from the window seat, cupping her neck to roll it around her shoulders as she pads towards the door. It slides open and she slips through, making her way down the hallway leading towards the main foyer. Her dress flows behind her like flames in the wind, the satin cool against her legs as she walks. Fresh, night air greets her and she inhales, letting it flood her lungs as she saunters to the wide terrace ahead. 

 She stops at the stone arches of the railing and exhales, feeling the wind sift its fingers through her hair, breathing on her skin like a lover in the throes of passion. It caresses her neck and rolls down her back, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. 

 She’d spent many nights just like this one. Staring at the moon rippling through the water, at the stars that twinkle overhead, the sky that blackens behind them. She’d spent many nights praying, releasing her pleas into the air and letting it drift away with the breeze. 

 She does not pray this time. When she lifts her head to brave the dark that faces her, she merely asks why. 

 “Why, Maker,” she whispers beneath her breath. There’s an edge, a strain to her voice that stings her throat, that feels like daggers to her chest. “Why must you be so cruel? I have done everything, I have given you everything. Why wasn’t it enough? Why do you mock me now?”

 The stars overhead gleam as they cackle, sneering at the misfit below. “You’ll never have a place among us,” they seem to say. Tears well in her eyes and she drops her head, fingernails scraping the stone edge of the railing. She leans back on her heels and wills herself to breathe before a sob could wrack her body. 

 She feels lost and utterly alone, and she truly begins to feel like the weight of this prolonged pain has started to fall on top of her. She’s lost and alone and her entire world has started to crumble around her. And then she hears her name. 

 It’s like the call that haunts her every time she closes her eyes, the same velvety voice that caresses her ear every night when she lies down in bed. But it is not a ghostly whisper this time, because it is real. 

 Footsteps sound behind her and she further scratches her nails against the railing. 

 “I was wondering where you wandered off to,” Anakin remarks as he approaches and she can feel him beside her, like a whisper of shadow creeping along her skin. She rolls back onto the balls of her feet and stands straight, sniffing. 

 “Anakin,” she says, steadily, methodically. As if it took great effort to say it without stammering. She can see him out of her peripheral, dark blonde curls falling when he leans an elbow against the railing, tilting his head in an attempt to meet her eye. 

 She does not move. 

 “I was looking for you, you know,” he continues. “You must’ve found a good hiding spot.”

 She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was in my room,” she replies simply, a steely, monotone in her voice.

 Anakin inhales and hums. “Then it makes sense why I could not find you. I would never barge into a lady’s room.”

 It’s an attempt at humor but she feels anything but. She’s stuck between a rock and a hard place with seemingly no clear solution in sight. She could walk away. She should walk away. She shouldn't spend a single second more in Anakin Skywalker’s presence— she simply couldn’t trust herself to not betray her own vow. 

 Or she could stay. She could stay and once again succumb to the fool’s game she’s been playing. She could stay and let Anakin Skywalker tie another noose around her neck, allowing him to drag her along for another three years. 

 She knows what is right. She knows what she should do. 

 But she’s frozen. 

 She cannot move, cannot even bring her lips to move so she can speak. She instead wilts, like a rose who once stood beautifully now losing its color, shriveling in on herself until she inevitably withers away. 

 She can feel Anakin draw himself just an inch closer beside her, and he’s like a single drop of rain that’s enough to somewhat salvage the husk of who she once was. 

 “Why do you avoid me?” He asks and it’s a question so simply but so damn infuriating all the while. She’s been a volcano in dormancy up until this point, but there’s a rumbling deep within her, threatening to erupt. 

 “Why are you doing this?” She questions, snapping her head towards him, brows dipped and drawn. Anakin blinks and draws back, a dent forming between his own brows. 

 “Doing what?” He asks and that feeling of wanting to ram her fist into his face comes back. She turns to fully face him and he pushes off the railing, uncertainty warping his features. 

 “This,” she gestures between them. “Staring at me. Talking to me. As if we’ve spoken more than hellos and goodbyes to each other.”

 Anakin raises a brow, the one his scar pierces, and it warps with the movement. 

 She continues. “And then you have the audacity to tell me I look beautiful in this gods-awful dress just to spite me.” She is a volcano, no longer dormant, no longer overlooked. She is exploding and Anakin is unfortunate enough to be in her wake. 

 He shakes his head. “Spite you?” He repeats. She begins to pace, a hand on her hip, the other rubbing her chin. Anakin follows, exactly like a lost puppy. “I wasn’t— I would never—“

 “Don’t say you’d never,” she turns on him, sticking an accusatory finger in his face. He blinks from it back to her, that ocean in the irises of his eyes raging, lightning cracking in the sinkhole at its center. She drops her hand and it curls at her side, her fists two shaking balls of fury. Blood bites her cheeks and she thinks of all the times she’s imagined speaking with Anakin Skywalker, of being alone with him. 

 This certainly was not how she’d ever imagined the scenario playing out. 

 She inhales. “Don’t say you’d never do anything to spite me while you are actively using me to get over Padmé,” she exhales, braving the stormy sea in his eyes. The tide shifts and his manner does too and she believes she’s already cracked him. She thinks she’s already shattered the illusion he was trying to create, that she’s lifted the wool he’s tried to veil over her eyes.

 She thinks that he believes whatever game he was trying to play was over. 

 Anakin straightens. “You have no idea what you are talking about,” he says and she scoffs, backing away. 

 “Don’t I?” She retorts. “You don’t think I’ve noticed how you’ve always looked at her? How you’ve always loved her?” 

 It brings her great pain to merely mention it. Her palms wipe at her face as tears begin welling in her eyes again, her cheeks warm as she desperately tries to quell the beginnings of a sob that stutters through her chest. She realizes now that by keeping all of these emotions, these feelings she’s harbored for Anakin for so long bottled has made her restless, has made her tick like a time bomb. 

 And her time to detonate has come. 

 He says her name again and tries to step forward, reeling back when she steps away from him. His hand wrapped in a leather glove hovers in the air between them and he drops it with an exasperated sigh. 

 “Your sister means a great deal to me, yes,” he begins. “But it is not—“

 “My sister is the sole reason why you torment me!” She snaps. “And you have no right to use how I feel against me just because she does not love you back.”

 Her words are an arrow meant to strike, to pierce through his chest, his heart her target. Her words are meant to cut deep, to draw blood, to make him bleed just like she has everyday since they met. She thinks they will, she thinks her blows will etch deep, will even leave scars in their wake. Part of her longs to see that pained expression upon his face, just like the one she wears now. 

 But her arrow merely grazes, soaring past until it sinks in the shining waters below. 

 Anakin’s face shifts but it is not in the way she thought it would, not in the way she hoped it would. His brows dip and his eyes swarm with a pained sort of desperation she’s never seen before in someone. She certainly never expected to see it in someone like him. His chest rises and falls with his breaths as he steps forward again. She stands still, unable to move. She is stunned— Anakin Skywalker has surprised her. 

 “Padmé does not love me,” he admits. “I met her when I was only a child. The only girl I’d ever seen before her was my own mother. So, of course, I felt drawn to her.” Her jaw tightens and her lips fall together in a firm, thin line. Anakin’s brows knit closer together and there’s a flicker in his eyes that she swears looks like the predecessor to tears. 

 She doesn’t quite want to believe it. He could not cry. 

 “And I spent a decade pining, a decade praying that I’d one day see her again, a decade hoping she’d been counting down the days until she saw me again, just like I was.”

 She doesn’t believe what she’s hearing. It’s a reflection of her own story, her own foolish pining, her own foolish praying but not hers, but Anakin’s. Her heart stutters in her chest and she forgets to breathe, having to gasp to gather air back into her lungs. 

 She’s never once felt like she could be understood. She’s never once felt like anyone else could experience the inner turmoil she has, the seemingly fruitless yearning she has. 

 But she’s realizing now that that's not true. Not anymore, at least. Everything is changing right before her eyes. 

 “And then I did,” Anakin shakes his head, a humorless laugh leaving his lips. “And I felt nothing. But I tried. I tried to convince myself I loved her. But I just… didn’t.”

 Her brow furrows and Anakin’s gaze darkens as it finds hers. 

 “I spent a decade obsessing over someone I didn’t really know, and how could I? I was a child.” His eyes search hers, searching for something unbeknownst to her. But she lets him. “I didn’t know what love was. All I knew was infatuation. I didn’t know what it meant to truly feel seen, to truly feel drawn to someone.”

 Anakin pauses and she gets the feeling that whatever he says next will be calamitous. 

 “Until I saw you again, that day outside the palace.”

 Her lips tremble and her breath shudders, an icy chill frosting over her skin. To think he’s thought about her everyday since their eyes briefly met in the midst of a crowded courtyard was hard to believe yet, when she looks at Anakin Skywalker now, she sees the softening of his brow, the quiver in his lips, the honesty in his eyes. 

 She’s only ever imagined one look in his eyes. Desire. 

 But she looks at him now and finds an entire galaxy— there’s longing, there’s earnest, there’s optimism, there’s burning. As it turns out, living creatures are not black and white like she initially thought them to be. Anakin Skywalker is a complex creature, made of flesh and blood and of an intricacy she’d never stopped to consider before. 

 He’s even better than she’s imagined he’d be. 

 Every moment spent under the stars, praying that she’d one day have a place among them, that she one day would sit among them with purpose rather than in an ellipsis suddenly begins to feel like it wasn’t all for nothing after all. Every prayer she’s whispered into the night breeze with Anakin Skywalker’s name in it suddenly feels like they begin to matter, like they begin to come true. 

 Still, she is wary, and Anakin seems to recognize this caution. 

 He takes a step closer and he steals the breath from her chest, just like he had the first moment she saw him. Her fingers twitch, itching to find his, her palms tingling with the desire to feel his skin, her lips buzzing with yearning. She does not touch him, she does not kiss him, she does not do anything. She simply waits for the rest of his story to unfold and her brain aches with the hope that it will unravel into hers. 

 “I saw you that day at the palace to find you were already looking at me. That you were already seeing me,” he mutters, a little breathlessly. “It may have been for… for only a moment but when you looked at me, I felt…” he trails off, a furrow in his brow as he searches for the correct word. “…I felt… like something shifted.”

 She watches as he rolls his lips together, watches as the moonlight catches how they glisten with spittle. Her breath catches a little bit, her gaze lingering there, her desire to lap it all up flaring. 

 “It felt like there was a string there between us I’d never noticed before,” he continues. “There was a connection I’d never realized until the moment our eyes met. I felt you, and I felt you see me. There hasn’t been a day that’s passed by since where I didn’t feel you, where I didn’t feel like we were connected, like we were two stars written in the same constellation.”

 Her chest rises and falls to the erratic beating of her heart as Anakin draws nearer, the hand with his glove meeting her cheek with a tenderness she’d felt from no one before. She’d never realized how starved of touch she’s been until now and it feels so invigorating. Her stare drops to his lips and she feels that string Anakin must’ve been talking about, feels it drawing her closer into his mouth. 

 “Padmé does not love me back, and I do not care,” he says in just above a whisper, his voice rising and falling in a way that jellifies her knees, that makes liquid of her insides. “Because I am burning– foolishly, maybe, yes– for you.”

 She inhales sharply and it truly feels like all her prayers are finally being answered, like she’s being inducted into her rightful place in the sea of stars. And in her constellation, Anakin Skywalker resides too. 

 She reaches up with a hand to hold the crook of his elbow that’s strung between them as he brings his other, ungloved hand to rest on her other cheek. She feels his skin on her cheek as the pad of his thumb soothes over the warmth of her flesh and her body quakes with shivers that roll down her spine all the way to her toes. He begins to lean in, his breath hot where it fans against her skin but she tilts backwards, just enough for him to halt, a quirk in one of his brows. 

 “I will not let you settle for me, Anakin Skywalker,” she whispers, admitting that insecurity still lingers, despite his words. Anakin’s eyes narrow as he uses his hands on either sides of her face to draw her in, his lips but a mere whisper away from hers when he murmurs, “settle? This is not settling. This is binding.”

 Then, his lips are on hers in an electrifying bind that shatters her spine with cracks of lightning and she falls into him, her hands on either of his forearms to keep herself steady. 

 Anakin kisses her with an ardor she could never even dream up in all of her wildest of fantasies. He kisses her and she feels like she finally fits in her dress, as it is the color of fire and she’s engulfed in flames. He kisses her and he is the flame that lights her candle, the flame that melts her from the center, that makes heat course through her that washes all the way down to her toes. He kisses her and she is melting, right into him. 

 His tongue pirouettes over hers and she hums into his mouth, feeling his fingers thread through her hair. Her heart is pounding and her lips are buzzing but all she feels is Anakin, she feels the muscles in his arms, the warmth that radiates off his body and spills into her. She feels the push and pull of the passion, the yearning he’s kept inside all this time. She feels her own longing and fervor pour into him and they are floating, two clouds that collide into one another to become one. 

 Anakin steps forward and steps backwards until she hits a wall. When they pull away for breath, she realizes he’s backed her into one of the pillars, a vine caught in the hair on the back of her head. Their chests heave with the weight of their breaths and she watches as Anakin’s hand, not the gloved one, but the one with skin rises, following it as it reaches for her neck. She shudders when he touches her collarbone, exposed from the side of the fiery satin of her dress. His fingertips sear her skin as it drags to the neck of her dress, following the satin where it wraps around her throat, all the way to the back of her neck where the lace falls. 

 Her breath catches when his fingers find the small strings keeping her dress together. Her gaze finds his again to find he’s already staring, a narrow, earnest look upon his face that darkens his eyes and hardens his features. There is a silent question that hangs in the air between them: “do you want to stop?”

 Maybe they’re moving too fast. Maybe this is crazy, maybe they’re simply caught up in the moment, high off the feeling of burning for someone who burns for them too. But after years of pining, of waiting, of praying, it only feels right. 

 But still, she asks, “what if someone sees? Someone like Obi-Wan who can get you in trouble?”

 Anakin shakes his head, “they won’t. Now, I don’t want to talk about Obi-Wan. Do you want to stop?”

 The shake of her head is all Anakin needs to see before he unlaces the strings holding her dress together, the satin falling like a spark blazing down the frayed edges of a rope until it pools at her elbows. Her breasts spill from the dress and the night’s ghostly whisper chills her skin, peaking her nipples. 

 Anakin’s eyes devour and she is prey. 

 His stare pierces through her skin to the marrow of her bones that catch a chill and she quakes. He meets her eyes again as his hands drift lower, dipping until they finally find her chest. A sharp gasp escapes when his palms cup either of her breasts and she arches into his touch, already aching for more. 

 “Anakin!” She gasps in a breathy exclaim when he dips his chin to press a kiss over the top of one of her breasts, heat blossoming in his lips’ wake. His eyes catch her again, a little warily. “Is this okay?” He asks, his voice low and gravely, scratching the itch in her brain she didn’t even know she had. It makes her knees feel weak and if it hadn’t been for his body pressed up against hers, she would’ve crumpled straight to the ground. 

 “Yes,” she breathes, chest heaving into his palms. “I’m sorry, I’ve just… never…”

 Anakin’s lips curve and she can see a flash of white peek between them. He shakes his head. “Me neither,” he admits with a breathy laugh and she titters too, grateful for the fact that she’s not the only one who’s a little green. 

 “Can I keep going?” He questions and his voice is liquid desire, melting straight down to her core. She swallows the lump that’s formed in her throat, nodding. “Please,” she adds, feeling her heart beat straight into his palm. 

 Anakin’s head dips again and she watches, cheeks warm as he places an open-mouthed kiss just above her nipple. His palm kneads the other breast as his lips venture just an inch lower, finding the peaked bud that awaits, suckling it into his mouth. 

