#The Assassin captures souls

[vincentharler]

Gothic Vinher Antirus (โกธิค วินเฮอร์ เเอนติรัส)

You can call him "Vinher or Antirus" if you want!

Age(อายุ): 29

He/him (ชาย)

high(สูง): 192

Weight(หนัก): 70

(ลักษณะ) : ถือมีด,ค้อน,ขวาน ,สีดำ,ใส่หมวกมีมงกุฎ, ชุดโกธิคสีดำ, ผมสีดำ,เจาะปาก-หู-จมูก,มีฟันสีขาวยิ้มน่ากลัว(เป็นได้ทั้งเเหลมเเละไม่เเหลม), ตาสีขาว,ผมดำ,ใส่ถุงมือหนังสีดำ,กางเกงขายาว,รองเท้าบูทสีดำ,ผู้กักเก็บวิญญาณ

(นิสั��): ยิ้มชั่ว,เจ้าเล่ห์, เห็นเเก้ตัว, ขี้เล่น,บ้า,โรคจิต,ประหลาด,ล้อเลียน,ขี้เเกล้ง(เล่นๆ)

like(สิ่งที่ชอบ): ชอบการฆาตกรรม,เล่นอาวุธอันตราย, ชอบเเกล้ง, หนังสยองขวัญ,มุกงี่เง่า,เเต่งตัวสีดำ(?)สไตล์โกธิค

style(สไตล์): gothic, punk, emo

Favorite food(อาหารโปรด): ซอสมะเขือเทศ🥫(tomato ketchup),ขนมปังปิ้ง🍞(toast)

occupation(อาชีพ): นักฆ่าผู้กักเก็บวิญญาณ(The Assassin captures souls)

[acourtofquestions]

I am a descendant of Ranthia Drahl, Queen of Embers. She is with me now and I am not afraid. My friends are behind me, and I will protect them. My friends are with me and I am not afraid. My friends are with me and I am not afraid.

My friends are with me and I am not afraid.

[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 🫶

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[an-gothamite-aka-zannalial]

You know if Jason did become Talia's son I have the idea that he would be someone very famous among assassins and mercenaries, but in the hero community He is an anti-hero who must be captured and nothing more and is also a popular gossip item when it comes to hero failures (along side Roy of course).

As for the heroes he is just a red hood, Crime lord and anti-hero who has a special and complicated relationship with Batman, But for assassins and mercenaries who know enough about the world he is

An Al Ghul, the first child of Talia Al Ghul, the eldest grandson of Ra's Al Ghul, one of the princes of the League of Assassins and Shadows, someone you really have to watch out for because of his skills and position. And they realized that Talia would do anything for her child, even going against her father

Without his helmet he is one of the most feared people in the underworld, he knows many assassins and mercenaries thanks to all the missions he has undertaken and is friends with most of them.

So imagine.........

Dick: You know it's a rare month that Slade isn't trying to recruit me

Jason: Oh, that's because I asked him to look for something a few weeks ago

Dick: you ask deathstroke, ask ?

Jason: Yeah he owes me something

Dick: how ?

Tim: Sometimes I still miss my spleen you know

Jason: want me to ask someone to get it for you

Tim: who you gonna ask,It's literally in ra's

Jason: I can ask so many people like deathstroke,lady Shiva, mother of soul,deadshot, Talia, Constantine drakon, Dusan, nyssa, Ben Turner, merlyn. And more that I can ask, which one do you prefer

Tim:

Jason: what

Cass: I really want to know what happen to my dad

Jason: I can call someone to check on him, do you want

Cass: yes

Damian: this can be done if I can call my teacher akhi, but

Jason: which one do you mean Habibi I Will call them don't worry

Damian: how you gonna call him

Jason: I just call their phone number in my phone

Damian: you have their number

Jason: why not

Roy: you seem to be liked by all the assassin we just met huh

Jason: yeah they are my old friend

Roy: what

Jason: they just happen to be in the same misson with me

Bruce: Jay where did you find all of your trained goon

Jason: oh they are either fired form the league and join me, or just like me and follow me

Bruce: I'm not ready for that actually

Jason: good to hear

[englandsgirl18181234]

DP x DC Prompt 1

So you know how with Damian and the League of Assassins, the whole "Heir of the Demon's Head" thing sometimes isn't about Damian actually taking over the League but about Ra's stealing Damian's body?

What if we did that but as a Demon Twins AU?

Something happens to Ra's or the Pits or something and suddenly the body jump isn't something that can be a long drawn out plan anymore. It needs to happen NOW or Ra's is going to be fully dead. And for plot reasons let's say it can only be done with someone that shares his blood.

(I'm fairly sure that's come up before, but I can't remember if it's an actual requirement or just a Ra's thing)

Talia has betrayed him and gone to ground. Damian is so deeply intertwined with Gotham and the rest of the Bats that even if Ra's were to capture him, the rest of colony would follow before the ritual could be completed. He's running out of time.

And then Danny appears on the radar after having been dead for the last 10 years. And suddenly Ra's has options again.

How's Ra's find Danny? Who knows. Maybe he ran after a reveal gone wrong. Maybe it's a class trip. Maybe something drew attention to Amity. Writer's choice

Does Danny remember being part of the League? No idea, up to you.

But my main idea for the prompt is that Ra's succeeds. He transfers his soul and takes over Danny's body.

Only... It didn't work quite right. Because the ritual is meant to force the original soul out of the body so it can be replaced. But Danny doesn't have a normal human soul in a human body, he has a Ghost Core in a Halfa body.

At best, for Ra's at least, Ra's ritual basically works as an exorcism, killing Danny's human half and creating a full ghost Phantom in the process.

But there are so many other ways to go as well.

[yandereforme]

Yan! Mafia! Batfam AU Dynamics

Part 1

TW: Murder, violence mentioned, light mentions of assault, torture, kidnapping

Also, since ages are weird in DC canon (often conflicting) I’m assigning my own choices

Bruce

Like I mentioned in my earlier post, Bruce started working towards controlling crime at a young age. He first gets the idea after his parents died, and slowly over the years he starts cultivating skills that would later become useful(fighting, intimidation, deceptive things that you can do that aren’t exactly illegal, etc.)

He still takes that backpacking trip, and he still meets the league of assassins and has his affair with Talia. The reason he returns to Gotham isn’t a crime as vigilante. It’s to fight crime his own way.

He takes on a persona as the bat, no one knows his face or real name. He garners a lot of attention from criminals, and often steal men from people who he defeats to work lower level jobs(Think Red Hood’s system)

The rugs in the say, you are a mixture of actual criminals, and alternate mob bosses. However, Bruce still keeps the Bat and Bruce Wayne very separate, though he does not utilize a Brucie persona. Instead, he makes himself seem more quiet and soft-spoken so people tend to overlook him.(Bruce does not realize that his persona is someone that is one bad thing away from going full on crazy. Everyone in high society knows something is wrong with Bruce Wayne, and just does not comment on it.)

Bruce still has his no kill rule. That does not change, but any enemy of his will tell you that there are worse things than death.

He is 23 when he adopts 8 year old Dick Grayson.

Dick

Dick joins not long after he does in canon, or at least he tries to. After he figures everything out, he confronts Bruce and says that he wants to be a part of the business. He wants Zucco‘s head on a stick. Bruce gets him to compromise. They will capture Zucco and after a few years of training, Dick will be allowed to do what he wants and take on his own role. 

For a few years, he takes the role of Robin, a terrifying person who has seen as Batman‘s little shadow, constantly following him, and smiling brightly enough that people will forget about the blood covering his knuckles.( some believe he gives the smiles that Batman never has. Others believe he is the one thing that keeps the Bat from killing.)

As he grows, Robin’s persona of a vicious, smiling distraction slowly morphs into an amazing fighter who smiles unsettlingly and bends in a way that does not seem entirely human.(about 60% of Gotham’s criminals believe that the bat and robin and all of their associates are not human. Most of them of them think demons of some kind, though there is a smaller portion that believes that they are embodied souls coming back to enact justice)

Nightwing is not a reality in this world(since that is a story learned from Superman.) Instead, criminals learn to fear Nightingale, a distractingly, beautiful person whose voice tends to make you mesmerized so you don’t see the bloody intent behind it. The underground calls him a siren, and Dick is very good at making people tell him what he wants to hear.

In this AU, he switches to Nightingale after Tony Zucco is finally killed. Bruce had kept Zucco in a cell for years, until Dick was old enough to do what he originally wanted. Dick kills him in an act of final revenge, wearing his family’s colors. After the death, he decides he doesn’t want to dirty those colors anymore.

It becomes a commonly known fact that Robin doesn’t kill, and neither does the Bat. But once they get their own costume, you have to be cautious of the fact that some of them don’t have a no kill code.

Dick is 17 when 12 year old Jason is adopted

Jason

Instead of stealing from Batman, Jason is caught stealing tires of Bruce Wayne’s car. The rest of the interaction follows canon though.

Before Bruce formally adopts him, he tells Jason who is surprisingly okay with it.(Jason grew up in Crime alley. He knew what the Bat did with the worst of the worst, and how the Bat made life more live able.)

He and Dick don’t get along in the beginning, but after an attempted kidnapping at a gala, they get better.

The two incarnations of Robin are very different. Dick’s Robin was loud and haunting in his joy, beating people bloody with a smile. Jason’s Robin was softer in a sense, brash but polite. He was careful to only injure in places that they could recover from, and helped a lot of the victims(people whispered that he was the innocence that Nightingale had lost, that the Bat never had.)

The only people he didn’t care about hurting were the abusers and assaulters, men drunk on power. (More and more people started believing the re embodied souls theory with Jason. He seemed the most human of all the Bat family)

Then, when Jason was 15, he was kidnapped as Robin, and Gotham was never the same.

Note: Thank you all for being so interested in my writings. I don’t know if this is good or not, I’m sick at the moment and just wanted to finally write this. Let me know what you think!

[salty-and-spiraling]

I know everyone has noticed and pointed out the similar appearances of the Merciful One and Sarai.

But I'd also like to point out that (almost) every other member of the Startouch Elf Council also looks like people in the show-- dead people. And in all of their deaths, Viren somehow played a part.

Sarai (indirectly)

Sarai was killed in battle by Avizandum after she went back and saved Viren. Not to mention Viren was right there when she died, capturing her last breath.

Harrow (indirectly)

It was Viren's persuasion that led Harrow to seek and end the life of the Avizandum and his idea to destroy the egg of the dragon prince-- even though he didn't actually go through with it-- for which Harrow took the blame and was assassinated for it.

Khessa (indirectly)

He was the vessel that brought Aaravos's bug to Lux Aurea. This allowed Aaravos to get close to Khessa, who then proceeded to possess another elf and kill her-- making Viren partially responsible.

Kpp'ar (directly)

Even though Kpp'ar isn't technically dead, he's not alive either so I count it. This one is obvious. Viren is the one who trapped Kpp'ar's soul in the coin, making Viren directly responsible for his demise.

-When creating this, I also noticed that all these people were in some type of position of authority within whatever monarchy they participated in-

Every member of the Startouch Elf Council has a look-alike in the show who is currently dead because of Viren-- or at least not living, in Kpp'ar's case. Every member except this one.

I'm not sure who this person looks like, if they look like anyone at all. And, if they do have a look-alike that might be introduced in s7, I wonder if they'll stay consistent with this pattern I found.

Like most of my observations, I'm not really sure where I'm going with this but I'd love for anyone to add on to this half-theory.

[justiceforanders]

All of You

A Lucanis x Rook (x Spite) Story

Pairing: Lucanis x Rook (she/her) (x Spite)

Rating: E 🔞

Words: 3.7k

Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61190473

Summary: Lucanis is incredibly flustered while he makes love to Rook, as Spite's newly articulate voice taunts him with explicit whispers.

All of You is a story of passion and love, where two (or three?) partners navigate the tangled web of intimacy, trust, and devotion - complicated by demonic possession, of course.

The Dellamorte estate was still at night, the sprawling halls of its opulent interior silenced by the late hour. Moonlight filtered through the windows, tracing the dark wood floors and silken sheets in silver. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the flickering embers of the fireplace, their light caressing the elegant arches of the bedroom. The world outside was asleep, but Lucanis Dellamorte was anything but. He was awake, utterly and entirely awake, every fiber of his being consumed by the woman beneath him.

Rook lay there, her soft, brown skin glowing like molten bronze in the faint light, her breath warm against his lips as he rutted against her thigh. Every inch of her was breathtaking, from the moles and freckles on her face scattered like constellations that he longed to trace with his lips, to her vallaslin-inspired tattoos that framed her features, a proud reminder of the heritage she carried with grace and defiance. In moments like these, Lucanis felt utterly unworthy of her – though that didn’t stop him from worshipping her with every ounce of his being.

His hands, calloused and scarred, glided down her sides, mapping the curve of her waist, the gentle slope of her hips. She arched into him, her breath catching, and he leaned down to kiss her throat – slowly, purposefully. His lips brushed against the pulse beating there, and for a moment, he lingered, letting its rhythm anchor him.

She was alive. Alive and here, with him.

“Lucanis,” Rook whispered, her voice soft but urgent, her fingers tangling in his hair. He lifted his gaze to hers, caught in the depth of her brown eyes. There was no hesitation there, no fear. Only trust, fierce and unyielding.

“I’m here,” she murmured, her voice low and husky. “I’ve got you.”

Grateful, the corners of his lips quirked into a smile as he sank into her slowly, his body aligning perfectly with hers. She gasped, her nails dragging lightly across his scalp, and he groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he gently rocked into her. Each shift, each press of skin against skin, felt like a vow – one he wasn’t sure he deserved to make but couldn’t stop himself from swearing.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him closer, and he tightened his grip on her hips, holding her steady as he moved. His pace was slow, deliberate, each press of his body against hers a silent declaration of his love and devotion. With every thrust of his hips, he poured himself into her – not just his body but his soul, his heart… Every part of him that he’d kept locked away.

“Rook,” he breathed, her name breaking on his lips like a prayer. His forehead rested against hers, his breath mingling with hers as they moved together. Her hands cupped his face, her thumbs brushing over the faint scars etched into his skin – given to him both by people who loved him and people who hated him – and he felt the ache in his chest swell into something he couldn’t name.

He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was anything but hurried. It was slow, savouring, as though trying to convey everything he couldn’t put into words. The way she made him feel alive, the way she made him feel like he could be more – more than an assassin, more than an abomination. With her, he was never the First Talon. With her, he was just… Lucanis.

A hand roamed lower, sliding against her skin with a deliberate intent to give. She held his hand to her core, legs trembling where they were hooked above his hips. Her breath hitched as his dextrous fingers found their mark, and her dark brown eyes fluttered open for just a moment before closing again, her lips parting in a quiet, gasping moan.

And then he stirred.

You’re so careful with her, so reverent. She deserves that – but oh, imagine how she’d look if you weren’t holding back.

Spite’s voice, low and insidious, slithered through Lucanis’ mind like smoke. A whisper of temptation, of passion, honeyed and sharp. Lucanis clenched his jaw, his grip on Rook’s hip tightening ever so slightly, and she clenched around his length in response.

Por la sangre del Hacedor… Not now, Spite, he thought, his mental voice taut with frustration.

But Spite wasn’t one to be ignored.

Ever since Spite had asked for Rook’s help – and Rook, in her maddening compassion, had actually given it – something between the demon and Lucanis had shifted. In freeing them both from the Ossuary Lucanis had built in his own mind, Rook had forced the two of them into a tenuous understanding. It wasn’t peace, not exactly, but it was a kind of balance.

And with that balance had come a disturbing development; Spite had become fluent.

Where once the demon’s voice had been a chaotic, repetitive, almost juvenile chant of “Rook, Rook, Rook, want Rook, must kiss Rook,” it now carried an unsettling clarity, even finesse. On the one hand, Lucanis supposed he should be grateful that the incessant droning had stopped, if only because he could actually think without wanting to bash his head against a wall. On the other hand, Spite’s newfound fluency came with complications.

At least back then, the demon’s thoughts hadn’t been quite so… Detailed.

Look at her. Look at the way her back arches when we move just like that. She’s exquisite, isn’t she? Soft, wet, warm… Utterly undone beneath us. You’re holding back, but I feel the way you want her, Lucanis.

Imagine her riding us instead, her body undulating, her head thrown back, that sweet, sinful mouth moaning your name… The way her breasts would bounce, the way she’d throw her head back, her hair wild and free. She’d dig her nails into our chest, leave marks for us to carry tomorrow. She’d ride us until we couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember anything but her name.

Rook.

Rook.

Rook.

Lucanis faltered, his hips stuttering as heat rushed through him. He buried his face in the crook of Rook’s neck, inhaling her scent – a mix of lavender and sweat and musk.

“Lucanis?” Her voice was soft and breathy, her free hand coming up to cup his face.

He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting hers. There was a hint of concern there, but also something else: trust, desire, love. It grounded him, even as Spite’s words continued to coil around his thoughts.

She’s perfect, isn’t she? Look at her lips, swollen from our kisses. Look at her body, trembling beneath ours. Imagine the way she’d look if you let her take control, her legs wrapped around us, her nails digging into our skin as she rides us. You wouldn’t last. You’d be lost in her, utterly consumed… Completely at her mercy.

The heat of Spite’s words coursed through him, sharpening every sensation: the softness of Rook’s thighs around his hips, the warmth of her breath against his jaw, the way her body fit against his like she was carved by the Maker just for him. A low growl escaped the Crow, unbidden, and Rook’s eyes widened slightly before softening into something teasing and amused.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked, her tone playful despite the flush on her cheeks.

“You,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

Her lips curved into a smile, and before he could brace himself, she moved. With strength and agility surprising for an elf her size, Rook maneuvered them, rolling Lucanis onto his back and straddling him in one fluid motion.

“Rook,” he breathed, his hands instinctively coming to rest on her waist.

She leaned down, her face mere inches from his, her tight curls brushing against his skin. “I want to see you,” she murmured, eyes boring into his soul. “All of you.”

Lucanis swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. She shifted slightly, aligning their bodies, and he had to fight the urge to squeeze his eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation as his length slipped into her warmth again.

This is what I meant, Spite purred, his voice a mix of satisfaction and lust. Look at her. Look at the way she moves, the way her muscles flex, the way her lips part with every breath. She’s stunning, Lucanis. She’s ours. She’s ours.