 It’s like electricity flooding through her veins. 

 She throws her head back, lips falling agape as her eyelids snap closed, soaking in the pleasure of Anakin’s lips on her nipple. He cautiously flicks his tongue against the bud, watching through his lids as a moan falls from her lips, encouraging him to do it again. He flattens his tongue against her nipple and licks a long, fat stripe from the underside of it up, feeling her tremble in his arms. He lets go of her breast with a wet pop, trailing kisses through the valley between them to make his way to the other. 

 Touching him, feeling him, kissing him is somehow even better than she’d ever imagined, even after all those years of dreaming for moments like this. She can’t believe she’s gone so long without feeling him like this, she doesn’t think she can ever stop touching him. 

 Anakin suckles on her breast, flicking his tongue against her nipple as his hand not wrapped in a glove ventures down her body, past her waist, down her hip. He pulls the satin material of her dress up until his arm can sneak his way beneath it and she shivers when his fingers find her center over her underwear. Her nails dig into his sleeves above his shoulders, holding her breath as he finds the wet spot in her underwear, gently pressing against it. 

 Her hands tighten on his shoulders and ceases all movement, peering up at her. “You’re wet,” he says rather matter-of-factly because of course she is, how could she not be? She nods down at him, swallowing thick layers of saliva down her throat. “Can I touch you here?” He asks and his voice drops to that silky, velvety tone that makes her core ache. She presses her lips together to stifle her groan, head vigorously nodding up and down. 

 “Gods yes, Anakin,” she moans, slowly rocking her hips against his finger. “Please.”

 She feels filthy in a way for asking, for needing friction so desperately. She’s only ever taken her own fingers when she’s too lost in pleasure at night to sleep, never been touched by anyone else but it’s all she craves now, for Anakin’s fingers to touch her, for him— whatever part it may be— to be inside her. 

 A flame had been ignited in the pit of her belly long ago, back when Anakin first stepped through the door the day they met. It’s sat stagnant for too long, waiting for its moment to further bloom and now it has. It blossomed when her eyes met Anakin’s that day in the courtyard but it’s now in full bloom, now that they burn together, now that his kisses have seared her skin, now that his fingers are pulling her underwear down her thighs, just enough that he can reach her center. 

 When his fingertips brush her clit, she bursts. 

 Anakin’s arm wraps around her waist as she practically collapses into him, his middle finger drawing circles against her clit, his breath hot as his lips rest on her brow. 

 “Is this good?” He asks against her forehead. “Do you feel good?” He questions again as he adds his forefinger to the mix, applying just a little more pressure and it makes her eyes roll. 

 “Yes, just… just don’t stop,” she exhales, feeling her stomach twist itself into a knot, his fingers against her clit threatening to pull it undone any moment. 

 So he doesn’t. 

 He’s unrelenting in the way his fingers press to the aching bud in her center, tracing tight circles until her eyes squeeze closed so hard, milky-ways shimmer behind her lids. He dares venture lower, gathering her slick on the pads of his fingers as he teases near her entrance. It’s a foreign and strange feeling, it’s a pattern she’s traced many times with her own fingers but never been touched by someone else. Even in spite of how many nights she spent trekking that path wishing it was Anakin’s fingers instead, but it’s still strange feeling him there now. 

 She clutches his arm tighter and he slows, beginning to retract his hand. She stops him, lifting her head until their eyes meet again. 

 “No,” she pants, shaking her head. “Don’t stop, just… just take it slow.”

 He nods, his finger a little unsure as it circles her entrance, unintentionally teasing until she begins to crack. She’s panting, trying to wiggle her hips so that she can draw his fingers in, seeking that feeling of being full. Anakin dips his forefinger into her hole and she tosses her head back, her lips parting for an “oh” to emit. 

 He watches her face, even if she can’t see it, she can feel his gaze behind her closed lids. He is testing the waters, learning what makes her moan, what makes her squirm, what makes her come. Slowly, he sinks his finger further in and she feels every single millimeter that drags along her walls until he’s knuckle deep. Her legs feel like jelly and her knees begin to wobble, nails clinging to his sleeves like they were her lifeline. 

 Pressure builds in the pit of her belly as Anakin carefully retracts his finger, just to sink it back in again, a slow, cautious rhythm that leaves her mind spinning. His fingers are so much bigger than hers and she already feels so stuffed despite it only being one finger. Somehow, it’s too much and not enough at the same time. 

 “Ana… Anakin,” she gasps, peeling open her lids to find he’s already looking. His finger slows but picks up its pace again when he realizes she’s not in any pain. “Another.”

 His brow dips and his head tilts in confusion, uncertain what she means. She gathers moisture on her lips, trying to speak through the pleasure-driven haze in her mind. 

 “Another finger. Please.”

 Their eyes lock and there’s a flicker in his, a hint of doubt. 

 “Are you su—“

 “Please.”

 So, Anakin gathers her lips with his and she mewls into his mouth when he presses his middle against his pointer, sinking them into her cunt until they reach as far as they can. She’s trembling against him but he keeps her upright, with his arm and with his lips. 

 Just one of Anakin’s fingers had made her feel stuffed but two of his fingers made her feel full to the brim. Her walls clench around his fingers and she gasps his name like the beginning of a prayer, pleading for more. 

 It’s a twist on the prayers she recites to the Maker every night. It’s rewriting her every broken hymn, transforming it into something entirely new. She moans Anakin’s name and his fingers turn it into a song so that she cries like a dove into the night. The Maker may have left her feeling broken, wasted, unimportant but Anakin has found her, patched her up, polished her until she’s brand new. 

 The tangle in her belly begins to rupture, slowly unraveling and so she pushes his arm away, his fingers sliding out of her cunt, her walls pulsing with the loss. They both pant and Anakin’s face hardens in question as his chest heaves. 

 “What is it?” He asks, searching her face. 

 She gathers air deep in her chest. “I want…” She trails off, her embarrassment washing over her cheeks in blood. Her gaze drops and Anakin tilts his head to find it again, their eyes locked. He says nothing, only the nod of his head encourages her to continue. “…I want more. I want… I want you to…”

 She purses her lips in frustration. For heaven’s sake, she’s talking to the man who just had his fingers inside of her mere moments ago. Why does she feel embarrassed now?

 She takes another deep breath, mustering the courage to tell what she truly wants. “…I want you to feel good too.”

 Something shifts in Anakin’s eyes. It could be easily mistaken as a trick of the light but she sees it, she feels it. Anakin is burning just the same as her, his pupils becoming a backdrop behind the fires of desire, and she burns within it. 

 She watches as Anakin’s hand sinks below the belt around his middle, all the way down to the waistband of his trousers beneath his dark tunic. She watches with her breath lodged at the base of her throat as he pulls down his pants, just enough for his cock to be set free and oh, it is just like her dreams but even better. 

 Nothing could have ever prepared her for the sight of Anakin Skywalker’s cock. Not even the wildest of her dreams could ever capture the essence of the art of Anakin Skywalker. He is handcrafted by the gods themselves— he is the physical embodiment of masterpiece. 

 He steps forward and towers over her, his breath like smoke rolling over her face. She peers up at him, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing. His hands find either side of her face and she stops breathing altogether, wondering what he will do next. 

 Then, “put your arms here,” he whispers, guiding her arms over his shoulder. “And hold on.”

 She squeals when he drops his hands to the undersides of her thighs, lifting her off the ground so that her ankles lock behind his back. Her arms tighten around his neck as he presses her back against the pillar, his chest pressed into hers. She can feel his length as it’s squeezed between either of their bodies and her walls clench around nothing, practically sobbing to feel him inside. 

 For a moment, the world stills around them and it’s like when she sees him in the audience during Padmé’s wedding. The night stirs and blurs until it’s dark watercolor, but Anakin is what she sees in high resolution. It’s the perfect mirage— she and Anakin feel like two stars in the middle of the black abyss above, forming their own little constellation. 

 And when Anakin finally slides himself inside of her, she feels like her place in the sea of stars has been cemented. She finally feels like she’s where she belongs.

a/n; SO! MY LONGEST IMAGINE YET.... may or may not have gotten a bit carried away (more like a little too wordy...) BUT! i really hope some of you enjoy and i truly appreciate anyone who reads this all the way through. i know 10k words is a lot 😭 also i hope this doesn’t seem too insta-lovey… this idea just came to me in a dream so i wrote what I dreamt lol

💫 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! it means the world to me 🫶

TAGLIST

@your-nanas-house

@chaoticevilbakugo

@k1ttenmittonz

[batsovergotham]

UNSHAKEN MASTERLIST. (COMPLETE)

“Why is it that others try to define me by something I had no choice in? Our world never taught to see the soul beneath the surface, but only the flesh that conceived us.”

Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

Total W/C: 211k

Warnings: Non-Canon Compliant, Violence, Smut (Later Chapters), Brief Mentions of Child Abuse, Angst

Summary.

You were never intended to be free, only regulated, contained, and used. A lethal weapon that has been conditioned by a lifetime of orders. When the Variants launch their ruthless attack, Cecil makes the decision to send you into battle for the first time, giving you a taste of the freedom you always desired. Everything shifts when you meet Mark Grayson. You begin to understand what it means to choose. To fight for yourself, for something beyond orders. But freedom comes with consequences, and some choices leave scars that never fade.

Prologue: Weapon Unleashed

Chapter 1 Part 1: The Grayson Home Incident

Chapter 1 Part 2: The Grayson Home Incident

Chapter 2 Part 1: In the Shadows of Perception 

Chapter 2 Part 2: In the Shadows of Perception

Chapter 3 Part 1: A Whisper of Freedom

Chapter 3 Part 2: A Whisper of Freedom

Chapter 4 Part 1: A Dance on Divided Ground

Chapter 4 Part 2: A Dance on Divided Ground

Chapter 4 Part 3: A Dance on Divided Ground

Chapter 4 Part 4: A Dance on Divided Ground

Chapter 5: Popcorn and Promises

Chapter 6 Part 1: A Father's Return and a Tiny Arrival

Chapter 6 Part 2: A Father's Return and a Tiny Arrival

Chapter 7 Part 1: Lost to the Unknown

Chapter 7 Part 2: Lost to the Unknown

Chapter 8 Part 1: Two Lines, One Choice

Chapter 8 Part 2: Two Lines, One Choice

Chapter 9: Echoes of Heartbreak: The Final Goodbye Approaches

Chapter 10 Part 1: Inevitable Ends

Chapter 10 Part 2: Inevitable Ends

Chapter 10 Part 3: Inevitable Ends

[pomegranatelifethis]

Shattered Bonds

English is not my native language, I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

The Wayne Manor loomed like a cathedral of shadows, its gothic spires clawing at the Gotham sky. Inside, chandeliers cast fractured light across mahogany panels, but the warmth of their glow never reached you. You were a ghost in your own home, a forgotten daughter of the Bat, tethered to a family that saw you only in glimpses. As Damian Wayne’s twin, you’d once shared his world—two children forged in the crucible of the League of Assassins, bound by blood and secrets. But where Damian’s fire burned bright, commanding attention, you were the ember, quiet and overlooked, your warmth reserved for those who cared to notice.

No one did. Not anymore.

The neglect had been a slow poison, seeping through the years. Bruce, your father, was a monolith, his eyes forever fixed on Gotham’s underbelly, his rare words to you clipped and utilitarian. Dick’s smiles were fleeting, Jason’s rough affection sporadic, Tim’s focus consumed by screens and cases. Even Alfred, with his gentle offerings of tea and concern, couldn’t bridge the chasm between you and the others. Damian, your mirror, your twin, had grown cold, his loyalty now a blade turned outward, never inward. You’d learned to live with it, to swallow the ache of being unseen. But then came Lila, and the ache became a wound.

Lila arrived a year ago, a waif with haunted eyes and a trembling lip, plucked from Gotham’s streets by Bruce’s boundless need to save. You saw yourself in her at first—a girl adrift, hungry for belonging. You spent nights by her side, listening to her whispered fears, bandaging her scraped knees, teaching her to navigate the manor’s labyrinthine halls. You thought you were building something—a sister, a friend. But Lila was no lost soul. She was a predator, and you were her prey.

Her lies began as whispers, soft and insidious. “Y/N pushed me down the stairs,” she’d sob to Damian, her voice quivering with rehearsed fragility. The accusation landed like a stone, and your twin’s emerald eyes—once your anchor—flashed with doubt. “Y/N mocked me during training,” she’d confide to Dick, who’d ruffle her hair and shoot you a disappointed glance. She told Tim you’d sabotaged her schoolwork, Jason that you’d sneered at her weakness, Bruce that you were consumed by jealousy. Each lie was a brushstroke, painting you as the villain in a story you hadn’t written.

The manor turned against you. Family dinners became tribunals, your every word dissected, your silences condemned. “You need to be better, Y/N,” Bruce would say, his voice heavy with the weight of a city he couldn’t save. “We’re a team.” But you weren’t a team. You were the scapegoat, the shadow cast by Lila’s light.

Behind closed doors, her mask fell. In the dim corridors, where the manor’s grandeur faded to gloom, Lila’s cruelty was a blade. She’d shove you against the wall, her nails biting into your arms. “You’re nothing here,” she’d hiss, her breath hot against your ear. “They all love me more.” She’d pinch your skin until it bloomed purple, leaving bruises you hid beneath oversized sweaters. Once, she poured ink into your schoolbag, ruining your textbooks, then wept to the family that you’d done it to frame her. The lie stuck, and your protests were met with sighs and eye-rolls.

School, once a refuge, became a battlefield. Lila’s whispers spread like wildfire through Gotham Academy’s polished halls. “Y/N’s a liar,” she’d murmur to your classmates. “A whore who thinks she’s a Wayne but’s just a mistake.” The words were venom, and they worked. Notes appeared in your locker—crude insults, threats. Girls shoved you in the halls, their laughter a chorus of malice. Boys whispered behind your back, their gazes sharp with disdain. You were ostracized, a pariah in a world you’d once navigated with quiet pride.

You fought to be heard. You went to Damian first, your twin, the boy who’d once shared your heartbeat in the womb. In his room, surrounded by his sketches and swords, you bared your soul. “She’s lying, Dami,” you pleaded, rolling up your sleeve to show the bruises Lila’s fingers had left. “She’s hurting me.” His gaze lingered on the marks, but his jaw tightened, and he turned away. “Lila wouldn’t do that,” he said, voice low and final. “You’re just upset she’s fitting in better than you.” The words were a knife, twisting deep. Your twin, your other half, had chosen her.

You tried Bruce next, standing in his study as rain lashed the windows. The Batcomputer hummed behind him, its glow casting his face in cold blue. You poured out everything—Lila’s lies, her cruelty, the bruises, the bullying at school. “I’m not making this up,” you said, voice trembling but steady. “She’s turning everyone against me.” Bruce listened, but his eyes drifted to the screens, to Gotham’s endless demands. “You need to work this out with her,” he said, as if your pain were a minor dispute. “I don’t have time for petty squabbles.” *Petty.* The word was a sledgehammer, shattering what little hope you’d clung to.

The others were no better. Dick tried to mediate, sitting you and Lila down like children fighting over toys. But her tears flowed on cue, and his sympathy tilted her way. “Y/N, you’ve got to meet her halfway,” he said, oblivious to the bruises beneath your sleeves. Jason laughed it off, slinging an arm around you that felt more like pity than support. “You’re tougher than this, kid. Don’t let her get to you.” Tim, ever the detective, analyzed your claims but found no “concrete evidence” to back them. “Lila’s stories check out,” he said, as if your pain were a case to be solved. Alfred alone saw the truth, his eyes soft as he pressed a warm mug into your hands. “You are enough, Miss Y/N,” he murmured. But his kindness couldn’t undo the family’s verdict.