Rook began to move, slowly at first, her hands splayed against his chest for balance. Her eyes never left his, and he was captivated by the myriad of emotions flickering across her face – pleasure, concentration, bliss. She was his entire world in that moment, and – though he was loathe to admit that Spite was right – he was utterly at her mercy.

She feels incredible, doesn’t she? So warm, so wet. The way she clenches around us – it’s like she was made for this, made for us. Imagine her like this forever, Lucanis. Imagine her gasping your name, her body ours to claim, to adore. Imagine…

Shut. Up. The thought was sharp, but it wasn’t enough to silence the demon completely.

Rook’s pace quickened, her head falling back as she continued to ride him, and Lucanis was struck by the sheer beauty of her. Spite’s whispers faded into the background as he was overwhelmed by the sight of her, the sound of her, the feel of her.

Lucanis sat up, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her flush against him. She gasped, her hands moving to grasp his face, her thumb brushing over the scar that cut through his lip, and their foreheads pressed together as they moved in perfect harmony.

“Lucanis…” Rook moaned, lips brushing against his but never quite settling into a kiss.

“You’re beautiful,” he panted into her mouth, his voice rough. The words felt clumsy, inadequate for the reverence that swelled in his chest, but he couldn’t help it. She always left him raw, disarmed in a way that terrified him and made him ache for more.

She is, isn’t she? Spite purred, his voice slithering back into Lucanis’ mind. The way she moans your name, Lucanis… It’s delicious, isn’t it? We’d do anything to hear her say it again. We’d let her ruin us, and we’d thank her for it.

Lucanis clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he tried to push Spite’s voice to the background once more. The demon was always there, always watching, but now, in this moment of closeness, he wanted to focus solely on Rook, on the way her nails raked down his back, on the press of her breasts against his chest, on the little gasps and sighs she was panting against his mouth.

Rook tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly as she cupped his cheek. “Hey,” she murmured, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Lucanis rasped, pressing his forehead against hers. “Just… Give me a second.”

A second? Spite’s laugh was low and wicked, curling around the edges of his mind. You’re not going to last even that long, are you? She has you wrapped around her finger, and she knows it. Look at the way she’s watching you. She loves knowing you’re helpless for her.

The man bit back a groan, once more burying his face in the crook of Rook’s neck. His hands roamed her sides, grounding himself in the reality of her warmth and the soft cadence of her breath. She whispered his name, her lips brushing against his ear, and it made him shiver.

“Lucanis,” she said again, and this time there was a sharper edge of concern. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling gently until he looked up at her. “If something’s wrong, just tell me. You don’t have to…”

He silenced her with a kiss, desperate and messy, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. She responded instantly, her arms tightening around him as she pulled him closer, their tongues intertwining.

It was enough to momentarily drown out Spite’s voice.

But not for long.

She tastes like sin, Spite hissed. Doesn’t she? Like honey and fire. We could lose ourselves in her and never crawl back out.

Lucanis broke the kiss with a ragged breath, his face flushed. “Mierda, you’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath.

Rook raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across her face. “Me?” she asked, her lips quirking into a playful smile. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been on my best behaviour.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Not you,” he murmured, starting to move his hips under her again, grinding his length into her. “Never you.”

Rook’s smile softened, and she ran her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that made his eyes flutter shut. “Look at me, Lucanis.”

He did, his eyes meeting hers, wide and desperate. She smiled, a quiet reassurance that made his heart twist. “You’re okay,” she whispered, her other hand trailing up to tangle in his hair. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But breathing wasn’t easy when Spite was there, his voice coiling around Lucanis’ resolve like a snake tightening its grip.

She’s trying to soothe you, poor thing, Spite purred. She doesn’t know how close you are to breaking, does she? To giving in and losing yourself in her. Let go, Lucanis. Feel her. Every shiver, every clench… Let her consume us.

Lucanis grunted, a low, guttural sound. Rook’s hands slid down to his back, her fingers tracing the curve of his spine as if she could smooth out the tension knotted there. “It’s okay,” she whispered again, pressing her lips to his temple. “I’m here.”

The Crow’s entire body trembled, his movements slowing as he struggled to hold back. The edge was so close, too close, and the thought of losing himself so quickly made shame curl in his chest.

Rook noticed, of course. She always noticed.

Her hands slid to his face again, pulling him into a slow, tender kiss that made the world tilt.

“You’re doing fine,” she murmured against his lips, her voice grounding him in the way only she could. “We’re not in a rush.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, trying to find his voice. “I…” His words came out broken, barely audible. “I don’t want to… Too soon…”

Her lips curved into the beginning of a small, teasing smile, but her eyes remained soft. “It’s alright even if you do, you know. Just feel.” She kissed the corner of his mouth, her breath warm against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He tried to focus on her – the curve of her hips beneath his hands, the gentle hitch in her breath when he rolled his hips – but Spite wasn’t done. His voice was relentless, a low, velvety purr echoing in the back of Lucanis’ mind.

She’s amazing, isn’t she? Her body… Look at how she moves above us, how she fits us perfectly. How she’s flushed, quivering, clinging to us like we’re her whole world. We know what she tastes like when she cries out your name. We know how she shatters beneath us. Imagine it. Let me show you.

Lucanis cursed under his breath and bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, but it wasn’t enough to quiet Spite or to stop the slow, insistent heat pooling low in his core. He could feel himself slipping, his control fraying as Spite’s words painted vivid images in his mind, each one making it harder to keep the pace gentle, loving.

He forced himself to slow his movements, pressing his forehead to hers again, his breath hitching as he fought to hold on, but Spite had other plans.

Tell me, Lucanis… What do you think her expression would be like if we let her properly pull our hair?

Lucanis’ pulse quickened, the thought of Rook’s hands tightening their grip and tugging at his hair, her eyes dark with need, her breath hot in his ear, sending a jolt of desire through him. He almost couldn’t control it.

Almost.

You think that would make her look even more beautiful, don’t you? Maybe she’d be a little breathless, her lips parted, eyes wide with that stunning mix of need and gratefulness.

The demon’s tone was maddeningly amused, curling around the edges of Lucanis’ focus like smoke. Imagine if she was holding us down. She could take us apart, you know. We’d let her, wouldn’t we?

Lucanis tensed, his movements faltering for only a moment as he bit back a groan. He clenched his teeth, trying to block Spite out, but the demon persisted, his whispers growing more vivid.

She’d tease us, draw it out, make us beg. She’d watch us come apart under her hands, and she’d enjoy it.

Lucanis’ breath hitched as he imagined it; her eyes bright, her lips swollen and eager as she took what she wanted from him. She’d be so…

His hand moved to the base of his cock, squeezing tightly to keep from spilling into her warmth too soon.

Rook caught the movement. Her hands cupped his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as she studied him. “It’s Spite, isn’t it?” she asked gently, her voice tinged with understanding.

Lucanis couldn’t bring himself to speak. He could only nod, his teeth still clenched, his grip tightening on himself as another wicked whisper ghosted through his thoughts.

Rook’s expression softened and she let out a soft laugh, but it wasn’t mocking – it was warm, affectionate, her lips quirking into a small, knowing smile. She pressed a kiss to his nose, then his forehead, her voice low and steady as she addressed the demon she knew could hear her every word.

“Spite,” she said, her voice steady, though tinged with amusement, “be gentle with him. You’re going to make him combust before we’ve even gotten to the good part.”

Lucanis groaned, a mix of frustration and arousal, and Spite’s wings stirred in the air around them, flickering with barely restrained energy.

Gentle? Oh, but where’s the fun in that? Spite replied, his voice a sultry purr in Lucanis’ mind.

Rook tilted her head, as if she could hear Spite’s protests. “If you quiet down now, Lucanis will last longer. And if he lasts longer…” She leaned closer, her lips brushing against Lucanis’ ear and her fingertips brushing against Spite’s wings. “…Then you’ll feel me for longer, too. Isn’t that what you want?”

The Crow shuddered, her words a mix of teasing and earnestness that only made the fire already raging in his veins burn hotter. He wasn’t sure whether the groan that followed was his or Spite’s – perhaps it was both. The wings flared once, a sharp snap of air that rustled the curtains, before folding back. Spite’s presence receded, his voice finally falling silent.

Lucanis exhaled a shaky breath, one he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and pressed his forehead against Rook’s shoulder as relief washed over him. “You,” he rasped, his voice filled with gratitude and an edge of desire that hadn’t yet ebbed, “are going to be the death of me.”

Rook laughed softly, her hands slipping to cradle the back of his neck. “Not if I can help it,” she replied, rolling her hips slightly and drawing a low, broken sound from him.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words tumbling from his lips unbidden, overwhelmed.

Rook’s eyes glistened, and she smiled, her lips brushing against his in the barest of kisses. “I love you, too. All of you.”

For the first time, the demon’s voice came gently and unguarded. …I love her too. There was a pause, almost contemplative. I’m glad I was ripped from the Fade and bound to you, if only for this.

Lucanis blinked owlishly, overwhelmed anew, and laughed softly.

Rook’s laugh, low and sweet, joined his. “What’s so funny?” she asked, tenderly brushing an unruly strand of hair from his damp forehead.

“Spite,” he murmured, shaking his head with a bemused smile. “He just said something I never thought I’d hear.”