Lila’s final act came at a family dinner, the table laden with crystal and silver, the air thick with unspoken tensions. She “accidentally” knocked a glass of red wine onto your dress, the stain spreading like blood. Before you could speak, she burst into tears, claiming you’d threatened her for being clumsy. The room stilled, eyes pinning you in place. Damian’s gaze was ice, Bruce’s disappointment a tangible weight. Dick frowned, Jason smirked, Tim looked away. “I didn’t do anything,” you whispered, but your voice was a ghost, drowned by Lila’s sobs. You stood, chair scraping the floor, and fled to your room.

That night, you made your choice. The manor was no longer home—it was a cage, and you were done begging for freedom. In the silence of your room, you packed a duffel bag—clothes, a photo of you and Damian as children, a knife Talia had given you years ago. You wrote a letter, your pen shaking but your resolve ironclad:

*Father,*

Fuck off, I don't care.

*With love, the girl you don't care about*

You left the letter on Bruce’s desk, slipped out through a servants’ entrance, and vanished into Gotham’s rain-soaked night.

The journey to Talia’s compound was a blur of buses, planes, and forged documents. When you arrived, the desert sun burned away the last of Gotham’s chill. Talia waited at the gates, her presence commanding, her eyes sharp but soft as they took you in. “My child,” she said, her voice a balm. She drew you into her arms, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel invisible. “You’ve carried too much.” She didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t need them. Talia saw the weight in your shoulders, the shadows beneath your eyes, and she understood.

In Gotham, your absence went unnoticed at first. The Batfamily was consumed—patrols, cases, Lila’s endless dramas. But when Alfred found your letter, the manor erupted. Bruce read it in his study, the words blurring as his hands trembled. He’d failed you, his daughter, and the realization was a fist to his chest. Damian, summoned by Alfred’s urgent call, stared at the letter, your handwriting searing into his mind. He remembered your bruises, your pleas, and a crack formed in his certainty. Dick cursed himself, replaying every moment he’d dismissed you. Jason punched a wall, rage masking his guilt. Tim scoured security footage, desperate for a trace of you, but Talia’s network was a fortress, every lead a dead end.

Lila sensed the shift, her grip on the family faltering. She doubled down, weaving new tales, but without you as the scapegoat, her lies frayed. Damian, haunted by your absence, began to question. He revisited your room, finding a hidden journal you’d kept—pages of Lila’s cruelty, your pain, your pleas for help. His heart twisted, guilt replacing his doubt. Tim, ever methodical, dug into Lila’s past, unearthing inconsistencies—a foster home that didn’t exist, a story that didn’t add up. The truth emerged, slow but relentless, and Lila’s house of cards collapsed.

But it was too late. You were gone, and the Batfamily’s regret couldn’t bring you back. With Talia, you trained under the desert sun, your body growing stronger, your mind sharper. You learned to wield your mother’s blades, to command her operatives, to reclaim the fire you’d buried under years of neglect. You weren’t the scared girl who’d fled the manor. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, forged in pain and tempered by choice.

One night, as you stood on a balcony overlooking the endless dunes, Talia joined you. “You are whole again,” she said, her voice proud. You nodded, the weight of Gotham lifting. The Batfamily would always be a part of you—Bruce’s strength, Damian’s fire, the others’ fleeting warmth—but they no longer defined you. You’d chosen yourself, your mother, your truth. And in the desert’s vast silence, you were free.

And now, in the silence of the night, with your eyes fixed on the endless desert, the ghosts of your past begin to fade, one by one. Somewhere in the mansion you once called home, the echoes of your cries still linger—but they no longer define you. You spent a lifetime waiting to be heard… but now, in the quiet, you’ve finally found your voice. You are no longer someone’s shadow. Not a twin’s echo. Not a forgotten daughter. Not a casualty of someone else’s lies. Now, there is only you. And this time, the pain didn’t break you—it forged you anew. When you look back, there will still be memories laced with love, no matter how broken. Maybe, one day… someone will truly see you. But until then, as the desert winds whisper your name, you’ll no longer seek validation in the darkness. Because in the end, the moment you stopped fighting for them, you finally won for yourself.

How did it happen?

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔚𝔞𝔰𝔫’𝔱 ℭ𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔫

A/N: OHHHH we’re starting like this??? Yes. Yes, we are. 😌 Welcome to the fic where the Batfamily fumbled so hard they created a monster. A genius. A legend. And then had the audacity to be surprised when they saw what they lost. This is not your usual redemption arc. This is the reckoning. This is "you had one job and still chose emotional neglect" energy. This is found-family-who-found-better-family energy. So grab a snack. Grab your emotional support crowbar. It’s time to show them what happens when you build yourself from the ashes they left you in.

Thank You @arislia for this Idea! I don't think this is that good (suffering from writer's block😭😭) I still hope you like it!

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 3

You showed up at Wayne Manor the week Jason Todd’s body was lowered into the ground.

Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong life.

Grief soaked the halls like rot. No one spoke louder than a whisper. No one looked you in the eye. You were just another weight dropped onto a family already breaking.

Bruce didn’t welcome you. He tolerated you. Barely.

You could feel it every second—the tension, the blame, the absence. Jason’s ghost loomed larger than any living presence. His name was written in the silences. The locked doors. The way Bruce never quite looked at you when he spoke.

Still, you begged to stay. Begged to be part of it. You saw the cave, the mission, the masks—and you thought maybe you could matter if you bled for the same cause. You thought pain could buy you a place.

Bruce said yes.

Not out of hope.

Out of apathy.

You were never trained. You were thrown to wolves. Half-hearted lessons. Cold shoulders. Every patrol was a test you weren’t told how to pass. You were a cautionary tale in the making. The other kids avoided you. Damian sneered. Tim didn’t even register your presence.

And then you messed up.

It was supposed to be simple. In and out. You panicked. Damian got hurt. Bruce’s voice over comms was the coldest thing you’d ever heard.

You were benched. Permanently.

No conversation. No second chance. Just silence.

You became furniture in that house. A shadow. A mistake no one wanted to acknowledge. Alfred stopped knocking on your door. Meals went cold before they reached you. You were invisible—but not gone enough to be mourned like Jason.

So you pivoted.

Desperation turned inward. If you couldn’t fight beside them, maybe you could outthink them. Outshine them. Outgrow them.

You stopped sleeping. You studied until your hands shook. You pushed your body until it gave out. You vomited from stress and kept going. You begged the universe for one thing—see me.

Then came the others.

Dick came home. Tim got promoted. Cassandra arrived like poetry in motion. Bruce remarried. And the new daughter? She was everything you weren’t.

They loved her instantly. She had your dream. Your place. And she didn’t even have to ask for it.

You hated her.

You hated yourself more.

One fight. One moment of pettiness. You said something cruel. The kind of cruel that comes from years of being nothing. And they turned on you like wolves.

Even Alfred.

Especially Alfred.

They made it clear—you were the problem.

So you vanished.

Not physically. But emotionally. Mentally. You became a ghost with a pulse. But outside the Manor?

You became a monster.

You devoured every competition. Dominated every room. Wrote like your soul was burning. Played music like it was a scream for help. You climbed ranks in circles that didn’t even know what a Robin was.

Gotham called you a prodigy.

The Manor never called at all.

So you made new homes. The Queens in Star City. The Kents in Metropolis. They gave you warmth you didn’t know you missed until it wrapped around you.

Clark looked at you like you mattered. Lois praised your fire. Oliver bragged about you at every event. You were someone to them.

And that was everything.

Until the League got a threat.

Someone wanted to expose them. Hurt their families. Drag the secrets into the light.

So they gathered everyone.

And for the first time since you were benched, the Batfamily saw you again.

And they didn’t recognize what they’d thrown away.

A/N: AND THAT’S HOW YOU CLEAR A WHOLE ROOM WITH A SINGLE VIBE. They looked at you like a stranger—and you? You looked like a legacy they never deserved. This chapter is for every reader who's ever been benched, pushed aside, or underestimated. Who found their worth in new rooms, louder voices, and softer families. You weren’t broken. You were unseen. And now? Now they see you. Too late. 😈 Next chapter? Gloves off. Power on. Let’s give them something to regret.

—Your drama-feeding, applause-giving, justice-wielding author 💅🖤✨

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas

Let me know if I missed someone!

[rainydetectiveglitter]

Astro Notes

🌞 Sun in the 1H — The Sun finds its strength here (considered a "place of visibility"). You’re meant to be seen and recognized, and your life feels aligned when you’re expressing yourself boldly. Themes of leadership and self-realization dominate your journey—this is the chart of someone destined to carve their own path.

🌙 Moon in the 5H — The Moon rejoices in the 5th house, so this placement brings a natural affinity for creativity, pleasure, and children. Your emotional state thrives in spaces of joy and self-expression, but watch out for getting lost in indulgence or romantic idealism.

🗣 Mercury in the 12H — Mercury here suggests hidden or esoteric knowledge. This is the chart of someone with insights that go beyond the material world. Your speech and thoughts may feel isolated or introspective, but you’re gifted with a knack for unveiling truths hidden in plain sight. Potential for prophecy or dream work!

💖 Venus in the 2H — A placement tied to Aphrodite’s love for material beauty. Venus here blesses you with a natural allure and ability to attract wealth or possessions. Harmony in relationships may stem from shared values or building something tangible together.

🔥 Mars in the 8H — The eighth house signifies taboos, shared resources, and mortality, making this a fiery yet transformative placement. You face challenges head-on, especially in areas others shy away from. Battles over inheritance, intimate bonds, or spiritual power may define key parts of your story.

💫 Jupiter in the 10H — A classic "kingmaker" placement. Jupiter elevates your public life, granting you charisma and the ability to inspire. Benefic fortune arrives when you pursue roles of authority or influence aligned with your principles. Jupiter in the 10th can also signify divine protection over your reputation.

⏳ Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pallas in the 2H — A heavy emphasis on the 2nd house ties your material possessions to themes of duty (Saturn), disruption (Uranus), illusion (Neptune), and strategy (Pallas). You’re navigating the weight of what you own or value—learning to master a balance between control and letting go is crucial.

🕳 Pluto in the 12H — The 12th house governs things unseen—Pluto here is akin to Persephone's descent into the underworld. Deep, subconscious transformations may shape your life path. Spiritual growth occurs through surrender, forgiveness, and diving into your shadow self.

🌐 Chiron in the 9H — The 9th house deals with philosophy, travel, and belief systems. With Chiron here, you might struggle with your faith or find your worldview shaken by personal wounds. However, these experiences push you to share wisdom and inspire others on their own paths.

💍 Juno in the 8H — Relationships for you are not surface-level. Juno in the 8th craves deep, binding intimacy. Themes of merging and transformation play out in partnerships—this isn’t a placement for lighthearted romance. Think soul contracts over fleeting connections.

🔥 Vesta in the 1H — Vesta in the Ascendant makes you a keeper of the flame. There’s something sacred about your individuality and presence. You may dedicate much of your energy to self-discipline or perfecting your identity, often attracting those drawn to your purposeful aura.

🌀 Node in the 1H — Your destiny pulls you toward asserting independence and finding your voice. The past may tether you to partnerships or codependent tendencies, but growth lies in carving your own road.

🐍 Lilith in the 3H — The "dark goddess" in the house of communication shows a razor-sharp tongue and an unapologetically raw way of speaking. Themes of rebellion might arise in sibling relationships or education. Words become a tool of both power and seduction.

💰 Fortune in the 8H — True prosperity comes from transforming life’s challenges into opportunities. You might gain unexpected financial blessings or have a knack for finding luck in the darkest corners of life. This is an alchemist’s placement—your fortune thrives in rebirth.

[d1stalker]

Embers of Connection [Logan Howlett]

Summary: You're not like him. In fact, you're not like any of them. Maybe that's why he doesn't trust you-- why he doesn't want to trust you. But, time and time again, you prove him wrong.

Warnings: none really. lowkey enemies to friends to lovers.... kind of slow burn. fem!reader/afab!reader - maybe some grammatical errors

WC: 6.3k - MASTERLIST

The mansion was quiet as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows across the lawn. Inside, the halls of the Xavier Institute were just beginning to stir, the students slowly waking to another day of training, learning, and discovery. But in a room far removed from the rest of the school, a figure sat alone, her eyes fixed on the window, lost in memories of a past long gone.

You were not a mutant, at least not in the way the students at the school understood the term. You came from a lineage so ancient, so steeped in myth and legend, that even the oldest books could not fully capture the truth of your people—a race of beings who walked the earth with the grace and power of dragons, feared and revered in equal measure.

But that was long ago, before the rise of mutants, before the world had changed. Your people had been hunted, exterminated by those who feared the strength you carried within your veins. You had been just a child when it happened, too young to understand why your world was being torn apart. One of them, moved by pity or perhaps some deeper sense of guilt, had spared your life, hiding you away until the danger had passed.

You had wandered for years, alone and afraid, never staying in one place for too long. You learned how to conceal your wings, hide your sharp nails, and conceal your powers. The world had changed, and you had no place in it, no home to return to. It was by chance that you crossed paths with Charles Xavier, a man of immense power and wisdom, who saw in you not just a relic of a forgotten time, but a soul in need of protection and understanding. He had taken you in, offered you a place in his school, not as a student but as something else—something he himself could not fully define.

And so you stayed, a silent observer in a world that was not yours, learning from the shadows, watching as the young mutants trained and grew, honing their powers under Charles’ guidance. You were an enigma to them, a being from another time, another world. Some were curious, others wary, but none dared to challenge you.

Until Logan arrived.

You sensed his presence before you saw him, a raw, untamed energy that crackled through the air like a storm on the horizon. The students whispered about him, their voices hushed with a mixture of awe and fear. The Wolverine, they called him—a man who had seen more battles than he could count, whose past was as blood-soaked as it was mysterious.

You were in the garden when he first laid eyes on you. He was alone, his expression dark and brooding as he walked across the grounds, clearly uncomfortable in this place of peace and learning. His gaze swept over the students, then landed on you, standing apart from the others, your wings folded close to your back, your scales glinting in the morning light.

His eyes narrowed, and you could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the suspicion that curled like a shadow behind those intense, feral eyes. He approached, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You’re not a mutant,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “No, I’m not.”

“Then what are you?” There was no warmth in his tone, only a cold curiosity.

“A survivor,” you replied steadily, though your heart beat faster at the memory of what you had survived. “My people were hunted to extinction long before you were born.”

Logan’s expression hardened, and he took a step closer, his stance challenging.

“So why are you here? What do you want?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with the same intensity he gave you. “I could ask you the same thing. But I’m here because Charles offered me a place, a sanctuary. He’s curious about what I am… and he believes I need protection.”

“Protection from what?” Logan’s tone was edged with skepticism, as if he didn’t believe you were a threat to anything or anyone.

“From the world,” you answered simply. “And perhaps… from myself.”

He scoffed, the sound harsh and dismissive. “You don’t know what it’s like, being a mutant. You’re just hiding here, playing along, pretending to understand.”

You bristled at his words, your wings twitching with the urge to unfurl, to show him just how much power you held within you. But you held back, staying calm.

“And you don’t know what it’s like to be the last of your kind, to watch everything you’ve ever known be destroyed. We all have our battles. Just because mine are different doesn’t mean they’re any less real.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to find the lie in your words. But there was none to be found, and that seemed to unsettle him more than anything.

“Just stay out of my way,” he growled, turning sharply and walking away without waiting for a response.

You watched him go, a mixture of anger and sadness swirling in your chest. You had known the moment you met him that Logan would be a challenge, a force of nature that would not be easily swayed or understood. But you hadn’t expected the sting of his words, the way they cut deep into the wounds you had thought long healed.

Over the next few months, you and Logan avoided each other as much as possible. He made it clear he didn’t trust you, and you made it equally clear you didn’t care for his attitude. The students quickly picked up on the tension between you, giving you both a wide berth whenever you were in the same room.

But Charles Xavier, ever the strategist, saw something neither of you did—a potential for growth, for understanding, if only you were forced to confront each other. So, when a mission came up that required both your skills, he sent you out together, despite your protests.

The mission was simple in theory—retrieve an artifact from a group of rogue mutants who had stolen it. But from the moment you and Logan set foot in the field, it was clear that working together was not going to be easy.

Logan, used to working alone, resisted your attempts to coordinate, charging ahead without a plan and nearly jeopardizing the mission in the process. You, trained in patience and strategy, found his reckless approach infuriating, and the two of you clashed at every turn.

The mission was ultimately successful, but it came at a cost—your mutual respect for each other (well, whatever had existed of it to begin with). The animosity between you only deepened, cementing your status as strangers within the walls of the school.

---

Enveloped in the forest's ancient embrace, you walked among towering trees that stood like silent sentinels. Their gnarled branches wove together, forming a dense canopy that swallowed most of the light. Cool, damp air hung heavy with the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves. Each step sank into the soft, spongy ground, the stillness occasionally interrupted by the rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird.

You moved with purpose, your eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. Logan walked a few paces behind you, his expression as unreadable as ever. Charles had sent the two of you on this mission with little more than a vague explanation, and the tension between you had only grown as you ventured deeper into the wilderness.

“You sure this is the right way?” Logan’s voice broke the silence, gruff and tinged with impatience.

You didn’t bother turning to face him. “I’m sure.”

He let out a low grunt, clearly not satisfied with your answer. “I still don’t get why Xavier sent me with you. Seems like you could’ve handled this on your own.”

You bit back a retort, knowing that engaging in another argument wouldn’t get you anywhere. “Maybe he thought you could learn something.”

“Learn what?” Logan scoffed. “How to wander aimlessly in the middle of nowhere?”

You stopped abruptly, spinning around to face him. “You’re here because Charles thinks you need to understand what I’m dealing with. This isn’t just another mission, Logan. It’s personal.”

His gaze hardened, but there was a flicker of something else—something softer—beneath the surface. “And what exactly are you dealing with?”

You hesitated, unsure how much you wanted to reveal. The memories of your past were painful, buried deep for a reason. But you knew that if you were going to work together, he needed to know.

“There’s an ancient temple hidden in this forest,” you began, “It’s said to hold a clue—something that could lead me to the mutants who destroyed my people. I’ve been searching for answers for years, and this is the closest I’ve ever come.”

“And you think finding this clue will give you what you need?”

You nodded, the weight of your words pressing down on you. “I have to believe that it will. My people were wiped out—hunted down and killed because of what we were. I’m the last of my kind, and I need to know why.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze locked on yours. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep and hoarse, almost hesitant. “I know what it’s like to lose everything. To have your whole world ripped away from you. But revenge… it doesn’t bring peace.”

“This isn’t about revenge,” you said firmly, though part of you knew it wasn’t entirely true. “It’s about closure. About understanding.”

Logan didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes told you he understood more than he was letting on. He turned away, resuming his trek through the forest, and you followed, the tension between you easing slightly.

The journey was long and arduous, the dense undergrowth making progress slow. The further you went, the darker the forest became, the ancient trees blocking out the sun entirely. It was as if the forest itself was warning you to turn back, but you pressed on, driven by the need to find the temple.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you reached a clearing. In the center stood the temple, its stone walls covered in vines and moss, its entrance a dark, gaping maw that seemed to swallow all light. The air around it was thick with an ominous energy, as if the very ground was infused with the memories of the past.

“This is it,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Logan.

He nodded, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the temple. “You sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

With that, you stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the temple. The air inside was cool and damp, the stone walls slick with moisture. The only light came from the narrow beams of sunlight that managed to filter through cracks in the ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor.

The deeper you went, the more the oppressive feeling grew. You could feel it in your bones, a sense of foreboding that made your skin crawl. But you didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, even as the darkness closed in around you.

Finally, you reached the heart of the temple. In the center of the chamber stood an ancient altar, covered in strange markings that seemed to pulse with a faint, eerie aura. But what caught your attention was the object lying on the altar—a small, intricately carved stone, glowing with a soft, ethereal light. You found yourself moving towards it subconsciously, almost in a trance.

Logan hung back, his senses on high alert. “Be careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

You nodded, reaching out to take the stone. The moment your fingers touched it, a surge of energy shot through you, and you gasped, the memories flooding back in a rush.

You saw your people, the Draconic, living in harmony with nature, their wings glinting in the sunlight, their scales shimmering like jewels. But then came them, their faces twisted with fear and hatred, their powers unleashed in a torrent of destruction. You saw the fires, heard the screams, felt the pain of loss as your world crumbled around you.

And you saw them—the creatures who led the charge, who ordered the slaughter. Their faces were burned into your memory, and now, thanks to the stone, you had the knowledge you needed to track them down.

But your moment of revelation was short-lived. As you turned to show Logan the stone, you noticed something else—a series of dark shapes lying dormant against the walls of the chamber. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized what they were.

Dozens, hundreds of them, the ones responsible. Their bodies encased in some sort of stasis, their forms twisted and unnatural. These were the ones who had destroyed your people, the ones who had brought death and destruction to your world. And now they were here, waiting.

“We need to leave. Now,” you whispered urgently, your heart pounding in your chest.

Logan’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the sleeping mutants. “Agreed. Let’s get out of here before they wake up.”

You moved quickly, retracing your steps toward the entrance. But as you passed one of the mutants, Logan accidentally brushed against it, his claws scraping against the stone. The sound echoed through the chamber, and you froze, your heart skipping a beat.

The creatures began to stir, their eyes snapping open, glowing with an unnatural light. Groans and snarls filled the air as the creatures awoke. Panic surged through you, the sight of the mutants awakening bringing up old, buried fears. You didn’t need to be told twice. You bolted for the entrance, Logan close behind, but the mutants were faster, their rage propelling them forward.

“Go!” Logan urged, grabbing your arm as the enemies began to move toward you.

But, in a effort to delay their advances, you had an idea. A surge of primal instinct took over, and you felt a transformation deep within you. Your eyes flashed, glowing with a fierce, emerald shade as they narrowed into slitted dragon-like orbs.

With a deep breath, you summoned the power of your ancestors. Flames erupted from your mouth, a torrent of blazing fire that swept across the chamber. The first wave of predators got caught in the flames, their forms writhing in the intense heat. The ancient stone walls glowed with the reflected light, casting long, flickering shadows. Now was your only opportunity for escape.

You unfurled your wings, the leathery membranes catching the air as you leaped into flight, grabbing Logan’s arm and dragging him with you. The temple walls blurred past as you flew through the corridors, the remaining mutants hot on your trail.

“Hang on!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the rush of wind.

Logan didn’t respond, his focus entirely on the creatures chasing you. They were relentless, their fury palpable as they closed in, their powers crackling in the air around them. Logan clung to you, feeling a mix of awe and frustration. The cool wind whipped around but inside, he felt the sting of helplessness. He had always prided himself on his physical prowess, his ability to fight, to survive. Yet here he was, carried like a child by someone he had barely trusted.

Whatever these predators were, they were fast in their pursuit. However, you were faster. You burst out of the temple and into the open air, your wings propelling you forward with all the strength you could muster. They followed, but they were no match for your speed.

You swooped low, diving into the dense forest below, weaving through the trees with precision. Logan felt his his claws digging into your scales, but you barely noticed, your focus entirely on evading the threat. Watching the forest shrink beneath him, he felt a deep sense of inadequacy. He had been the one to get them into this mess, and now, instead of being the hero or the savior, he was reduced to a mere passenger. The raw power you displayed was breathtaking, but it also highlighted just how little he had known about you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you lost them. You landed in a small clearing, breathing heavily, your wings trembling from the exertion. Logan released his grip, dropping to the ground beside you, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. 

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of what had just happened settling over you. The danger had passed, but the tension remained, a lingering reminder of how close you had come to disaster. 

Logan was the first to break the silence. “You saved my ass back there.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “You would’ve done the same.”

He nodded, his gaze meeting yours. “Maybe. But I didn’t know you could do all that. The wings, the speed… the power. You’re a hell of a lot stronger than I thought.”

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “I’m just trying to survive.”

“You’re more than that,” he said quietly. “You’re a fighter. And I… I respect that.”

The tension between you shifted, the animosity that had defined your relationship beginning to melt away. You saw Logan in a new light, not just as a stubborn, solitary warrior, but as someone who understood pain and loss, someone who had his own demons to face. And as he stared at you, he caught a glimpse of the fierce determination that drove you. In that look, he saw not just a fellow X-Men but a formidable warrior with her own battles and her own story. He understood now that you were more than he had given you credit for.

“Thanks,” you said softly, “For helping me. For trusting me.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “We’re a team now, right? So let’s do this together.”

And in that moment, something shifted between you. It wasn’t quite friendship, but it was a start—an understanding, a shared sense of purpose. You smiled. 

---

A few days later you and Logan find yourselves on the balcony of the mansion, taking in the peaceful surroundings. Logan leans against the wooden railing, his eyes lost in the horizon.

“Never really get used to these quiet times, do you?” Logan mutters, taking a drag from his cigar.

You sit beside him, your posture relaxed but alert. “It’s a stark change from the chaos, that’s for sure. But I guess we need these moments to recharge.”

Logan exhales a plume of smoke, glancing over at you. “Recharge, huh? I guess you really did a number back there. Flying us out, unleashing fire… It made me rethink a lot of things.”

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? What are you thinking now?”

He shifts, his expression thoughtful. “I thought you were just another oddity at the school. But seeing you in action… You’ve got a lot more going on than I realized. There’s a strength there I didn’t see before.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. “Thanks. It means a lot to hear that from you.”

Logan shrugs, a faint grin on his face. “I guess we both have our surprises.”

You laugh lightly. “Seems like it. I’ve seen a different side of you too. You’re not just the gruff loner I thought you were.”

Logan’s eyes soften. “Yeah, well, I suppose I’ve got my own stuff to work through. You’re not the only one with a past.”

“You’re right,” you say, your tone gentle. “We all carry our burdens.”

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you, the evening’s calm settling in. Logan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He unfolds it carefully, revealing a sketch of the ancient temple you explored. It captures the essence of the place—its grandeur and hidden menace.

“I drew this after our mission,” Logan says, offering it to you. “Thought you might like it.”

You accept the sketch, your fingers tracing the lines. “It’s really good. Thank you. No one’s ever taken the time to understand the significance of these places to me before.”

Logan chuckles, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I guess we’re not so different after all. We’ve both got our own battles”

“Yeah. And we’re fighting them together now.”

Logan’s grin widens slightly. “Let’s try not to make a habit of almost getting killed, though.”

---

Realizing the potential he saw in you and Logan wasn’t a hoax, Charles assigned you to more missions together, hoping to strengthen the bond between you and harness your combined skills. Each mission brought its own challenges, but the respect and understanding you had developed for one another made you an unstoppable duo. 

There was a palpable shift in the air during these joint ventures. Logan’s gruff exterior softened around you, and his trust in your abilities grew. You, in turn, found yourself relying on his raw strength and experience more than you ever expected. The missions, though often intense, became a testament to your growing synergy.

One day, however, Charles decided to send Logan on a mission without you. The decision came with good intentions—Logan needed to work independently to regain his confidence and show that he could handle situations on his own. He was sent to investigate a lead on a dangerous group of mutants that had surfaced. It should’ve been routine. In and out, minimal resistance, standard extraction. But nothing about your life ever goes according to plan, and this time is no exception.

The distress call came through late at night, jarring you awake from a restless sleep. The voice on the other end was strained, panicked. Logan’s voice. You had never heard him like that before.

“They got me,” he had said, the roughness in his voice edged with something you hadn’t heard from him before—fear. “Don’t know who they are, but they’re… strong. Can’t fight ’em off.”

The line went dead before you could respond, leaving you wide-eyed and breathless in the darkness.

Now, standing on the deck of a small boat cutting through choppy waters, you replay those words in your mind, over and over. The coordinates he managed to send you led to a remote island, far off any known maps—a place of whispers and legends, rumored to be inhabited by creatures of immense power and terrifying abilities. Mutants, yes, but something else too. Something different.

Cyclops-like mutants. You remember the stories from the older X-Men, of a time when creatures with a single, glowing eye roamed the earth. You had been too busy mourning the loss of your people to be aware of what else was going on around the world. They had been driven to extinction, or so everyone thought. But it seems that, just like the ones who destroyed your kind, they had simply been lying in wait.

You glance at the island now coming into view, its rocky cliffs rising sharply from the water, shrouded in mist. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you sense the power emanating from the place, the dark, ancient energy that pulses like a heartbeat beneath the surface.

There’s no turning back. You tighten your grip on the wheel, the wind whipping through your hair as you steer the boat toward a small, concealed cove. It’s time to see just how far your powers can take you.

You drop anchor in the shallows, the boat rocking gently as you strip down to your tactical suit. The fabric clings to your body, designed to be lightweight and flexible, perfect for what you’re about to do. With a deep breath, you dive into the water, feeling the cool embrace of the ocean as you slip beneath the surface.

As soon as you’re fully submerged, the change begins. Your skin hardens, taking on a faint shimmer as it transforms into scales. Your fingers and toes elongate, webbing forming between them, allowing you to cut through the water with incredible speed. Your vision sharpens, the murky depths of the ocean becoming clear as day.

You swim toward the island, your movements silent and fluid, a predator in your own right. The water is your domain, and you move through it with ease, your body perfectly adapted to the environment. You can feel the power coursing through your veins, the ancient, draconic energy that makes you who you are. It’s exhilarating, but you keep it in check, focusing on the task at hand.

The cove is narrow, hidden by jagged rocks that would tear apart any normal vessel. But you slip through them effortlessly, the scales of your skin providing protection against the sharp edges. You surface silently, peering over the edge of the rocks to get a better look at the island’s interior.

It’s as eerie as you imagined, a landscape of twisted trees and dark shadows, the air thick with the scent of decay. And there, in the center of it all, is a massive stone fortress, old and crumbling, yet still formidable. It’s clear that the cyclops mutants have made this place their home, and it’s equally clear that Logan is being held inside.

Your heart clenches at the thought of him, trapped and possibly tortured, and you have to force yourself to remain calm. Logan is tough—one of the toughest people you know—but even he has his limits. You have to reach him before those limits are tested too far.

With a final deep breath, you haul yourself out of the water, your body instantly adapting to the new environment. Your skin returns to its normal state, the webbing between your fingers and toes retracting as you prepare to move on land. You move quickly, keeping to the shadows as you approach the fortress. 

The entrance is heavily guarded, as you expected. Two massive cyclops mutants stand watch, their single glowing eyes scanning the area with unnerving precision. You study them for a moment, assessing their strengths and weaknesses. They’re strong, undoubtedly, but you have the advantage of surprise and agility. You crouch low, waiting for the right moment. When one of the guards shifts slightly, turning his attention away from the entrance for just a second, you make your move. In a blur of motion, you spring forward, your claws extending as you strike. The first guard doesn’t even have time to react before your claws rip through his throat, silencing him instantly.

The second guard is more alert, swinging a massive fist toward you, but you’re already moving, ducking beneath his arm and driving your claws into his chest. His eye widens in shock before the light fades, and he collapses to the ground with a heavy thud.

You don’t waste any time, slipping inside the fortress before anyone else can notice. The interior is as dark and foreboding as the exterior, with narrow, twisting corridors that seem to go on forever. You move silently, your senses on high alert as you navigate the labyrinth of stone and shadow.