Rook stiffened slightly, her expression shifting into something sharp, her posture stiffening. “Oh, really? Spite, if you’re…”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, catching both of her hands in his before she could say more. He kissed her knuckles, one by one, with deliberate care, the gesture so tender it made her breath catch. When he looked back up at her, his eyes shone with nothing but love.

“Don’t tell him off for this. It was sweet, what he said. He’s a part of me, Rook. And in his own way... He loves you too.”

Rook blinked, her fierce expression melting away as his words sank in. “…He said that?” she asked, her voice quieter now, the edge replaced by something tender.

Lucanis nodded, his thumb brushing along her knuckles. “He said he’s glad he was pulled from the Fade. If only to find us… To have this.” He smiled. “And for once, I think I might agree with him.”

Rook’s lips trembled, her expression morphing into something that left him breathless. She leaned forward and kissed him, slow and deliberate, as though sealing a promise between them. When she pulled back, her smile was warm. “I meant it, you know. I love all of you.”

He kissed her again, slow and reverent, as though it was the first kiss he’d ever given and the last one he’d ever need. They fell back into each other, their breaths mingling as the world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the warmth they shared.

Beyond the walls of the estate, the gardens rested under the silver glow of moonlight. The fountains murmured softly, their waters catching the light as they spilled into one another. Somewhere in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves carried on the wind, a gentle serenade for the quiet sanctuary they’d built together.

And though the world beyond still waited with its dangers, within the Dellamorte estate, there was peace. For now, there was only love.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: The Big Ambitions of Baron Bittly

Monsters from the primal expanse of the Drovidiin Wilds have been appearing without warning in the kingdom's heartland, somehow teleported hundreds of miles to rampage through towns and cities. After more than one skirmish with the beats, your party has ventured to the bordertown of Thimblewell on the edge of the wilds, seeking answers.

Adventure Hooks:

Though the party have heard whisperings of the beast attacks before, their firsthand exposure to the phenomenon comes when they hear screams and cries coming from the town's fancy playhouse. An acid spitting drake has somehow found its way inside the building during the middle of the performance and its rampage threatens to bring the house down.

Tasked with tracking down a crew of bandits that've been plundering local caravans, the party's raid of the outlaw's encampment is thrown into chaos when one of their targets breaks open an innocuous crate, pulls out a glowing glass canister and smashes it in the middle of the melee: unleashing a beast in a burst of blue light into an already chaotic final battle.

The party find a strange tension when they arrive in the town of Thimblewell. Though the settlement has a long history of being beset by monsters from the primeval wilderness it borders, there've been no attacks for the past several years and no one seems to want to talk about why. Eventually a disgruntled former guardsman points them in the direction of the local landholder, an amateur mage with a reputation for conducting strange experiments. He fails to mention that said mage has a defence system built into his manse, and that he's been expecting the party's arrival for some time.

Background: Irnett Bittley was never a mage of large talent, both because he was unable to summon up the showy displays of elemental mastery that would have earned him a living as a court wizard, and because his self important streak made him too proud to ever suffer suffer through an apprenticeship. He was a great mage, destined for great things, and the fact that others couldn't see that was their failing.

Tired of being challenged or denied by people who genuinely knew better, Bittley picked up stakes and went to the boonies seeking to find a pond small enough to consider him a big fish. He found it in Thimblewell, a little town sorely in need of a handymage, and he could have been happy and well liked there if the need to be great wasn't etched on his soul. Thimblewell had a monster problem, and while Bittley was no battlecaster he did have a knack for bindings and containment spells. If he managed to catch a monster by supprise while it was distracted by the local millitia he could shrink it down and hold it in stasis, effectively defeating the monster by kicking the can indefinitely down the road.

The townsfolk heaped praised upon him for his heroics, only to have their goodwill spat right back in their faces as Bittley started asking for increasingly steep "donations" to keep his enchantments in place, all but threatening to release the beasts again if his impromptu tax wasn't paid. Fast forward a couple of decades and Baron Bittley has become rich enough to buy himself a title and become Thimblewell's defacto ruler.

Still not content to be a backwoods landbarron, Bittley's latest scheme is to sell his stockpile of captured beasts one by one to unscrupulous individuals who are in need of a good monster: thieves in need of a distraction, poachers and collectors trafficking in rare specimens, nobles who'd prefer an untraceable and indiscriminate means of assassination. This enterprise is making Bittley even more rich, but with success comes paranoia, and we all know how dangerous a paranoid mage can be.

Challenges & Complications:

1: The drake was intended as a means of assassination, targeted at a countess and her heir attending the playhouse's performance in one of the box seats. As the party runs in to save the screaming commoners, they'll potentially be diverted by the countess's guards, intending to save their employer's life before anyone else's. Saving the noble might earn them a rich reward at the cost of many lives, but choosing to look after the common people will earn them the ire of the acid-scarred heir, who watched them save the rabble while his flesh burned and his mother was crushed to death under rubble.

2: After the party have defeated the bandits, they'll find three more of those arcane canisters left in the box, each containing its own miniaturized monster waiting to be unleashed. The caravan the bandits robbed was smuggling these beasts to a buyer with dangerous aims, meaning the caravan's owners now have good reason to want the party silenced. Do the party report their findings? Extort those who hired them at the cost of a knife in the back? Or do they just take their offbrand pokeballs and run, dreaming of the chaos they can cause.

3: Baron Bittley knows the party is coming for him thanks to his spies in town, he also knows he could never hope to take them in a fair fight. Thankfully he’s got access to magic, so he doesn’t need to fight fair, allowing them into his home only to catch them in a trap that will shrink them down to a few inches tall, whereafter it’s a simple matter of mage-handing them over into the basement bound dowry chest/prison he’s made for all those in town who’ve dissented to his rule over the years.

Thankfully the tiny townsfolk have been working on a jailbreak for some time now, having painstakingly sawed their way out of the box while their inattentive overlord’s been distracted domineering the world outside. The greatest hurdle to their escape has been the wild landscape of the junk fulled manor basement, filled with various pests that’ve become arcanely mutated from the leakage from the mage’s lab on the floor above. The party will need to engage in some borrowers esque traversal across the basement, up through the walls, and into the lab if they have any hope of reversing their predicament.

Artsource 1

Artsource 2

[snootlestheangel]

Royal Ghoap AU idea

Soap grows up as Prince, his family is royalty blah blah blah

Simon Riley is in the poor part of the city, which under Soap's father's rule, becomes the recruitment for Knights. It's a program designed to take the youth and prevent them from falling into criminal traps and becoming responsible people. It helps the families. Simon is recruited at a much younger age than most with the intention that he grows up alongside the only son of the King (ie Soap)

He and Soap grow up together, slowly falling in love by the time Simon is a full fledged Knight and they're adults.

Roba is the leader of a gang of criminals that burn the part of the city where Simon is from. The Riley family dies in the fire, and it is presumed that so does Simon, because he had fled the safety of the castle to save his family.

While in the castle before all of this, he had been courting Soap, only for Soap to express concerns that if they let their relationship develop into something more, that the people would say things. Basically Soap rejects Simon's physical advances (cock blocked)

Soap: I'm afraid of what they'll say of you, mo chridhe

Simon: let them talk, so long as I have you, nothing can harm me.

Soap lives for several years thinking that he could have had Simon and yet threw it all away.

Eventually his parents are mysteriously assassinated, and he, along with the King's Guards Price and Gaz, travel far as they follow a series of clues that will lead them to the assassin.

Along the way, they encounter The Ghost, a famed assassin with over a hundred assassinations credited to his name. Ghost is believed to have served under Roba.

There are two major ways I want to approach this.

The first way:

He reveals Roba is behind Soap's parents' assassinations, and tells them his plans to murder Roba himself. Price warns Soap not to trust him, but Soap can't help but feel the phantom is familiar.

One night, slipping away from the watchful eyes of Price and Gaz, Ghost enters Soap's private tent

They have a conversation where Ghost basically begs for forgiveness and Soap is confused and then he drops it, only for Soap to ask him if they know each other. Ghost doesn't directly respond, but Soap thinks it means he's uncomfortable because they don't. However, Simon quickly says "you look good as King, Johnny" not long after Soap falls quiet

Soap turns and then whispers his name. Begs him to take the mask off, asking how Roba has hurt him, etc. Simon eventually takes it off to reveal a very scarred face. Soap touches his face and the scars with tears in his eyes. Simon thinks it's because he's now ugly or not worthy of Soap's love anymore. But Soap finds him still as loveable as ever.

"I see scars. Which means you survived, and you healed, and you live to fight another day. Which means you're here, you're alive, and I finally have another chance to keep you."

"Will you let me have you? Even if just for tonight?"

"Of course. Only if you'll let me have you."

"I trust no other soul."

They get together (obviously) and then Idk where to go from here

The second way:

Soap catches word that Roba has been finally captured in a neighboring kingdom, so he brings Price and Gaz with him. The king of this place is Alejandro, with his partner Rudy, and they are joined by Shadow Company who captured Roba.

They are in the royal hall when Ghost manages to kill his way inside, where he uses his weapons to hold Rudy hostage.

His weapons in question are bladed: two large scythes that can cut from both sides (within the curve and outside), making them versatile and intimidating. Truly a character of Death

Alejandro makes a trade: Roba for Rudy. Everyone expects Ghost to leave with Roba, but instead he attacks him and kills him, kneeling back once the deed is done.