You find Logan in the deepest part of the fortress, chained to a wall in a small, dimly lit cell. He looks battered but not broken, his eyes narrowing in defiance as he glares at the door, ready to fight anyone who comes through it. But when he sees you, his expression softens, a mixture of relief and concern flickering in his gaze.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles.

“Would’ve been here sooner if you hadn’t let yourself get caught,” you retort, already working on the chains that bind him.

He snorts. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. These bastards are stronger than they look.”

You nod, your expression serious as you focus on freeing him. “I know. But we’ll figure a way out. Together.”

Logan’s chains fall to the ground with a heavy clatter, and he flexes his wrists, testing his strength. “Together? Sounds good to me.”

You help him to his feet, steadying him as he takes a moment to regain his balance. He’s clearly been through hell, but he’s still standing, still fighting. It’s one of the things you’ve always admired about him, even when you couldn’t stand his attitude.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he mutters, his voice low and dangerous.

You nod, but before you can move, a deep rumbling sound fills the air, the walls vibrating with the force of it. The ground beneath your feet trembles, and you realize with a sinking feeling that the cyclops mutants know you’re here.

“Time to go,” you say urgently, grabbing Logan’s arm and pulling him toward the exit.

The two of you move quickly, navigating the twisting corridors with practiced ease. But it’s not long before the mutants catch up to you, their heavy footsteps echoing through the fortress as they close in. You can hear their growls, low and menacing, and you know you’re in for a fight.

Logan doesn’t need any encouragement. He’s already on the prowl, his claws extended as he charges toward the nearest mutant. The two of you fight side by side, a lethal combination of strength and raw power. Logan’s claws tear through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency, while you use your claws and wings to strike with precision and speed.

But the cyclops mutants are relentless, their sheer size and strength making them formidable opponents. For every one you take down, two more seem to take their place. The battle is intense, the air filled with the sound of clashing steel and guttural roars.

In the midst of the chaos, one of the mutants lands a heavy blow to Logan’s side, sending him crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. Your heart lurches as you see him go down, and something inside you snaps. A fierce, draconic roar escapes your lips as your wings unfurl, their scales gleaming in the dim light. Your body shifts, your scales hardening as your claws grow longer and sharper. 

You launch yourself at the mutants with a ferocity you’ve never felt before, your claws tearing through their defenses like paper. Your wings whip through the air, knocking them off balance, while your scales protect you from their attacks. It’s a dance of death, a whirlwind of power and accuracy that leaves the mutants reeling.

From his place on the ground, Logan watches as you take down the last of the cyclops mutants, your body glowing with the aftereffects of your transformation. You stand amidst the carnage, your chest heaving with exertion, but there’s a fire in your eyes that hasn’t been there before—a fire that burns with a fierce determination to protect the man you care about.

“Damn,” Logan mutters as he pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

You can’t help but smile, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “What if you already are on my bad side?” you tease, though there’s no real bite to your words.

He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “Fair enough.”

With the mutants defeated, you and Logan make your way back through the fortress, the oppressive atmosphere beginning to lift with each step you take. As you reach the outer wall, you glance up at the sky, the mist beginning to clear as dawn approaches. You can see the small boat you came in anchored in the cove, waiting to take you both to safety. Logan follows your gaze, then looks back at you, his expression unreadable.

“Ready to get out of here?” you ask, your voice low as you take a step closer to him.

He nods, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “More than ready.”

Without another word, you extend your wings, the powerful muscles flexing as they unfurl to their full span. Logan watches you with admiration and something else, something deeper that he’s not ready to voice just yet. You wrap your arms around his waist, and with a powerful beat of your wings, you lift off the ground, carrying him into the air.

The flight back to the cove is short, but it’s enough time for you to feel the tension in Logan’s body start to ease as the wind rushes past. You land gracefully on the deck of the boat, setting Logan down gently before retracting your wings. He lingers for a moment, his hands still on your shoulders, as if reluctant to let go.

“Thanks for the save… Again” he murmurs.

“Anytime,” you reply, your heart skipping a beat at the closeness between you. You pull away slightly, not wanting to dwell on the feeling too much, and move to untie the boat from the anchor.

Logan takes a seat on the bench, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. You’re aware of his gaze as you work, but you try to focus on the task at hand. The sooner you get back to the school, the sooner you can both recover from this ordeal.

The boat cuts through the water smoothly, and the silence between you is comfortable, the need for words unnecessary. Logan leans back, closing his eyes as he lets the sun warm his face. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, taking in the lines of his face, the slight smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

You’re almost back at the mainland when Logan finally breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, his voice deep and filled with thought, “I’ve been through a lot in my life. Seen a lot, done a lot. But I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

Your hands still on the wheel, and you turn to face him fully, your heart beating a little faster.

“What do you mean?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You’re strong, tougher than anyone I’ve ever known. But it’s more than that. You… you don’t give up on people, even when they don’t deserve it. Even when they’re as messed up as me.”

“Logan,” you start, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re always there, always fighting, and I… I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for that. For everything you’ve done, not just today, but since the day we met.”

You’re at a loss for words, the sincerity in his voice taking you by surprise. Logan isn’t the type to open up easily, to admit to needing anyone. But here he is, doing just that, and it makes your chest tighten with emotion.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you finally manage to say, “I did what anyone else would’ve done.”

He gives you a look, one that says he doesn’t believe that for a second. “No, you didn’t. You did what you do best. You fought for me. And I think… I think it’s time I stop fighting against this.”

“Against what?” you ask, though you have a feeling you already know.

Logan takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he’s about to say. “Against what I feel for you. Against this… connection between us. I’ve been pushing it away, trying to ignore it, but I can’t do that anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as his words sink in. You’ve felt it too, the pull between you and Logan, the way your hearts seem to beat in sync when you’re together. But you never thought he felt the same way, never dared to hope that he could see you as more than just a teammate.

“Logan, I…” You struggle to find the right words, the ones that will convey everything you’re feeling.

“I feel it too. I have for a long time. Since the temple. But I was scared. Scared that it would ruin what we have, that it would make things complicated.”

“Things are already complicated,” he says with a wry smile, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and apprehension. The boat slowly comes to a stop upon the reaching the shore, but you don’t make a move to get out. “So… what do we do now?”

Logan reaches out, taking your hand in his, the roughness of his skin a comforting contrast to the softness of the moment. “We see where this goes. And if it gets too complicated, we deal with it together. Like we always do.”

Logan’s eyes search yours, his gaze tender and filled with unspoken promise. Slowly, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. It’s a gentle touch, a careful exploration of the emotions that have been building between you.

You respond with equal tenderness, your hand still in his as the kiss deepens. The kiss is more than just a physical act; it’s a melding of hearts, a silent declaration of the feelings you’ve both been holding back.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathless, a shared smile lighting up your faces, and for the first time in a long time, the future seems less daunting.

-----------------

A/N: Thanks for reading! I've been lurking for so long and have finally decided to start writing again. I think I gotta write smut or something after this - it was sooo dramatic and for what LOL.

[rollingeevee]

good god your bite post has invaded my mind and it hasn't left since i read it, it's spinning in my brain like in a microwave

all i can think about is shadow milk's little (prey) lover running away and getting somewhat far, thinking they're actually getting away with it until the bite's effects kick in and suddenly it's so hard to think and move and where were they going anyway? what if they just sat down and stared into space for a while? that would feel nice, right?

the magic oozing from the bite squeezing their brain and soul, making everything feel heavy and fuzzy until shadow milk just strolls by, clicks his tongue, teases them a little for trying to leave and goes to pick them up and bring them back

there's no kicking and screaming, they cannot muster up the mental strength to do it, just slight bitter resignation on their part as they can do nothing but accept their fate and perhaps try again at a later date but there's a little voice at the back of their head that doesn't understand why they were running away in the first place, a voice that urges them to melt into their captor's touch (totally not shadow milk's doing guys no it's all you)

mental and magical manipulation? it's more likely than you think!

bonus points if the bite mark's pain gets duller/softer when they behave for their beast

anyway thank you for sharing your thoughts your writing is amazing and if you have more ideas related to the bites i am begging i am on my knees-

AAAAAA I’m so glad to hear you liked it so much! 😭 /VVVPOS

Ooooooo! I quite like this! I can definitely see smth similar happening! Personally tho, I see Shadow Milk taking a more manipulative approach to when he finds his lil runaway darling again. I wrote a lil blurb below to showcase :)

The further you got from the Spire, the more relief you felt. By the Witches… you’d done it! You were free!

You suddenly let out a choked gasp as you feel an incredibly painful tightening sensation in your chest. You fall to your knees, clutching at your heart. Your mind is empty as your body feels like it is being squeezed, your breath continuously escaping, despite your desperation to pull in air.

“Oh, goodness!” You hear his voice exclaim. “What happened to you, doll?”

What happened? What happened?! What… what did happen…? You were running… Yes, you were running from the Spire! But… why…?

Shadow Milk Cookie tuts sympathetically as he gently scoops you into his arms. “Oh, poor dear… Did you get lost? I told Candy Apple Cookie and Black Sapphire Cookie to keep an eye on you and ensure your safety!” He cradles you close to his chest as he makes his way back to the Spire. “Don’t worry, dollface~ Your darling jester, Shadow Milk Cookie, has arrived to save the day! I’ll make sure to get you back home where you belong in no time!” He finishes his declaration with a sweet kiss to your neck, where you can faintly detect a throbbing pain that seems to ease in response to his affection.

Where you belong…? Yes… Yes, right back where you belong… That’s a nice thought…

So why is your heart crying out that something is wrong…?

WEEEEEE! So yes, I can definitely see manipulation being there (it’s Shadow Milk, whaddya expect?), but I can see the magic from the bite invading the mind as it simultaneously attacks the body. You weren’t running for freedom, you just got lost while playing a game. Luckily, your sweet Beast, Shadow Milk Cookie, was able to find you in time before anything terrible could happen to you~! So stay, where it’s safe, and where you’re always within arms reach~

In addition to that, I love the idea of the pain getting duller and duller the more a Beast’s darling behaves for them! I added onto that a lil and made it so that, in addition to that, the only other way for the pain to dull is from direct affection to the bite area by the Beast. This gives further incentive to the darling to be well behaved and compliant for their Beast.

I may try to do lil snippets or one shots for each of the Beasts and their bites going into effect later on, given how much people seemed to like them, but we’ll see! I hope you enjoyed this tho! :D

[lafiola]

incest, forced kiss, forced touching, commodus x fem!reader

The midday was intense and humid, a kind of crackling heat that confused the perception of the distant as if it were slowly melting under the warmth of the sun. You played with these shapes, from your throne high in the coliseum; barely protected by the shadow of a loom overhead, covering the followers of your brother, Commodus, and the noisy absence of your sister. You hadn't been able to find her in the morning.

The noise of the masses and the awakening of the hungry fury of the gladiators could barely distract you from the sweat and discomfort of the dry air. Boredom and hunger distracted you from the divine choice; your brother's voice barely reached your ears.

His hand, however, brought you back with the usual heaviness of his caresses on the contours of your face. You found his eyes on yours. A look darkened by the offense of your lost attention.

"Sister," he muttered through his teeth, forcing a smile. Natural sweetness under a tinge of shame, "you have left me alone. Rome and the Gods have waited for your verdict at my hand, and you have left me alone."

"My apologies, Commodus," you shook your head softly, leaning back against the back of your seat. "I think this heat is working against me. I feel sick."

"You should have stayed in bed."

"You wouldn't have attended the duels if that were the case."

"We could have stayed in bed," he insisted, returning to his seat.

'We could,' you repeated in your head, stifling a sigh. Since your arrival in Rome, after the sudden death of your husband and the murder of your children, seeking to drown your grief in the arms of your father and your siblings, you found yourself faced with the sudden departure of said lord father; and the seizure of power by your brother, whose sense of life and its natural rules had been altered by an altercation with his common sense.

Commodus had always been a sensitive boy, haunted by sorrows and obsessions. When you saw him at the head of armies and an empire like Rome, you thought that perhaps this would be the past—a forgotten child at the bottom of a drawer. You were wrong. If anything, it would have been your face soaked with tears, the fact that it was his first time seeing you after so many years, or the need for a feminine affection that came close to that of his deceased mother; but Commodus continued to behave like that same obsessive child, sick with wild needs.

Not only had he not left your side, attached to your hip like a parasite, but he had also intruded into your room to force his body into your bed; to share the warmth of your serene figure under the blankets, distributing caresses that you would soon discover were the product of an intense desire barely hidden under the face of a serious and harsh ruler.

That morning you had no desire to get out of bed. You had dreamed of your children, of your husband, and you just wanted to continue worshipping the memory of their voices in your head. Until Commodus burst into your chambers; forced a pair of jewels onto your neck, onto your wrists, just as shackles would be on a slave surrounded by misery, and dragged you to his side into the coliseum. 'Because siblings must be united,' he had told you with a smile. A big smile, and darkened eyes. Desire.

A chill ran through you as the match ended. A pair of dead gladiators was all you could see before you turned to look at your brother. He was already looking at you.

"Do you think today was anything memorable?" he asked you softly.

"I think I need to sleep," you whispered. "I'm tired, Commodus."

"You still look as beautiful as ever, sister. Not even the most divine sorrows will disturb your soul."

"I feel quite disturbed."

"Would you like to be escorted to your chambers?" One of his hands wrapped around yours. His thumb caressed your skin. "We could rest; enjoy a pleasant afternoon among delicacies, and delight in some poetry."

This time you couldn't stifle a sigh. Commodus let out a barely audible laugh, standing up and pulling your body towards his. A small hug; an eternal kiss against your cheek, barely sliding down to your neck before breaking contact. You didn't dare look around—embarrassment kept you from meeting eyes with anyone who saw that.

"An emperor has work to do," you whispered. Your breath against his drew a little whimper from him, completely incomprehensible. "We can talk and eat later, Commodus. Go and do your work. I'm not going anywhere."

His lips trembled in indecision, but he found the early reason needed to form a small smile. His body moved away from you; his hand still held one of your arms, running over your goosebumps.

"I know," he whispered. "I know that very well."

Nightfall brought with it a refreshing breeze. From the balcony of your chambers, wearing a pair of light petticoats and with your hair loose, you enjoyed it, closing your eyes when the caress of an icy wind ran down your neck like a pair of gentle hands. A shiver ran through you from head to toe; a nearby sound forced you to wake up. The moonlight helped you draw the figure of Commodus behind you—his face devoured by the darkness.

You brought a hand to your chest, stifling an airy laugh. “Oh, brother, you’ve taken me by surprise. What brings you to this place so late?” You stood up immediately, concentrating the annoyance of his presence between your hands clasped over your belly. “I thought there would be a banquet.”

His response was incomprehensible. He had to clear his throat, moving closer to the light to uncover his face. You found a pair of bright eyes, and an almost wild longing in them.

"The banquet ended suddenly," he replied in a low, secret voice, "and I found myself unable to sleep as soon as I found myself in my chambers. I thought that reading might impair my vision, as you advised."

"And how could I help my dear brother?"

One step closer to you, and his hands were able to wrap your body in a shy hug; delicate as the touch of a petal. You reciprocated that gesture until your heart ached with anguish.

"How much I've missed you, you have no idea," you heard him whisper against your neck. "What you've suffered, my dear, is irrelevant to everything you have here, with your family and with me."

"You are my family, Commodus," you said, your voice shaking. "Thank you so much for your consideration."

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" His face left your side, resting in front of yours. "I wish I could keep you company and chat for a bit."

"I don't need company," you replied softly, "and I don't think I have the ability to hold a conversation without collapsing from exhaustion."