Alejandro asks "if you were not loyal to Roba, then who do you pledge to?" Because it's commonly accepted that assassins aren't solo: they have someone that pays them and provides what they need. Ghost stands, slowly makes his way towards Soap, and raises his weapons.

He proceeds to immediately drop them and uses the Royal Guard salute to show his loyalty to Soap. The salute is used in private by Knights/Guards to the crown/royal family. Only Soap, Gaz, and Price would know this, everyone else would be confused as to what that means.

Graves and a couple Shadows quickly attack Ghost and take him into custody. He keeps eye contact with Soap the entire time, Soap is shitting his pants cause how the fuck does THE GHOST know the private salute????? And why would he say he's loyal to me??? What the fuck???????

While Soap is freaking out, the others are trying to figure out Ghost's plans and blah blah blah. He's not giving anything away.

But Soap suddenly appears, saying that he should ask the questions privately because Ghost pledged his loyalty to him. They're upset Soap is in the room, to which Price, out of breath just goes "he's slippery"

They agree and let Soap "interrogate" Ghost.

Soap asks how he knew the salute. Ghost doesn't answer.

Soap asks why he suddenly pledged loyalty to him.

"To save yourself?"

"No."

"No?"

"Cannot suddenly pledge to something you are already pledged to."

Soap is now confused and he's starting to get a weird feeling. He can't think of something to say, he's so confused. Ghost begins to look at him with the saddest, most emotional look he can despite the mask.

"You look good as King, Johnny."

Don't know where to go with this one as well but I'm definitely partial to the second way.

Anyways what y'all think?

[farenmaddox]

Supernatural unhinged rambling ahead… be warned.

I have started obsessing over this idea that was a passing thought I had a few weeks ago, which is how much better seasons 6 and 12 would have been if the plots had been swapped. Reasons: the Campbell family plot Did Not Serve the Narrative of season 6 and felt hugely distracting, and the BMoL felt like a silly threat at the point of season 12. They have super-cool weapons to fight monsters. Okay, and? They can incapacitate/go toe-to-toe with an angel? Me, too, bitch, you ain't special. This is well after The Fall and after angels have already been thoroughly nerfed by previous seasons.

So what if the big bad of season 6 was the BMoL and the big bad of season 12 was Sam?

Season 6: The British Men of Letters knew some shit was up in America but left it alone until Crowley leaned on them for resources in some cagey plot of his. They dig into it and realize angels are on earth and fucking things up. This is a big deal, a big problem, and they need as much information and leverage on angels as they can get, immediately. So what do they do? They identify the person who knows the most about them at this point: Dean Winchester.

Sam is in hell, Cas in heaven; Dean is alone (I mean, he has Lisa and Ben but let’s be realistic about how much of a shield they can be). This group who is so ruthless about killing monsters gets to Dean at a point of real vulnerability in this life. They promise him that if he works with them they will find a way to save Sam. And so begins the War. Dean is a ruthless hunter, Ketch and Mick get more screentime to attempt to be interesting people, the Alpha plot is more developed. They capture angels and study them. Cas is too distracted and Dean too sad/angry to realize the threat that the BMoL actually poses to Heaven until it's almost too late.

Dean defects to side with Cas, but only at the last minute. Cas is the one who amasses the power to get to Sam first, and Dean’s grateful. That, plus the fact that the BMoL want to lock up and study Sam and kill Cas. Cas decimates the BMoL and Dean doesn’t mind that at all. Then the Leviathans happen, end season.

Season 12: At the end of season 11, as Amara is trying to gather as much power as possible, Sam is caught in the crossfire and she eats Sam’s soul. Very end of the season, she brings back not just Mary but Grandpa Campbell as well, in an effort to fuck up Chuck's storylines.

Sam is dangerous and running amok, chasing Lucifer all over the globe and leaving a trail of collateral damage, maybe trying to steal the Knights of Hell's loyalty for himself. Cas and Crowley and Dean (hello toxic polycule!) are chasing Sam, and the Campbell family (including Mary) is left to deal with actual hunting as a profession. Dean tries to be around when he can to temper their hunting style and forge a relationship with his mom, but it goes poorly. At the same time, Dean is trying to negotiate with Billie on how to get Sam’s soul back, which of course goes awry when Cas kills Billie to get Dean and Mary out of the deal they made when they got arrested for trying to kill the president.

Big overarching themes/plots related to “blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb” type stuff, and the nature of Death and souls. Dean maybe gets caught up in Death politics for a minute, as a way of actually doing something with how much Dean has had a special connection with Death and reapers in previous seasons, and his role as assassin of the old Death and an agent in the ascension of the new Death. Because Sam is like this, Dean ends up sticking with Cas more and ends up siding with him about what to do with Kelly's little nephilim problem.

Season 12 ends similarly to canon, except that Sam is the one who gets sucked into Apocalypse World, Grandpa Campbell is the one who tries to shoot Jack, and Dean is the one who tries to stop him. When they wake up from Jack flinging them away, Mary turfs her dad out and sides with Dean about Jack. Heading into season 13, we are wondering about soulless Sam and whether he's going to find a way back and take Hell for himself, and what Dean and Mary are going to do about the absolute MESS that the Campbells have made of the hunting network and the Winchester reputation.

[fanfic-obsessed]

Ghostly Meet Cute

I have gotten into DCxDP lately and while I do tend to ship Danny with any member of the Batfam, this is decidedly a Dead Serious idea. 

I want you all to know that I have interacted with maybe 1%-3% of canon for either series, all of my knowledge is semi forced acquisitions from Tumblr.  But I think we’ll be ok, right? We’re working with Damian is 19 and Danny is 20, both are in their third year of a bachelor's degree (so just out of the gen eds and into their actual interests-Vet Science for Damian, Engineering for Danny). 

So we start with a cult trying to summon the Ghost King (coin toss whether they knew which Ghost King they were getting, but I digress) for power. They have decided to capture the Bat Family and do the summoning in Gotham. Specifically they decided that Robin (still in costume) would be the sacrifice. 

Ghost King Danny is summoned, already a little pissy because the cultists had interrupted him during his Engineering homework and caused him to lose his train of thought, and is not pleased that the cultists are trying to sacrifice someone to him.  Ghost King Danny sees Robin and is instantly smitten (Look his soul is super pretty, plus it took 10 cultists to hold him on the sacrificial altar, and it looked like they were having a tough time of it).

The thing is Danny, partly because he grew up in Amity Park (more on that in a bit) and partly because he died at the age of 14, is pretty much pure ghost as far as flirting/courting/relationships go.  Ghostly flirting includes a lot of fighting (both together against others and against each other), playful threats, both weapons and violence as gifts, and a not so great handle on human boundaries.

Which is why Damian Wayne wakes up the day after taking care of the cultists to a bouquet of 20 hands, carefully disarticulated from the 10 cultists who had held him down, in his bedroom at home with a note that implied that either the ghost king was displeased about their failure to sacrifice Damian, or only the Ghost King was allowed to kill Damian.  

Damian is a former child assassin, so no stranger to violence, but he is not enough of a ghost to read the intentions of the ‘Gift’.  He is admittedly a bit nonplussed by the bouquet of hands

Do you know who is Ghostly enough to read the Ghost King's intentions? Jason Wayne-Todd, Revenant. Jason, who is a hopeless romantic under the leather and guns. Jason, who looks at Damian and goes ‘he’s little brother shaped’ and saw the Ghost King and went ‘he’s brother-in-law shaped’. 

Jason ships it. Jason ships it so hard he is practically cooing. Unfortunately he communicates that he ships it before he manages to communicate that he thinks the Ghost King is flirting (Jason instinctually can tell Danny’s intentions but doesn’t really know how to communicate that instinct into anything concrete). So the Bat Fam takes his assertion that Danny is flirting into consideration, but cannot take his instincts as conclusive evidence that the Ghost King is not, in fact, trying to hurt Damian. Basically the Batfam is trying to figure out if they are in a romance movie or a horror (and trying to be really careful not to get it wrong). Jason, after he made sure that Damian would be interested if they could be sure Danny is flirting (which Damian is-Danny is interesting, cute, smart, and exceedingly dangerous), goes back to writing RP fanfiction about their potential wedding. 

Over in Amity Park Danny is the full on giggling/swooning type of smitten. This is a good Fenton Parents/ everyone knows that Danny is Phantom kind of universe. It is also an extremely liminal Amity Park kind of universe. I also want it to be an Amity Park is naturally very liminal kind of universe, and has been very liminal for a long time.  Almost all of the residents grew up there and because of that their flirtation/courtships/romances tended to be ghostly in nature. In addition, by the time Danny is 20 Amity Park has all but become an extension of the Infinite Realms. The Ghosts tend to come and go freely and are now part of the community.

The entirety of Amity Park also ships Danny/Robin.  They are all helping him with his courtship, and very supportive of the bouquet of hands.  His parents are helping him source (or build, Jack Fenton is very enthusiastic about wooing your future spouse with custom built weapons instead of buying generic ones- which is the real reason Maddie picked him over Vlad) weapons to give to Damian-they even built a smithy in the lab once they realized Damian preferred blades. Jazz is giving him advice on making sure he pays attention to Damian’s interests (Danny lured Damian to a warehouse where they were able to bust a dog fighting ring together). Sam ended up bonding with her parents in trying to make sure Danny was dressed appropriately to see Damian while Tucker furiously hacks into all kinds of criminal databases to find people that Danny can fight to impress Damian. Even Mr.Lancer gets into the act, giving Danny advice on word choice for the notes. 

Basically it starts out with Danny in the middle of a Meet Cute and most of the Batfam trying to figure out if this is going to end with a Murde Mystery.

Some time passes, enough that actual communication happens. Danny and Damian start dating. A number of jokes are made that Jason is not allowed to be a chaperone, with the punchline being that he would abduct them to be married at gunpoint (Jason’s frequent indignant response: Hey, I would at least drive them to Vegas, first).  During this time, Tim, Technus, and Tucker formed some kind of unholy alliance that may or may not include a friends with benefits situation; everyone is afraid to ask.  Technus somehow got Tim to sleep an average of 3 more hours a week, so can do no wrong as far as Alfred, Dick, and Bruce were concerned.

Danny, as phantom, and Damian, in costume, go for a date in Amity park, with plans to head into the infinite realm (there were several of the realm bound ghosts that wanted to meet the King's boyfriend). They are accompanied by both Nightwing and Red Hood.The Joker decides to track down Red Hood for nefarious reasons. The Joker may be the prince of crime in Gotham. Not so much for Amity Park. Red Hood gets to watch his murderer get beaten within an inch of his life by a group of young teens (some of the newest members of the fan club, most of whom were barely old enough to remember what happened with Pariah Dark) from the Phantom Fan club, who took exception to a clown trying to ruin Danny’s love life.  

Red Hood turns to Nightwing, “I think I just felt my ‘Bruce Adoption genes’ just activate”

Nightwing sighs. “I would talk to their parent first, at least”

[wifeofwandamaximoff]

Meeting the Lover

Everyone just arrived at the base about 5 miles away from it. When all of a sudden Jarvis detected a heat signature. Wanda knew it was you so she ran out of the quinjet to find you. Everyone screamed Wanda to come back but it was too late she was too excited to see her love again after 3 weeks apart from each other and that was far too long for Wanda.

Then she saw you sitting on a tree branch smiling at her. She giggled and made grabby hands so you could bring her up to hug and kiss each other.

(You could control the elements btw). You summoned some vines to carefully bring her to you.

"Hello mon chou." you said when she finally was in reach of you. She jumped in your arms and sighed contently to be in your arms again. (Mon chou stands for my sweet bun, a pastry because Wanda is sweet :O )

"Hi detka!" squealed Wanda because she was so excited to see you.

Just then you heard the avengers screaming Wanda's name.

"Mon chou the team is looking for you lets go back down." you whispered softly to her.

"Hmm just a minute I missed you." hummed Wanda.

"Mon chou lets go before they send a search party and let me see my sestra." you persuaded her.

Natasha Romanoff was your older sister. You both were separated in the red room. When she escaped you had to pay for it. You were tortured and experimented on all because of her actions. You were in there for about another five years until you escaped.

Then Hydra captured you when they found out you were an assassin. That's where you met Wanda and her brother Pietro. He always supported your relationship with Wanda of course once you both became lovers. Sadly the red room found you again a took you from Hydra making the twins think that you died when you touched the soul stone. You were the only person in Hydra to touch the soul stone twice gaining controlling the elements and wings.

Your sister thought you were dead when she went back to the red room with Clint but Dreykov told your sister you died when you had really been moved to the new red room. So you haven't seen her in years. 

You've been living in France for the past five years but decided to go look for Wanda. She mourned for you but never moved on because you were her soulmate. She of course was over joyed when she saw you but was extremely mad when you didn't contact her until that moment. Yeah you got a harsh slap on the cheek twice.

"Lets go now Mon chou its been five minutes." you said

"Fine but I want cuddles when we finish the mission." she said with puppy eyes.

"Mon chou you know I can't I need to go back to France." you told her and she started to have tears well up in her eyes.

You felt really bad so you did some thinking.

"lets go mon chou, I need to meet the team anyways."

She just hummed wiping her tears away.

I then lowered us both down and landed in front of the team. The vines then let Wanda go but she still clung onto you. The team saw you and thought you were a threat but when Nat told them to lower their weapons they hesitantly did.

Nat had tears in her eyes and she dropped her gun. Her hands were shaking violently.

"Y-y/n?" whispered Nat when she was directly right in front of you. Wanda let you go letting you have a moment with your sister. after years of not seeing each other. 

"Hello Nataila..." you softly said. You then opened your arms inviting her into a hug. The boys were shocked because Nat never shown PDA. But you or Yelena were the ones who she would show PDA with.

She ran into your arms and clung onto your mission suit.

(epic mission suit :D)

After our little moment I started to introduce my self to the avengers.

"hello my name is Y/n Romanoff now lets get this mission done so I could go back home." , you spoke with blank coldness yo assert dominance to the team. (Lamo that sounds cringe)

They just nodded kinda afraid of you now.

You then made your wings spread. Totally forgetting Nat was still holding onto you.

"Y/n! Let me down!" squealed Nat.

"Oh shit my bad."

"Language!" yelled Steve

You rolled your eyes at him then dropped your sister making her scream while the others ran towards her to catch her. Right before she hit the ground you summoned some vines to soften her landing.

When Nat was recovered from shock she looked up and glared at you while your girlfriend was just rolling her eyes.

You just stuck your tongue out at her and flew off to the Hydra base. Planning on finishing the mission before the avengers get here.

(Time skip when the computer finished uploading everything to the flash drive.)

Right after you pulled the flash drive out about 15 hydra men swarmed you. They began firing special bullets that they just made for you. You quickly noticed that the bullets were special so you quickly exploded the hydra base sensing that the team was in a safe distance to explode the base.

You used your wings to fly and try to quickly find an exit or Wanda and Nat was going to have a panic attack.

"Y/n where are you!?" Wanda screeched in your ear. You forgot that you could communicate with the others. You were use to doing solo missions. (We just independent like that).

"Wanda im fine but im not going to be fine if you give me an ear infection, your harming my cochlea mon chou." you said softly but really you were panicking from not being able to find an exit. 

"Im sorry but just get out go there Tony said that apparently you exploded the hydra base on the west side. Y/n River Romanoff you better be on the east side of the building." demanded Wanda at the end.

"Wanda is right you better be on the east side I just got you back so you can't leave me and Wanda." demanded your sister in a angry yet broken voice.

I just ignored them. Focusing more on finding an exit and not leaving the two most important people in my life.

Just then I turned back when I felt heat behind me. I saw fire. I then turned back and quickly ran throughout the east side finding a building.

"Y/n! Where are you!? Your sister and your girlfriend are freaking out your gonna send them in a early grave Y/n!" exclaimed Tony.

"Even though I don't know you very well Romanoff I don't want those two to be in a world of pain where their favorite person is gone kid. I also have a feeling we're gonna be great fucking friends." Tony told me.

I was about to say something when I felt something pierce me in the stomach. I looked up and saw one hydra agent that was able to find me. Blood was spewing out of my mouth like a water fountain. I was coughing up so much blood that there was a puddle forming beneath me. I looked up and saw a hydra agent standing there with a gun in his hand.

"If in going down you're going down with me!" shouted the hydra agent.

Then I felt myself going up to flames with the hydra agent.

Wanda's pov:

The hydra base then exploded. I felt my whole world crumble and my heart shattering at the thought that I was never gonna see Y/n again, the love of my life was gone. My knees buckled and Nat held me up. I could feel her grief and her thoughts were too loud.

God damnit Y/n River Romanoff! Why did you leave me I just got you back! God damnit! Just come back to me I can't l-lose you again. Fuck its all my fault! If I helped her out with the agents she would still be here! God damnit Natalia why didn't you help her!

I then looked up at Nat and I was greeted by tears. Just then I felt a gust of wind. I looked at the direction where the wind blew and I saw her.

I blinked multiple times to make sure she wasn't a production of my imagine. But she didn't go away or fade away. I abruptly stood up and felt Nat's arms fall off my body. I slammed my body into here holding on as tight as I would afraid she would leave me. Then I felt another body slam into Y/n's and I peeked over and saw Nat was sobbing in her chest.

After a while I asked a questioned we all probably wanted to know.

"How are you alive the building exploded and no survivors were left!" I sobbed out.

"I think we all want to know that to Y/n." said Steve.

"Oh I wasn't here at all for the fight I just went to a donut shop after I dropped Nat." Y/n said smoothly. A little too smoothly.

"Y/n what are you hiding from us?" I questioned her and tilted my head to the side.

Her eyes widened when she saw my head tilt.

"Okokok um so I just found out like yesterday before I got here I could clone my self..." she rambled out.

After me and Nat scolded her for not telling us before we went to the hydra base, more like her clone but im just glad she's still here with me.

We arrived back at the compound and everyone went straight to their rooms tired from the mission. After a while Tony called all of us to the living for something.

When we all arrived there we just waited for Tony to say something.

"Ok I called you guys down here because I want to throw a part-" Nat cut off Tony before he could say anything else,.

"Stark if your about to celebrate my sister for almost dying today im going to cut your finger off."

He then just started to think for a second to make up an excuse.

"No for meeting the lover that has Wanda all smiley and giggly before she goes back to France." Tony said happily.

Me and Nat both frowned being reminded that Y/n was going back to France.

"Actually Fury came by earlier and invited me to the avengers, so I accepted!" Y/n told us happily.