"Then I will support your body while you rest, sister; and I will make sure that on this night no daring of your troubled mind will destroy your dreams."

Commodus tightened his grip on your body, indicating that he would not take no for an answer. Despite knowing that he would be incapable of harming you on purpose, you nodded and let him guide you to the bed, where you rested silently in the darkness; away from the moonlight shining through your balcony, and the refreshing breeze that penetrated the chambers like a cold tongue from beyond.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against the bed. Commodus followed moments later. His sigh swept over your face with a warm caress; one of his hands ran over your hip, staying there. You tried with all your might not to push it away. Your brother insisted with the caress, silently measuring your limits; bringing the tips of his fingers close to the edge of your petticoat, forcing you to close your legs in an almost instinctive movement.

"It's like the first time," he said quietly; a shy tone again. "It's like when we were kids."

"We're not kids anymore," you replied agitatedly. "Commodus, stop it. Please."

"We used to be very close before father decided to let you go."

"It was my decision."

"You were very young, you hardly knew what you wanted. I thought you were satisfied here, with me and Lucilla."

"Life isn't that simple, Commodus." You pushed your hands against his chest, listening to him sigh. His breath, the ghost of a sweet liquor, swept over your face again. "This isn't right."

"We are not so different from the Gods," he whispered, approaching you abruptly. Your hands ended up against your chest, your lips against one of his cheeks; a moan stuck in your throat. "We are connected by blood, we are connected by a bond that we cannot see. In this darkness no one sees us; away from the halls no one hears us. It is you and me, like when we were children—"

"We're not children anymore!" you cried softly. "What happened was a mistake, Commodus. We were clumsy, curious children."

"And we're not anymore," he insisted with a whimper. "And I need you; every day, sister, when I daydreamed of you, and now that I have you here, too. I still dream. They're all dreams, and as a man I feel helpless."

"This is unacceptable."

"I can't help it."

You swallowed hard, breathing heavily.

"Do your lips miss the warmth of a kiss?" he asked. "Does your body miss what you don't want to admit?"

"I miss my husband, brother," you replied hopefully. "I miss him so much."

Commodus’ hand rested on your cheek. His thumb ran over your lips, entering the warmth of your mouth against your will. You had to relax your jaw, moving your teeth away from his flesh, using your tongue to taste the sweetness of a fruity reminiscence.

"Don't talk about him," he said. "A dead man has no place in our bed."

Tears clouded your eyes. 'Our bed,' you repeated in your head like a prayer. Everything that was yours was always his; everything that made you up, Commodus had to attach to himself. You were one. That's what he wanted—you couldn't deny it. Influenced whim spoiled the one who was once close to you, and now an ordinary man, with the fervent desires of a stranger in front of a woman's body. That was what he thought of you: not a sister, but a woman.

Commodus' thumb was replaced by two more fingers, running over the roof of your mouth, soaking his knuckles in your saliva.

"Let me take care of you," he whispered against your cheek, "the same way you always took care of me."

You shook your head, pushing your hands against his free one; fighting against the other fingers that tried to get between your clothes, brushing the inside of your thighs. As soon as you managed to pull your hands away, Commodus' fingers left your mouth, and the pressure of his body on yours left you immobilized. In the darkness you found the shine of his eyes, like small stones.

You let out the rest of your tears, struggling against his brute strength; fighting until exhaustion, falling under him again. Your gasps and his were the only things you heard, little closer to the murmur of the wind outside.

"Please, Commodus," you sobbed, "you are my brother and I love you very much. I love you with all my heart, Commodus. Please..."

"That's why this is a beautiful thing," he insisted pleadingly. "From this union something beautiful could be born, yours and mine. Something ours." His lips moved across your face, drinking in your tears and soothing the burn on your skin. "You're mine again now. I couldn't bear the pain of having to share your flesh; the anguish of knowing that somewhere in the world, you rested beside an undeserving man."

"That man was my husband," you said. "You are my brother, Commodus. We are family."

"What is a title, but a mere word; empty and useless in the face of our needs. I am a man in love, in need of a woman," he replied. His lips rested on yours, just for a few moments. "You are more than I could ever have wished for. You are everything Rome means to me."

"The fury of the Gods will fall like a rain of fire upon us."

"It must burn, then," he sighed. "Let it burn in our name. If I am to have you and it is not here, it will be in death."

[magical-reid]

Remembering James

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Barnes!Reader (No use of Y/N, reader is referred as Mrs./Dr. Barnes)

Setting: Modern MCU timeline, Avengers Tower.

Perspective: Third Person Limited (Reader’s perspective).

Word Count: 1.2K

Summary: Dr. Barnes, a super soldier with no memory of her past, is called to assist the Avengers, where she encounters Bucky Barnes, a man she feels inexplicably drawn to but doesn't remember. As she begins to reconnect with her past, she discovers a deep bond with Bucky that was lost to time and memory.

Hospitals were familiar, almost comforting in their routine. Between the soft hum of monitors and the sterile scent of disinfectant, you’d carved out a life here, even if you had no idea where you’d come from before it.

You woke up one day, seventy years displaced, with only a few clues to your identity: a simple wedding band, dog tags clutched in your hand, and the name James tattooed on the inside of your wrist. The world said you were a super soldier, part of a classified experiment during World War II, but your own memories didn’t agree—or, more accurately, they didn’t exist.

James Barnes. Who are you?

The hospital pager clipped to your scrubs buzzed sharply, dragging you back to the present.

“Paging Dr. Barnes,” the voice crackled over the intercom. “Stark Enterprises has a… situation. You’ve been requested to assist the Avengers immediately. Pack your things.”

You groaned softly. Tony Stark always had a flair for dramatics.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Meeting the Avengers

You spotted them the moment they entered the ER. Steve Rogers led the group, all commanding presence and tightly-wound charm. Behind him was Sam Wilson, cracking a grin at something Steve said. But it was the third man—the one with long, dark hair and intense blue eyes—that stopped you in your tracks.

You knew him. Or you thought you did.

You'd only remembered seeing his face on the news, plastered beside headlines of destruction and redemption. But here, in person, the sight of him struck a chord. Something inside you stirred. The name was on the tip of your tongue, but nothing came to you except a strange feeling in your chest: part longing, part ache.

“Dr. Barnes?” Steve’s voice broke through the haze, his hand extended for a handshake. “I’m Captain Steve Rogers. Tony asked us to escort you to the Tower.”

“Of course,” you said, plastering on a professional smile, though your gaze flickered back to the man Steve hadn’t introduced. He stood stiffly, his expression unreadable, but his eyes stayed glued to you, like he was memorizing every detail.

“And you are?” you asked, directing the question to him.

“James,” he said softly. Then, louder: “Bucky Barnes.”

You froze. Your breath hitched as the dog tags hidden beneath your scrub top suddenly felt unbearably heavy.

James Barnes. My James?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A Familiar Stranger

The ride to Avengers Tower was uneventful, though Bucky’s presence loomed in the confined space of the Quinjet. He sat across from you, his gloved hands gripping the edge of his seat. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at you before quickly looking away.

When you arrived, Tony wasted no time giving you a tour of the medbay, but your attention kept drifting back to the Winter Soldier. He hovered at the edge of your vision like a shadow. Something about him felt… familiar.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s Plan

Bucky clenched his fists to hide their trembling.

She didn't remember him.

When Steve had first read Dr. Barnes' profile aloud the name had nearly floored Bucky. Seventy years and a broken mind hadn't dulled his memory of her: his wife. Bucky’s memories of you were sharp, even after decades of Hydra’s brainwashing. The night he’d met you—the base nurse who’d patched up his wounds with a quick wit and an even quicker smile—was etched into his soul. Marrying you, even in the chaos of wartime, had been the best decision of his life.

And yet, when he saw you today, you looked right through him, now you didn’t remember him.

The thought was unbearable. But Bucky had a plan. If you didn’t remember him, then he’d make sure you noticed him now.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Operation: Get Her Attention

Day One: The Phantom Bruise

Bucky sauntered into the medbay with a practiced limp. “Hey, Doc, think I twisted something.”

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I watched you spar earlier. You didn’t limp then.”

He shrugged, his lips twitching into an almost-boyish grin. “Better safe than sorry.”

You rolled your eyes but motioned for him to sit. As you examined him, your hand brushing his leg, he couldn’t help but smirk. He caught your hand lingering on the dog tags peeking out of your shirt before you tucked them away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Three: The Paper Cut Incident

“What is it this time?” you asked, folding your arms as Bucky entered the medbay again.

He held up his finger, a comically tiny paper cut visible. “Could be infected,” he said solemnly.

You sighed but grabbed some antiseptic anyway. “You’re worse than the interns.”

His smirk only grew. “I like the personal touch.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Five: The Classic “Accident”

During training, Bucky deliberately let himself take a tumble—hard enough to make Steve wince.

You appeared a few minutes later, muttering under your breath about reckless super soldiers. “Did you do this on purpose?” you asked as you examined his bruised ribs.

“Would I do that?” he asked, his voice teasing.

“Absolutely.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Dog Tags

One day, you caught him staring at you in the gym, his focus unwavering. You were sparring with Natasha, and though you didn’t have the same bulk as Bucky or Steve, your strength and agility had Natasha on the defensive.

When you landed a sharp jab, your dog tags swung free of your shirt. You saw Bucky’s eyes narrow as they caught the light.

After the match, he approached you, his expression unreadable. “You always wear those?”

“Always.” You tucked them back into your shirt, your voice soft. “They mean something.”

“To you or to him?” His voice was almost bitter.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He turned and walked away before you could press further.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Gala

Tony’s party was as over-the-top as expected. You didn’t often dress up, but tonight you’d chosen a sleek black gown with a high slit that revealed just a hint of leg. The dog tags hung openly around your neck, their weight grounding you.

You spotted Bucky across the room, leaning against the bar in a dark suit. He wasn’t looking at you; he was staring.

“Careful,” Natasha teased, nudging him as she joined him at the bar. “You’ll scare her off if you keep looking at her like that.”

“She’s wearing them,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Natasha’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Dog tags? Thought so. What’s the story there, Barnes?”

“Long one.”

Natasha smirked. “You should tell her.”

You caught his eye, and this time, you didn’t look away. Slowly, you walked across the room, your dress swaying with every step. When you reached him, you tilted your head.

“Care to dance?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Always.”

As you danced, your hand slipped to your wrist, brushing the tattoo.

“I remember,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. “You… do?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Took me long enough, huh?”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Morning After

The smell of coffee led you to the kitchen, wearing nothing but Bucky’s shirt and your wedding band shining proudly on your finger. Your hair was a mess, your makeup smudged, and the dog tags were finally out in the open.

Natasha was the first to notice, her smirk widening as Bucky walked in behind you.

“Well,” she drawled, “looks like the happy couple had a good night.”

Steve coughed awkwardly into his hand. Sam burst into laughter.

Bucky blushed furiously and buried his face in his hands, but you just grinned, leaning into his side. For the first time in decades, everything felt right, and this time he wasn't letting go.

[theskywithin]

🌙 Excerpt from my Book: Pluto in The Houses Chapter

( link at the bottom of the page )

Pluto in the First House

You wear intensity like a second skin. Even in silence, you speak of storms. People feel your presence before you say a word, because your very being is a portal for transformation. But this magnetism comes with weight. You’ve had to die to parts of yourself just to survive being seen. You are here to reclaim the right to exist authentically, unapologetically. Your identity is not fixed, it’s forged through fire. The more you embrace your depth instead of hiding it, the more your presence becomes medicine for yourself, and for others. You are not intimidating. You are just real in a world afraid of truth.

Pluto in the Second House

You’ve known what it means to lose everything and to realize you were never the things you lost. Your relationship with worth is your sacred battleground, learning to stop equating your value with what you own, produce, or protect. You are here to transform scarcity into security, not by gaining more, but by remembering that you are enough. True wealth lies not in possession, but in self-possession. When you release the need to hold so tightly, life places its treasures directly into your open palms. You are not here to cling, you’re here to trust that what is truly yours can never be taken.

Pluto in the Third House

Your voice has been silenced in lifetimes past, or weaponized into something you no longer trusted. Words have been both wound and wand for you. Now, your soul craves a language that liberates. You’re here to dismantle limiting beliefs, to speak what others only dare to think. But first, you must face the shadow of your own mind, the thoughts that haunt you, the stories you tell yourself when no one is listening. Your transformation lies in rewriting your inner dialogue. When you speak from the scar, not the wound, you become the kind of truth-teller this world aches for.

Pluto in the Fourth House

You were born carrying the echoes of those who came before you. The family secrets, the inherited fears, the silent agreements passed down through blood. Home was never just a place, it was a mystery to solve, a ghost to confront. But you are the cycle breaker. The soul brave enough to dig into the emotional basement and name what was never spoken. Your transformation begins when you stop protecting what hurt you and start creating a home where healing is allowed. You were never here to repeat the story, you were born to rewrite it.

Pluto in the Fifth House

You do not create for applause, you create to survive. Your passion burns with the memory of lifetimes where self-expression was punished or misunderstood. You fear being seen and not being seen. But you are here to turn creation into catharsis, to make art from ache. Your inner child holds both a wound and a gift. When you stop seeking approval and start honoring your own fire, you unlock the kind of power that doesn’t just entertain, it awakens. You were not made to follow the script. You were made to set the stage on fire.

Pluto in the Sixth House

You’ve been the fixer, the helper, the one who quietly holds it all together. But beneath your service is a longing to feel seen, not just useful. You may bury your power under routine, or lose yourself in perfectionism. Your transformation lies in turning daily life into sacred ritual. In healing not just others, but yourself. This is where your soul purges what no longer serves and rediscovers devotion beyond duty. When you stop equating healing with martyrdom, you rise not just as a servant, but as a soul in sacred alignment with purpose.

Pluto in the Seventh House

Relationships are never light for you, they are awakenings in disguise. You attract intensity, depth, and often chaos, because your soul seeks transformation through union. Love doesn’t come wrapped in ease, it arrives as a mirror, often shattering, always revealing. You’ve loved people who pulled you apart so you could find the pieces of yourself you gave away. But this isn’t a curse, it’s an initiation. You are here to evolve through partnership, not dissolve within it. When you stop trying to save or be saved, you’ll discover that real intimacy is not about merging, it’s about meeting, soul to soul, without losing your reflection.

Pluto in the Eight House

You came into this life already familiar with death, not just physical, but emotional, spiritual, energetic. Nothing superficial ever satisfied you, you crave soul-baring truth, even if it hurts. You walk through life as an alchemist, turning endings into new beginnings, turning trauma into wisdom. But your power lies not in control, it lies in surrender. You are not here to hold everything together. You are here to let it fall apart, and trust that what remains is real. You are a guardian of the underworld, a healer of what others won’t touch. When you embrace your own darkness without fear, you become light for those still searching.

Pluto in the Ninth house

You have searched for truth in every corner of the sky, in books, teachers, borders, and belief systems. But dogma eventually becomes your cage. Your soul has known both blind faith and bitter disillusionment. You are here to dismantle inherited truths and step into a spirituality that is not taught, but felt. You’ll learn that truth is not a fixed destination, it is a fire that changes shape the closer you get. Your mind is meant to expand, but not escape. The transformation comes when you stop seeking the meaning of life, and begin living as the meaning itself.

Pluto in the Tenth House

You came here with a mission that feels larger than life. You feel watched, measured, responsible, perhaps even before you knew who you were. There’s pressure to succeed, to prove, to rise. But your soul’s greatest work isn’t just to climb, it’s to transform what you’re climbing for. You are here to dismantle outdated systems of power, starting with the one inside you. When you stop chasing approval and start anchoring your purpose, you become the kind of leader the world rarely sees: one who leads from truth, not ego. You are not here to fit the mold. You are here to shatter it.

Pluto in the Eleventh House

You’ve never quite felt like you belonged, even in a crowd. Your soul remembers exile and revolution. You see beyond the rules, beyond the masks, beyond the systems that keep people small. But isolation is not your fate, it’s your initiation. You are here to transform collective spaces from within. To disrupt not for the sake of rebellion, but for the sake of evolution. The future runs through your veins, but it’s your heart that makes it holy. When you stop hiding behind the intellect and let others truly know you, you’ll find the tribe you were always meant to lead.

Pluto in the Twelfth House

You were born with one foot in another world. The unseen speaks to you in symbols, dreams, and silence. But with this gift comes a shadow, the temptation to escape, to disappear, to numb. You’ve carried the grief of the collective, the sorrow of lifetimes, the ache of endings that never had words. But you are not here to dissolve, you are here to remember. Your soul seeks transformation through surrender, not avoidance. When you stop fearing your own depth, you become a channel for divine healing. You are not lost. You are limitless. You are not broken. You are the place where the infinite comes to feel.

My new book "The Sky Within" availabe here :)) :

[werewolfnarrative]

EXCLUSIVE TREATMENT

M!Sylus and F!Reader. "Goodcat Code" inspired;

GENRE: smut, a little bit of plot;

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT, kissing, teasing (Sylus has a sensible body), boob and nipple sucking, oral (M!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie.

ALL CHARACTERS IN THIS FANFIC ARE CONSENTING ADULTS. PROCEED CAREFULLY AND DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RECREATE THESE SITUATIONS IN REAL LIFE.

You were greeted with the eternal night of the N109 Zone. The plane had just landed and you were now in the airport waiting to be picked up. A new Protocore auction was about to happen, and Jenna was confident in your skills to navigate the area.

Luke and Kieran were meant to pick you up at the south entrance and take you to Onychinus' base. When you leave the big glass doors there is no soul or vehicle around. You double check the messages. Nothing.

Your cellphone rings. "Hey, hold on tight!" The voice of the twins echoed through the dark. "There has been a... problem but we are on our way." Just as the audio ends, a fancy black car shows up in your field of vision.

"What happened? Is it related to Sylus?" You ask as they help you put your luggage in the trunk. "Ah, good night." You quickly add. They look at each other, a very noticeable nervousness in the air. "Of course not, he's fine."

Sylus was not, in fact, fine. He had woken up this morning (night) feeling dizzy, even though he never got sick. There were important preparations to be made in regards to the Protocore auction, so he just send Luke and Kieran take care of them so he woudn't have to expose himself so much. And the worst part of it is that you would be arriving in a few hours.

He locked himself in his study and told the staff to not be bothered. The cook and cleaning were dispensed for the day. The only way he would even interact with the world outside is through the twins, and they were running left and right to make everything perfect.

"He's fine." Kieran confirmed.

The house was bathed in shadows and eerily silent when the three of you arrived. No one commented on it, nor the absence of the host. Your luggage was delivered to the guest room (the one closest to Sylus' own bedroom was always used by you when you visited. Some of your plushies from Linkon decorated the walls) and then you were alone.

"Hi, Sylus. Are you home?" You try to call him. No one picks up, so you leave a voicemail. "I arrived safely, and so did the twins. Thank you for picking me up." A few minutes go by until a hoarse voice reaches your ears. "I'm glad you're here."

What was that? He never used words like that, and there was something wrong with his voice. You begin to search around the house on your own, since Luke would always give avoidant answers and his twin was out for the preparations. There were no lights under the door to his bedroom.

The door opens silently and you come in. You think about turning on the lights, but that would reveal your position to the one downstairs. The search was going smoothly, even in darkness, until you see two glowing red dots at the top of his bed.

"Got lost, sweetie?" The tall figure got up and began approaching you. "Why are you in the dark, you crazy? It's bad for your eyes." He lets out an amused chuckle. "I couldn't find you anywhere so I began searching."

"Worried about me?" He whispers. Even then, you can still hear a different timbre to his voice. You paw at the walls, trying to find the light switch. A strong white light fills the room, and both of you groan at the sudden luminosity.

You let out an "ouch" when you open your eyes for the first time. The sight before you is surely a trick of the light. When you look at this angle, it almost looks like Sylus is sporting cat ears and a tail. His eyes are still closed and he is standing completely still, wich gives you enough time to absorb his features.

The (very real) ears twitch, and the tail moves languidly behind. There are slight eyebags under his eyes and his posture is a little... sad? "What the hell happened to you?" He winces. "Remember our little Kitty Cards game last night, kitten? There is a strange Evol affecting me and I think they are related."

"I guess you are the kitten now, Sylus." You spat back at him. "Is it temporary?" He nods and moves to turn of the light switch. You stand in front of it, stopping him in his tracks.

One look at his face is all it takes to see he is not happy. In fact, tired is the word that explains it better. "If you want to stay, stay. I'm going to bed." He unceremoniously turns around and plops onto the mattress, face down.

"Are you going to stay here all day?" "I can't exactly leave until I get back to normal. Feel free to do whatever you want in the meantime." You're pretty sure he was talking about the black credit card, or exploring the base, but you immediately lay down on the bed beside him. His ears twitch in interest and he puts his tail on top of you.

"Whatever I want?" He shifts on the bed to look at you. "Does my kitten have something in mind?" You giggle and reach for his white fur, meeting no resistance. He grumbles when you run your fingertips across his hair and then his ears.

You start going lower, cradling his face in both of your hands. He is sitting up now, also wrapping his arms around you to secure your body in place. He nibbles every patch of skin he can reach as you continue your journey, caressing his neck and then finding purchase on his shoulders. You bite him a little more strongly and he moans.

"If you're touching me like this, does this means I can touch you too?" You nod and your mouths meet halfway. Both of you alternate between kisses to squeezing and groping. There is a blush on his face as you feel run your hands through his pecks and stomach. His hand moves to your breasts and begins teasing your hard peaks.

"I tought you said you were going to bed?" You tease. He turns your body around quickly, standing up as you are pushed down to the matress. You are now under Sylus as he kisses you fervently and purrs against your skin. "My kitten is very bold today. I am going to bed, just not alone."

Sylus makes a show of taking of his thin shirt, the upper part of his body leaving nothing to imagination. You can see his bulge protruding from his pants and your stomach pools with desire. He guides your hand to his ears and tail again, and whimpers when you give the sensitive skin a soft pinch.

"Take them off." You begin undressing your many layers, still in your travel outfit. Sylus hums in satisfaction and begins licking your tits as soon as they are in view. You forget completely of your pants while he makes you shiver in his grasp, sucking the nubs until they are swollen.

"I-I want -" He begins, but stops midway. His feline ears droop down. "Tell me what you want." You reply, remembering all the times he said the same thing to you, in this same bedroom. Sylus guides your head to his strained pants, and you understand.

His tip is angry red when you pull his waistbands off. Precum is already gathering at the tip, and you prepare your mouth for what's to come. Sylus seems to be more desperate today, since he is moaning and telling you to hurry up. "Want to be inside your pretty mouth."

You begin sucking and playing with the tip. That is already enough to have his hips bucking into the air as you continue your descend. "Calm down love, I'll get there." During all of your relationship, you had never seen Sylus like this. Was the cat Evol affecting him so badly?

"Please let me come inside your mouth. Let me -" He stops again, clearly embarassed. His flush now spread to his shoulders and his chest. "Let me what, darling?" The pet name, along with you sucking his shame out through his dick makes him a little less bashfull.

"Want to breed." He declares like it's his most precious secret. "Want to make you full of my litter." During these times, you were sure Sylus had a breeding kink, even if he refused to talk about it if not in moments like this.

Even then, he continues guiding your head to deepthroat his dick, gasping loudly when you suck. "I won't last long, kitten I -" You produce a loud slurping sound and run your tongue all across his lenght.

He explodes in your mouth with a loud groan.

You wait a few seconds for him to open his eyes, his release still in your mouth. You swallow and see something flash behind his eyes. Just like earlier, you are wrestled to be under him, cock still hard and teasing your folds.

"Do you have any idea of what you do to me?" Sylus teases your entrance while playing with your clit. "How hard it was not to pounce on you the moment you came through that door? I tought about you all day." He mumbles, more to himself than to anyone else, and continues his job to make his cock fit inside.

You feel the telltale strech as he makes his way through your walls. Both your and Sylus' moans fill the room, eyes shut to absorb the pleasure. "Look at me. Want to see you." He demands. After a few more tries, he finally bottoms out.

"Why didn't you respond to my texts? My calls?" His ears droop, but his tail wraps as strongly as possible onto your leg while he nuzzles your chest. "I tought being away from you would be easier. It wasn't."

He begins to move and all your anger dissipates.

Sylus' slender fingers resume his ministrations to your bundle of nerves while his shaft touches all your sensitive spots inside. "So good don't stop!" You scream against his mouth before he kisses you urgently. The bed is shaking with the impact of your bodies. "Ne-next time something like this happens, call me earlier."

He laughs. "My kitten is enjoying the treatment, huh?" There are no toughts in your head while Sylus slams into you. You grind against him, meeting his cock halfway. He whimpers, stopping abruptly to stave off his orgasm. Your release is also approaching quicker than expected.

"If you keep doind this, I won't last long." There is sweat on his forehead and a few wild strands of hair fall atop his eyes. You gently brush them back with your fingers. "I tought you said you wanted to fill me with your litter? Is the fearsome Onychinus leader going back on his word?"

Big mistake.

The rhytm he sets after that is punishing, both to your pussy and your clit. You scream at the sudden pace. Sylus' face is scrunched as he mutters "fuck, fuck, fuck" under his breath. He won't last long indeed. There is one last thing you need to do, tough.

"Sy-Sylus?" You ask. He quirks his eyebrows as if they said "yes?" and you approach his human ear. "I love you."

The reaction is instantaneous. You feel his release fill up your insides, and the last movements Sylus did on your clit were enough to send you over the edge. There was so much of it... cum was starting to run down your tighs as he hugged you flush against his body.

"Are you okay?" Even after your breathing went back to normal, Sylus still looked somewhat feverish. He pushed you down on the now stained covers. "Stay with me."

"Of course. I won't leave until you get better." Sylus did not seem satisfied, based on the flicker of his tail. "I want you to stay forever, even after I go back to normal." It was not the first time he made that request, but it never had such raw vulnerability before.

You would never abandon your life in Linkon. Both you and Sylus knew that. Even so, at that moment, the rest of the world seemed so far away. It woudn't hurt to stay for a while, would it?

"I am never going to be able to look at boss again." Kieran had come back from his chores a few minutes ago, and the sounds coming from the master bedroom were unmistakeable. Luke, already knowing of the activities, was blasting loud music through his headphones.

"At least you won't have to run around doing things anymore." The twin responded. "Until he goes back to normal, anyway."

Looking through the multiple drawers, Kieran grabs another set of headphones. He finds a very long trash metal playlist. Good enough. "I won a break at work, but will surely need a terapy session after this."

Would you like to support my work? Or request a prompt? Try tipping me on Ko-Fi:

[cr4yolaas]

for lovers who hesitate — tsukishima kei

synopsis: you find your old academic rival at your new job. every bone in your body says it’s fate, but everything else seems to be stopping you.

notes: puking cuz idk how i feel abt this one. i worked on this all thru out my trip and there was a lot of scrapping and rewriting and deleting the entire thing and rewriting it again, but i think this version is the best i could get it to. i <3 tsukishima kei

tags: fluff → angst → fluff, self-indulgent long fic, reader smokes, reader has trauma w/ their parents, mainly fem reader oriented but gn pronouns used, reader has self-destructive habits, themes of self-doubt from both, tsukishima is probably ooc, slow burn but not really, the most awkward love confession ever, mitski rdr x radiohead tsukishima (sorry), proofread but not really

tsukishima kei, for once, was at a loss for words.

there you stood beneath the bright green foliage, your face marred by the heatwaves of the sun and still all too familiar. he thought, for a moment, that he had the wrong person — you had taken on a rougher appearance, but his body, heart, and soul still recognized you. and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to speak to you.

where had the last decade gone?

he coughed into his fist and walked past you, feigning ignorance to your arrival. when you followed after him with a keycard of your own, he found himself flustered.

no words were exchanged. he was playing the silent game with you, although he quietly hoped you would say something first.

and thus, he continued his shift as usual, with the added oddity of you shadowing him alongside his boss. he just couldn’t find the proper words to place on his tongue, nor the right gestures to show that he did want to talk, he just didn’t know how to.

but truthfully, what was one supposed to say in such a situation?

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

you believed that tsukishima hated you. and you wouldn’t blame him.

when you applied for this job, you had no expectations going into it, save for the hope of a higher salary and a lighter load than your previous job. what you had not anticipated was to stand face to face with the man you swore to hate in your youth.

a sliver of hope embedded itself within you; an overwhelming desire to perhaps refurbish a long lost relationship had taken root. but when he looked away so persistently and spoke not a word to you, that sliver dissipated into meaningless sand.

you continued your work as best as possible. it was a routine job — set up the displays for the day, guide whatever visitors came around, and leave in the afternoon. but when a certain blonde was sneaking glances at you and somehow always in your vicinity, it proved to be easier said than done.

you were too afraid to admit that his presence was refreshing. that, in the midst of the mundane and borderline unhealthy cycle you had formulated within the past handful of years following graduation, he had proven to be an odd factor; he stood as a disruptor to the routine. it was unwelcome. and even still, you craved it and more.

tsukishima kei had always been a constant in your life. you just didn’t expect him to reappear so soon, so suddenly.

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

it was a wednesday. an uneventful shift had come to an end. and just as you rid yourself of your work attire, a verbal invitation to a work party was sent your way.

the prospect of it was almost laughable. you were under the impression that the body of employees in a museum would be too reserved to host parties such as this, and you were quickly proven otherwise. thus, you accepted instantly.

as soon as you sat down, you regretted it just as quickly.

the moon had just barely begun to hang bright in the sky, and yet the table was already full of drunken coworkers that you hadn’t seen before. loud chatter filled the room, as if this table was the only one in the establishment. it was overbearing.

before you could take even a sip of your drink, you excused yourself under the pretense of needing to use the restroom. instead, you escaped outside, the gentle breeze reestablishing your senses and reeling you back in.

he was also there.

“oh,” he exclaimed softly. his eyes drifted away from yours, the warmth of his cheeks illuminated by the dim lamp above. oh was the first word he had ever spoken to you since graduation. you nearly laughed.

“hello,” you offered quietly, still testing the waters of conversation. your gaze fell to his fingers, slim and cherry-kissed and blemished, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “um… i didn’t expect to see you here…?”

tsukishima laughed lightly at your tone, as if to conceal his own anxieties. “likewise.” he watched as you pulled out a cigarette, the stick meeting your lips like it were more than natural. “did you come all this way to stalk me? or to follow me? after all those years of silence?” he teased, although a tinge of bitterness dripped from his words.

you shook your head aggressively. “no, no, i just…” you bit at your lip for a moment before continuing. “i’m taking a break from my actual job. i needed to wind down before i return.”

tsukishima hummed at your response, evidently oblivious to your lie. he looked at you for a moment too long, his eyes grazing over each alteration and unfamiliar feature. he could not help but admire you in this light — the soft strings of moonlight in contrast with the neon signs glaring against your complexion painted an image he hadn’t seen in ages.

for the first time in a long time, tsukishima kei thought you were unbearably pretty.

what he didn’t catch wind of was your nervous shuffles and your incessant skin-picking as you stood beside him. he didn’t realize that the cigarette was a distractor, a tool to pull you back in. and he failed to acknowledge the stutter in your voice as you spoke to him, for it hadn’t crossed his mind once that you thought he disliked you. not that it would matter to him, anyways.

it’s too soon, he thought to himself. this is stupid, he argued. i’d mess it up if i did anything reckless, he reasoned. all of which were excuses to fight against the overwhelming reality of his vulnerability.

you turned your head away, the extended silence whittling away at whatever confidence you once bore. tsukishima watched with framed eyes and a calculative stare, as if scrutinizing each and every action you took. unbeknownst to you, it was the exact opposite of that.

the soft call of your name from inside the bar pulled your attention away, much to his dismay. he witnessed your frame disappear through the doors, your eyes flitting towards his so quickly he might’ve imagined it.

this was foolish. tsukishima decided that much. but despite his claims of how stupid it was, he was getting reeled in faster than he could pull out.