I then threw my body on hers really happy from the news. Then I felt Nat push me away and plopped onto Y/n's body.

I then pouted because Nat stole my cuddle buddy.

Y/n's pov

I was so glad that im able to get a fresh start and be able to stay with my two favorite people in the world.

----

Made a long one because the others were short.

I made this like a year ago and now looking back on it im cringing quite hard...

(Not proofread!)

[abalidoth]

what is cosmere? (is that what its called?)

The Cosmere is a big, interconnected fantasy universe that is the setting of most of the works by the author Brandon Sanderson. The cool thing about his books is that each series is contained to its own world, and you can read any of them in isolation without realizing you're missing anything, but if you read them all you get a sense of the larger plot happening behind the scenes as those worlds start to collide and things cross over.

Brandon's magic systems tend to be very rule-based and well-defined, with a lot of twists being characters finding interesting ways to use those rules of magic. This lends itself well to the crossovers, because all the magic systems (as different as they are) share the same underpinning principles.

Here's some quick rundowns of different series and standalones in the Cosmere:

The Stormlight Archive

Planned ten-book series, currently four books are out.

A massive sprawling epic about the world Roshar, that's hit by a hurricane about every four days, and all the life has adapted to survive that environment. Knights Radiant -- superpowered individuals with a close bond to a spirit -- are starting to re-emerge in the world after being absent for centuries.

Because there are so many characters, this is where a lot of the character fandom tends to focus their efforts. I wouldn't recommend starting with it, though -- the first book alone is a thousand pages. I'd wait until you have a sense of Brandon's writing. But it's very good.

Mistborn

One trilogy (completed), one tetralogy set a couple hundred years later (completed), two trilogies some time in the future.

One cool thing about this series is that it follows one world (Scadrial) from a vaguely Renaissance tech level in the first trilogy, to 1920s in the second series, and eventually 1980s in the third and space-age magic in the fourth.

The magic itself is very intricate and all woven around metals -- there are people called Metalborn who can ingest metals and burn them in their stomachs to get different effects, including super-senses, strength, and Magneto-ish metallokinesis. That last bit makes the gunfights in the second series particularly fun.

The first book is a heist novel about robbing a thousand-year-old God-Emperor blind. It's a pretty good place to start, although it's a pretty hefty novel to start with.

The Emperor's Soul

I'm putting this one in a different category from the rest of the one-offs for a very good reason -- it's, in my opinion, the single best place to start reading the Cosmere.

It's a novella (just over a hundred pages) about a forger named Shai who uses magic to rewrite the histories of objects. She is captured by the government of an empire to reforge the soul of their Emperor, who has been left braindead after an assassination attempt, in the 100 days before the mourning period is over.

It's a fantastic meditation on art, a cool introduction to the way Brandon writes both characters and magic systems, and Shai herself is one of my favorite Cosmere characters. If any of this sounds at all interesting to you, I recommend you check it out.

One-offs

Brandon has also written a bunch of one-off novels in the Cosmere.

Elantris: His first book, and the one that my tattoo is from. About a prince who is affected by a dark transformation and thrown into a city of fellow undead, and the princess betrothed to him who arrives just in time to be told he died. Good, but suffers from some first book issues, pacing problems, and weird plot cul-de-sacs. Set in the same world as The Emperor's Soul, although there's basically no crossover.

Warbreaker: About a world where souls (Breaths) are bought and sold, and used to animate objects to do work, ruled by The Returned, living gods who require a steady dose of Breaths to live. One of my favorites, and an essential if you'd like to get into the crossover-y parts of the cosmere, as it introduces a bunch of elements that show up later (Especially in Stormlight)

Tress of the Emerald Sea: The first of his wildly successful Kickstarter project books, it's a fairy tale style story about a girl who braves a sea of bubbling, deadly spores to rescue the man she loves. It's lovely, especially if you're into a more Diana Wynne Jones kind of vibe to your fantasy. Probably a pretty good place to start!

Yumi and the Nightmare Painter: The third Kickstarter book. About a shrine priestess who stacks rocks to draw spirits, and a man who paints the nightmares that roam the streets of his city to banish them -- they become trapped in each other's places and must learn about each other's worlds to survive. This is currently my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE cosmere novel, oh my GOD it's so good. I'm not sure it's a great place to start, as a lot of the conclusion might feel a bit rushed if you don't have a good feel for the vibe of how Brandon writes magic, but honestly it might stand alone just fine even then.

The Sunlit Man: Fourth Kickstarter book. I haven't read this one yet.

Novellas: There are a bunch of novellas and short stories, some set on worlds we haven't otherwise seen, some set on Roshar or Scadrial.

If any of this sounds good to you, I recommend you give his writing a shot. He's one of my all time favorite writers (the tattoo should prove that, lol) and the Cosmere fandom is by and large wonderful and welcoming. I've made many lifelong friendships there.

[jokeringcutio]

Abijah Fowler x (f) Assassin Reader Drabble [ Warnings: Smut]

AN: On popular demand, another Abijah Fowler x Reader. You are an assassin set out to kill Fowler. It doesn't go according to plan.

Warnings: Non-con/dub-con content, SMUT (not as detailed as you're used from me, sorry, I'll give the prompt a retry in the future, possibly as a consensual forbidden love fic >D ), Not beta-read. Quick Drabble. ~~ Masterlist - Request Box - Ebooks&Website - Support me on Ko-Fi ~~

You watched him through the slats of the ceiling, your heart a drumbeat in the silence. Abijah Fowler, the man with the soul of a serpent, was seated at the head of a long, dark table. Such an outlandish habit. His fingers, stained with the ink of sin, traced the lines of a map that plots downfall and destruction. The other men, shadows in the dim light, nodded and murmured their assent to his vile plans — willing puppets dancing on his twisted strings.

Corrupted souls, all of them. But they weren’t your concern.

Your grip on the hilt of your dagger tightened. You had memorized the layout of this place, moved through the corridors like a ghost, unseen, unheard. Now you hovered above them, an angel of vengeance poised to strike. Your mission was clear: end Abijah Fowler.

He was explaining something, his voice a gravelly melody that carried tales of violence and power. His strong and broad shoulders moved, dipped backward as if he tried to loosen the muscles in them. His oddly colored hair captured your attention, thinking it had been a color akin to bronze or perhaps even gold once. But streaks of grey made him seem more like the other old men in this country. If it hadn’t been for his distinct facial features, the pale color of his skin, and the large shape of his bright-colored eyes.

An angel of death you saw in him. Anyone else called him a demon.

He regaled them with stories of conquests past, painting pictures with words dipped in blood. They laughed, a chorus of discordant notes, and you felt the bitterness rise in your throat.

"Of course," Fowler's voice sliced through the laughter, "it all depends on eliminating any... unexpected threats." His eyes, predator green, suddenly fixed on you, turned upward to the ceiling and straight at your hidden person. A cold smile curled his lips. "Isn't that right?"

The room fell silent. Every muscle in your body tensed, ready to spring, to fight. But you remained still, barely breathing. There was a chance this was all just a bluff, that he hadn’t seen you. But then you saw his unwavering gaze, saw the unnatural bright green eyes that rested firmly upon you, and you knew that you were exposed, the advantage lost. You cursed inwardly, waiting for his next move, knowing the game had changed.

"Come now, don't be shy," he coaxed, his tone mocking. "Join us."

You dropped down gracefully despite the hammering in your chest. Standing before them, outnumbered but unflinching, you refused to let them show any fear. Stoically, you faced them, thinking of all the lessons and all the training you had. The men stared, their gazes ravenous, but it was Fowler who held your attention. A dangerous dance awaited, everyone could feel it in the air. But you knew his moves, knew how he could react, knew you stood little chance in a hand-on-hand combat.

Especially if he brought his demon guns.

You needed a distraction, something that could increase your chances of survival. Your heart raced, a wild drumbeat in the cavern of your chest. Words, like poisoned arrows, flew from your lips as you stepped closer to Abijah Fowler.

"I've heard tales of your prowess," you murmured, voice a silken thread designed to ensnare. "They say no man can match you in the dark arts of war and pleasure."

Fowler's green eyes glinted, a predator basking in the glow of his prey's admiration. He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through the tension-thick room. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear." His words were honey-laced with venom.

One step. Another. Close enough now that you could count the lines etched into his weathered face. You felt the heat emanating from his broad frame. Fowler's hand shot out, swift as a striking snake, clasping your wrist in an iron grip. The trap snapped shut.

"Gotcha," he whispered, a taunt wrapped in a victory.

Instinct took over. Your body remembered its training before your mind caught up. You twisted, a flash of movement, wrenching against his hold. The element of surprise was on your side, for a heartbeat or two.

"Feisty," Fowler observed, almost admiringly.

The dance of death began. A ballet of blows and blocks. You lunged, struck, kicked—each move a desperate plea for freedom. Fowler countered, effortlessly, his strength overwhelming. The other men watched, wolves observing their alpha.

"Should we help?" one ventured, doubt lacing his voice.

“No, he can take her, easily,” another one guffawed.

You hated him for the comment and wanted to punch his face in, but you knew he was right. Fowler was bigger than you, broader, heavier, and more skilled in combat. You were trained to be a silent creeper, someone who brought death without being seen, a shadow of mercy, or an anger of hell.