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

despite how hard he tried to display his ignorance, tsukishima was caring at his core.

silent glances exchanged between shifts morphed into small conversations shared whenever possible, as if the tension that previously barred you from interaction had dissipated into nothingness.

at some point, he dropped off a neatly wrapped bento box to your desk, the fabric littered with small dinosaur doodles.

“what is this?” you questioned, an amused lilt to your voice. you failed to notice the way pink rose to his ears, too enamored by the intricate arrangement of veggies and rice.

“don’t think anything of it. i just had leftover food and didn’t want to waste it.” the excuse slipped through his lips as if it were truth, earning him a soft smile from you.

there were butterflies whipping their wings against his ribcage so aggressively they might have bulged out from his skin.

eventually, you invited him out for a walk to the convenience store nearby during your break. and after that, it became routine. with an umbrella in one hand and his wallet in another, tsukishima walked with you down the street to buy onigiri and sandwiches and sometimes a sweet treat nearly every day, and that shared hour became his favorite part of work.

it was silly.

you sat beside him in the booth, your blistered hands carefully unwrapping the plastic from your meal. to your left sat a can of soda. and to your right, he was there.

“i need to stop living off of these,” you complained while motioning towards the onigiri in your grasp.

tsukishima shook his head. “what else would you eat?”

“your bento boxes,” you commented absentmindedly, your bites becoming larger as you neared the center of the rice. “i liked it, when you gave it to me that one time. you should make it again.”

he looked away, his chin resting atop the sweat of his palm. slowly, he turned towards you. “it’s just a bento box. surely you can handle making one.”

“oh, shut up!” you laughed while shoving him lightly. “the fact that you can even make one is shocking. all you have in that head is volleyball and shit.”

“our old test scores say otherwise,” he quipped. the shift in your eyes left a bitter taste on his tongue.

“whatever,” you muttered before leaving to throw out your trash. a pit grew in tsukishima’s stomach.

the blonde mustered the last of his resolve and made an offer. “i’ll teach you how to make one.”

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

of all the things tsukishima was bracing himself to see, a thinly-walled apartment that was less than well-maintained was the last thing he was prepared for.

you came out from your bedroom in clothes that were far more casual than his, your hair disheveled and your steps uneven. “sorry for the mess,” you uttered while bending down to pick up a hoodie sprawled across the floor, alongside a plastic bag that looked empty. he could only watch in awe.

he placed his bag down on your counter before arranging the ingredients, each brought from his own home. the clatter of your rushed cleaning echoed behind him. and when you finally stood beside the man, he could not contain his grin.

tsukishima decided to hold his tongue. instead, he opted to gently guide your hands through each step, the perspiration collecting on his skin a stark contrast from the rough texture of yours. he realized how little you knew, despite your insistence that you were more than knowledgeable in what you were doing — it showed in your unstable cutting and your hesitance when preparing the pot for boiling — but he refrained from commenting, in fear of disrupting the peace he’d constructed.

on the other hand, you were horrified.

to admit that you were inferior to him in yet another aspect uprooted the envy you had burrowed deep within yourself, and you were terrified of letting it overspill. he was so calm — at least, that was what it looked like — and you’d be damned to ruin it.

mitski’s soft hums reverberated in the background, your shaky chopping filling in the rest of the noise. it was almost satirical — the solemn melodies coated your bare bones and rendered you silent, a strong juxtaposition to the warmth exuded from the closeness of your skin to his. neither of you did anything to interfere, save for an earlier comment from the man questioning your music taste.

(“then what do you listen to?”

“… radiohead.”

“wow. as if that’s any better than mitski.”)

tsukishima found himself smiling at your pride in your creation. messy, yes. but within each ingredient lay a remnant of him, and that was enough.

a stream of small talk emerged into you sitting on the couch together. the music dimmed down to white noise and an old romcom that had only two star ratings played on your TV, the poor quality adding to the humor. your legs leaned against his beneath the blanket. and there was peace.

tsukishima knew what it was. he knew what this would blossom into, and he could only hope and pray he didn’t mess it up in some way. your quiet yet crude commentary disappeared into the tender air, and he remained silent, as if absorbing each syllable that fell from your lips.

it was so quiet, and so vulnerable, and so delicate that he felt like he was going to explode.

he didn’t question it when your head fell onto his shoulder. he didn’t make fun of you when your colorful reviews on each scene turned into sleepy ramblings. and he didn’t say a word when you dozed off against him, your whole body against his.

instead, he looked around. he took note of the dust collecting on the cabinets, the water marks on the windows, the clothes and food and plastic scattered all over your living room, the dead plant on the shelf, and the half-empty pack of cigarettes sitting on the arm of the couch. it was all a far, far cry from the cleanliness and stability of his own home, and yet, he thought to himself, this is so like them. and he thought, i could live in here, if it were with them. and again, he thought, this could be a home.

tsukishima kei was of the belief that he did not have a type. but as he observed your house and reflected on its singular (?) inhabitant, he figured that this was his type. his type was your quiet laughs and your sharp remarks and your wrinkled clothes and the scent of cigarettes that always seemed to cling to you. his type was you.

he exchanged one last glance to your sleeping figure before getting up and leaving you to rest. not without wrapping up your lunch for tomorrow, and not without a small smile on his lips.

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

hell came to you on a thursday morning — the day following whatever had happened between you and tsukishima. you hadn’t put on your uniform just yet, and your belongings sat outside of your locker.

your boss scrambled into the office, his brows furrowed and his larger hands closing the door as quickly as he could without slamming it. the sweat that collected between his wrinkles shined beneath the dim lights. his breaths were haggard and rushed and shallow.

for the first time in a long time, you felt fear.

“there’s people who want to talk to you outside,” he whispered. “they want to talk to you now.”

there was no one else in the building. no one other than you, your boss, and the people who were so adamant on speaking to you.

so why was it so loud as soon as you stepped out?

the eyes of your mother came into your vision first. then, the stare of your father. and finally, their faces blended into one large picture that made sense.

“what the fuck are you doing here?”

withered hands slammed against the table. you watched the papers and the dinosaur trinkets rattle. “that’s no way to speak to your parents.” you could feel it — the air seeping out of your lungs, depriving you of breath; the trembling in your palms; the cloudiness in your peripherals. you could hear them, but you couldn’t hear them. at some point, their vocabulary was solely financial, and at another point, it grew cruel and violent, akin to wild dogs gnawing away at your skin. you didn’t know where it was going. the hastened footsteps of an unidentifiable coworker neared, and the shaky breaths of your boss behind the door grew louder and louder.

you needed to leave.

your feet led you away before your mind could. the yelling softened, until finally, the only sound was the chirp of birds and the whirring of cars.

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

tsukishima didn’t see you for a week. he didn’t hear any mention of your name, didn’t find your face in a crowd, didn’t feel the vibrations of your voice against his chest. you had disappeared, and no one told him why. it wasn’t until your name didn’t show up on the schedule that something clicked.

it was cruel. you were cruel, he decided.

tadashi sat on the couch while his roommate leaned against the counter. the hum of the air conditioning blinded the blonde’s senses.

“i don’t fucking know what i did,” tsukishima groaned into his palms for the twentieth time that night. “they just left. they quit and i can’t even contact them because i was stupid enough to not ask for their number or email or anything. i don’t- i don’t fucking know, ‘dashi, i don’t.”

“i’m sure they had some good reason,” his friend attempted. “i don’t think they’d do that if it weren’t within some sensible limit. it was fucked, yeah, but… i don’t know. i think they’ll come back when the time is right.”

it was tiring. it was tiring to be left alone not just once, but twice. and it was tiring to have it hurt so much more the second time.

tsukishima ran a hand through his hair. “it’s so stupid.” another groan spilled from his tongue. “i’m so fucking tired of this.”

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

this was just about the fourth job you had applied for.

the museum could no longer be a part of your routine — instead, it morphed into loud nights and bustling men and the clinking of glass; it emerged from quiet and gentle tours around dinosaur exhibits to noisy cheers and yelling and the more-than-occasional bottle thrown at your head; it turned into pure, devastating loneliness.

it was compact. it was suffocating. it was overwhelming. it was everything the museum was not. but you could not return there, no matter how much you ached for it.

you were avoiding him. avoiding everyone.

a gentle nudge from a blurred face reminded you that your shift was over for the night, coupled with an apology for the gash that formed on your head from another drunken man who had no outlet for his anger other than you. with heavy steps, you trudged back home, thankful for the week’s pay and the free food and drinks.

it was quiet.

the lights were off, and the LED numbers on the microwave read way past midnight. a dull pounding resided in your chest.

just the other day, it was so vibrant. you were alive, and so was he, and it was going well. but it was wrong. you realized that much when your parents came to remind you, and you realized it again as you quit the same day.

the thumping in your chest spread to your head, and your back met the wall with a force that was sure to upset your neighbors. carefully, daintily, you slid down, your body reaching the floor gently.

you missed him. but it was wrong.

that night, for the first time in a long while, you cried.

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

tucked away in a small alley in sendai resided an establishment with only three tables and a bar that was worn down from years of use. and behind it, tsukishima found you.

he was only out for a walk. at least, that was what it was until his feet brought him elsewhere and he stood face-to-face with the most suspicious of buildings. and when he saw you, it felt as if all the anger and guilt and distress that riddled his bones and flesh and blood withered away, as if it hadn’t coalesced within his veins over the past month.

before you could hide, his hand snaked around your wrist, his touch light yet desperate. “can we talk?”

talking entailed bringing him back to your apartment. and by extension, it included him witnessing your house somehow being worse than before.

tsukishima found himself sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, and you found yourself sprawled across said couch. he picked at the blisters on his fingers before quietly asking, “why did you do that?”

he could hear your nervous habits — the shifting, the fidgeting, the harsh lip biting. “i don’t know.”

“bullshit,” he muttered under his breath.

you turned over onto your side to face his back. “my parents found me,” you explained meekly. improper guidance leads to destructive tendencies. tsukishima kei, in his high school years, was deemed your only obstacle to complete succession — always a few points ahead, a few questions ahead, a few steps ahead — and your poor influence from youth only fueled such a fire. and so, you felt that it was reasonable to loathe him. your judgement was clouded beyond repair.

tsukishima listened. he listened to every detail, every portion of your retelling of each segment of your childhood, and your teen years, and your silly hatred for him. he listened to you talk about what you did after graduation — how you got into a good university but dropped out and hopped between a multitude of jobs (thus proving your claim at the work party to be a lie), and how you were constantly escaping from both the stress and your parents.

he listened so intently that it was overbearing. you didn’t tell him that. instead, you talked and talked and talked until you sculpted him into someone who knew your entire life, as if he were there from the beginning.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered through stubborn tears. you hated it — how exposing it was, how you had practically dumped everything onto him in one go, how you couldn’t help but beg for forgiveness in the end. most of all, you hated how easily he gave you his forgiveness.

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

tsukishima didn’t leave your house at all that week. you found no energy to complain.

in the morning, you’d find him cleaning whatever disaster you left behind, whether it was the pile of laundry on your bed or the collection of full trash bags next to the front door or the food (or rather, the lack thereof) in your fridge. he was silent all the while, and that hurt more than any berating he could have done.

“why are you still here?” you asked him one night. you had finally moved from the couch to the bed, and tsukishima couldn’t be any prouder. (any movement at all was enough to be proud of, he felt). “you shouldn’t want to be here.”

you watched him heave a heavy breath as his shoulders drooped. “because i want you,” he admitted, his voice unmistakably tender and soft and ridden with a youthfulness that he unearthed from deep within himself. “i want to be with you and i want you to be happy and i just want us to be happy together, for once.”

he spoke of his affections so fluently, as if he were born to share them with you. and still, every bone in your body was whispering otherwise.

even so, tsukishima promised that he would be willing to wait. even if it meant watching you down an unreasonable amount of beer at an unreasonable hour.

he promised to sit through it all with you, even if it meant listening to you call his name out in long, drawn-out tones. even if it meant hearing you confess your long-harbored affection for him. even if it meant hearing you say that you never told him, not even in high school, because you felt like you didn’t deserve to tell him.

tsukishima didn’t understand.

he failed to comprehend how you didn’t feel deserving, when his whole body, mind, and soul was bound to you; when, in the depths of the night, he’d burn pink in the night at the mere thought of you; when he was so uncharacteristically smitten for you. he didn’t get it. he didn’t think he ever would.

not that he said anything about it — at least, not in that moment. not when you were inexplicably drunk, to the point where you couldn’t move a limb without tumbling over.

but, without a doubt, he went to bed with a stupid grin and a berry-kissed face.

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

it took another couple of weeks before tsukishima would see you at work again. you entered through the doors as if you never left, and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be excited or neutral or anything else, because his guts only knew tenderness with you at that point — all the fake ignorance and stubbornness and denial had been cast aside.

you basked in a shared silence in the locker room, until you finally admitted that you were, in fact, healing. to some degree, at least. you asked him to come over again under the pretense of seeing how clean your house was. you detailed every segment of your life, from when he last saw you to your entrance into the museum, including how you made yourself breakfast for the first time in forever and how you drank a cup of water almost every day. and he was so overwhelmingly proud, so much so that it spilled over and he couldn’t contain himself.

“i love you,” he blurted out, his rushed admission cutting off your rambling. you whipped your head towards him, but he was looking everywhere except for you.

“what?” you exclaimed.

“i said i love you. i’m in love with you. what don’t you get?”

your jaw hung open, just like that of a fish. “wait- what the fuck?” much to his amusement, you jumped up and began pacing around the room. “i like- well, i guess, love,” you paused, the vocabulary uncomfortable on your teeth. “you too, but like- what the fuck? who told you that?”

“you did.”

“what?”

tsukishima kei was laughing. he was laughing at you, and yet, you weren’t as angry as you expected to be. he was laughing, and all you could do was relish in the noise.

“so,” he hummed delightfully, an amused smirk on his lips. “am i still coming over?”

you (begrudgingly) agreed. again, he laughed — this time, at the heat rising to your face.

𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.

through the cracks between your blinds, silk strands of sunlight crawled through, a soft reminder of the morning. beside you, a mountain of warmth lay, with his glasses still on his face and his hoodie misshapen on his body.

tsukishima was always the first to rise. he would wait for your eyes to flit open gently before getting up and making breakfast, despite your protests that your food was probably better than his. he never listened.

the splatter of coffee into your cup served as the only noise in the room, save for the dull noise of the morning news on the TV and the cars passing by outside the window. you watched intently as the blonde set up the table, his lip drawn in a tight line but his eyes shimmering with contentment. “eat up,” he spoke quietly as he took a seat in front of you.

tsukishima kei was, by no means, a cruel person. he was just a little rough on the edges and occasionally didn’t quite know how to say things without being mean. but as he sat with you, eating breakfast made by him in your shared apartment; as he pressed a fleeting kiss to your forehead before leaving to change, ignoring your groans about the remnants of syrup on his lips; as he drove you to work as the sun settled in the sky; you realized he was simply a man in love.