Another heroic block of his attack, but your underarm was smarting. Pain shot through you, your body feeling sore. When he finally landed a blow that sent you staggering back, you tasted the copper tang of defeat.

"Never send a child to do a killer's job," Fowler sneered, advancing on you, the space between you charged with the promise of pain and something darker still.

Breath short, chest heaving. His presence loomed, an oppressive shadow eclipsing your tumultuous thoughts. Abijah Fowler's green eyes glinted with a predatory gleam, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a macabre grin that set your nerves on edge.

Was he studying you? The feeling that settled in the pit of your stomach was unsettling. Abijah Fowler was an attractive man, despite all his oddities. And hadn’t his character been so devilish, you might have fallen for his charm. But he was a demon. And in his eyes, you now saw demonic thoughts rise as he studied your features, eyes roaming your skin as if you were unclothed.

You felt the grip of his hands around your wrists, squeezing just a bit tighter. Felt the calloused skin of his thumb as it brushed gently past the mouse of your palm.

"Outside," he commanded, voice low and laden with dark promise. The men hesitated, exchanging leering glances that spoke volumes of their wretched character. "The lass and I need privacy."

"Seems Fowler's got himself a new plaything," one of the men chuckled, coarse laughter bubbling up from the others as they filed out, their intentions thick in the air like a miasma.

Your heart thrummed against your ribs, each beat a silent drum heralding doom. He was close now, too close; the heat from his body mingled with yours. You could kill him—if only you could reach your weapon. But he had smacked it out of your hand with the first blow, it had clunked to the wooden floor aimlessly. You couldn’t even tell where it was from where you stood. Your fingers twitched, betraying the urge.

"I'm not some doll for your amusement," you managed to say, words edged with a defiance you didn't feel.

"Oh, by the time I am done with you, you will wish I’d killed you sooner,” Fowler murmured. You could smell the odd sourness of his breath and wondered what had caused it. His grip on you tightened.

“Who sent you? And why would they send someone so young and unqualified," Fowler murmured, cruel satisfaction seeping through his tone. His breath caressed your ear, sending involuntary shivers down your spine.

The room cleared, the door clicking shut behind the last man. Silence fell heavy, punctuated only by your ragged breaths and the pounding of your pulse. Then, movement. Fowler's hands were upon you, guiding you with unwanted familiarity—a predator toying with its prey.

"Let's see what you've made of," he said, pressing you down forcefully over the table that dominated the center of the room. Your cheek met cold wood, and you flinched as the ink from the maps smeared beneath you, staining your skin with the blueprint of their vile machinations.

"Consider this a different kind of battle," Fowler whispered, his voice a serpent's hiss as he leaned over you, his weight an unspoken threat.

Fowler's hand slithered up your leg, rough fingers catching on the fabric of your clothes. A tug, a deliberate pull, and the material gave way to bare skin, your exposed calf a pale contrast against the darkness of his touch. His breath hitched ever so slightly, a sign of his burgeoning arousal not lost on you.

You struggled on instinct, but stilled when you felt the bulge against your thigh increase. This didn’t actually arouse him, did it?

"Fight me," he growled, a low rumble in his chest as you twisted beneath him, struggling for leverage. "I do love it when you struggle like that."

Your muscles coiled, ready to spring, but he was a slab of stone pinning you down. The heat of his body radiated through the thin barrier of your clothing, igniting a reluctant fire within. You hated how your body betrayed you, responding to his proximity despite the storm of loathing raging in your heart.

His hand wandered with more audacity, venturing into forbidden territory. A gasp tore from your lips, unsanctioned pleasure sparking along your nerves. Fowler chuckled, a sound laced with darkness, as if he relished in pulling these reactions from you.

"Good girl," he purred, his breath hot against your ear. "Let go, just for a moment."

You fought against the tide rising within, but the dam broke under his relentless pursuit, waves of reluctant ecstasy crashing over you. Your climax hit with the ferocity of a tempest, leaving you shuddering and vulnerable in its wake.

He wasted no time, freeing his aching long cock, the size and girth you had never seen before. A gasp tore from your lips as he sheathed himself inside of you, bottoming out with little mercy. He set a grueling pace, showing little care for your pleasure or well-being at this point. But your core was slippery, your walls fluttering around him with passion, and you had to bite your tongue to keep from moaning loudly with each and every deep thrust his foreign body gave you.

Was this how it had been for every lover he had ever taken, forced or otherwise?

A second orgasm wracked through your body. You’d find an excuse for this later on, if you were to survive this ordeal. You would find a way to condone the liquid that dripped from your core and onto the table below, the way the stained ink brushed past your nipples, the way your body pulsed with pleasure after Abijah Fowler found his release.

You felt a hot palm on your naked back, gently caressing the skin there, and heard the low hum that came from his lips. He sounded pensive, as if he were determining your fate. Your thoughts slid back to your weapons and the many ways to get your hands on them, but his body still kept you trapped underneath him.

As you lay there, trembling, Fowler's voice slithered in your ear once more. "There's a task I need done," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin. "A certain individual who needs to be...taken care of."

His implication was clear, an order veiled as an offer. "Do this for me," he continued, "to my satisfaction, and I shall spare your life."

"My life..." you rasped, your voice laden with the weight of reality. There was no choice, only the illusion of one. You nodded, sealing a devil's pact, while inside, a lethal promise took root. Fowler had ignited a vengeful blaze, and from its ashes, you would rise—his destruction, your sole aim.

This was not the end. It was a twisted beginning, and you swore to yourself, to the silent gods of retribution, that you would have your revenge.

Abijah Fowler would pay.

~ AN: I want to do this character more justice (and the smut). But quite frankly, it is a bloody miracle I have been writing anything at all. Things don't go well health-wise, but we'll know more at the end of this month. I hope to feel good enough soon to write a better drabble for Abijah and Reader.

[dcdreamblog]

@terriwriting That's actually a great question. I assume you're thinking of "The Phantom of the Fair" Very mysterious that one. Though he's known as "The First Supervillain" in many respects his actual story is unclear even to this day. I can share what I know though.

This is probably the clearest photo ever taken of the man, from very early on the morning of April 30th, 1939 taken by a photographer from the New York Globe-Leader. The photographer assumed it was some kind of statue only "it" vanished when he went to take a second picture. No one was prepared for what would occur during the opening ceremony conducted by then mayor Fiorello La Guardia

Another photo, this time from the Planet capturing the moment where the Phantom dropped in on La Guardia, causing a panic in the crowd and taking the microphone The Phantom spoke the now famous works "Men and women of New York City—this World's Fair is now declared officially haunted by the Phantom of the Fair!" before vanishing back into the rooftops despite the best efforts of the NYPD

Now you would THINK that he would instantly be marked for arrest but World's Fairs aren't cheap so Mayor La Guardia, in his infinite wisdom, treated the guy like a publicity stunt for the next several days.

A photo of the Phantom taken on the evening of May 3rd, 1939 as a spotlight is pointed up at the building. No attempt is made to apprehend the Phantom It wasn't until the visit of the UK's King George VI and Queen Elizabeth that the Phantom made a move. Somehow "reprogramming" the mechanical marvel Elektro in the other room and sending it to attack the royal couple.

The police escort was caught totally flat footed and the royal couple was nearly smashed beneath the robot's heavy iron boot until...

The appearance of two strange men. One in an inhuman gas mask and the other in a blood red cloak. Courtesy of the Gazette Up until that point "The Sandman" and "The Crimson Avenger" were considered myths, legend, yellow journalism crafted by a New York in the midst of the Great Depression and an organized crime spike. A modern day Spring Heeled Jack. But there they were. Their fight with the rampaging Elektro and the Phantom lasted for upwards of two hours across the interiors and rooftops of the Fair's central buildings. In the end the broken robot was left sprawled across the dance floor of the central hall and the Phantom was nowhere to be found.

Now this one, taken after the defeat of the Phantom by a photographer from the Planet is one of my favorite shots in history. Beneath this picture, a reporter would coin the term "Mystery Man" and it is at that very moment that the age of the superhero is born. The Sandman and The Crimson Avenger had made themselves known as not just specters in the dark but honest to god crime fighters known the world over. This is the photograph that christened an era. Within the next year we would move from "Yellow Journalism" to the foundation of the Justice Society. As for the Phantom, no one really knows what happened to him. but there are two popular theories. The historically attested theory and the one that was unquestioned for the longest time is that The Phantom was a Nazi saboteur attempting to assassinate King George VI on American soul to alienate the two nations and remove a powerful symbol against fascism (possibly attempting to secure the throne for Edward VIII who was more sympathetic to the German cause) In the early 90s however historian Matt Wagner put forward a theory connecting the Phantom to a man named Gerald Zimmerman as the suspect in a series of anti-queer hate crimes that occurred near the fairgrounds in the days leading up to the Fair itself. The crimes, as one can expect of anti-gay killings investigated in the 1930s, were never conclusively solved but circumstantial evidence and modern psychological analysis of the Phantom and Zimmerman gives the theory some legs. As a historian myself, I can't make conclusive proof one way or another. Rest assured the Fairground has LONG since been scoured for every single scrap of proof that might grant us insight one way or the other Perhaps the Phantom was one last Penny Dreadful style unsolved mystery to open the door to a newer age. When these "Mystery Men" would, for once and always, step out of the shadows as the world sat balanced on a knife's edge.