#its like that lady on twitch who was like its not enough if you just follow my account you have to sUBSCRiBE because follows are Worthless

[meowdei]

khaenriahn princess reader x knight capitano ; jealous capitano ; implied hidden relationship ; pre cataclysm ; royal au ; capitano is not cursed yet so his skin is supple and youthful ; banter and fluff

“There is word, my lady,” his voice says lowly. You hum, reaching over to grab at his helmet. Capitano gently captures your hand before you can, pulling it away from its path to uncover his face. There’s a fleeting frown on your lips, but it’s gone as soon as he brings it up and presses a small, delicate kiss to the knuckles through the dark cloth that hides him from you.

“Oh? What of, my dear knight?” You ask curiously. Something tells him it’s almost mockingly innocent.

“That there is a rather…determined prince seeking your hand in marriage.”

Sometimes, it feels unfair that very rarely do you get to see the face hidden underneath the armor, but you suppose you don’t need to see Capitano to know exactly what emotion is twisted in his face. You fight back an amused grin—his voice tells you all you need to know.

You’re certain he must taste his own bitterness as the words fall from his tongue.

“Such grand news,” you gasp, “and yet…you speak with such hesitation. Has this news not brought you joy, my captain?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says unamused, voice low and just shy of a grumble, “I value your wellbeing above all. Should a capable prince ask for your hand, I would be most delighted if that is what you accept.”

“You do not sound delighted at the idea,” you tease.

“Perhaps my lady has not given me reason to think she would be interested in such a proposition,” he mutters.

This time, his voice does, in fact, sound the slightest bit petulant—like a child who sulks after being scolded. His tone is usually one that is far too courteous. Painfully so, in fact. (You’ve spent a good number of exasperating moments insisting he be more casual with you. You reap the rewards of those efforts few and far in between). But now, he betrays himself with a flicker of frustration, far too evidently for even you to miss.

He realizes too late how childish the words must sound spoken so irritably. You can tell that he clenches his jaw, seeing the tension even under the mask as he forces himself to still the bitterness spreading through his veins.

“Tell me, my dear knight,” you grin. You can imagine the unhappy lift of his brow as you speak, “what makes you so certain I would be disinterested in such an enticing offer?”

“It seems my assumptions were incorrect,” he grunts, straightening his back before promptly adding, “forgive me, my lady. I must see to rather urgent military affairs. I shall be seeing you—”

“Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Sir Capitano,” you quip, your hand grabbing at his wrist, tugging him towards you. He stills, stiff as a statue as your hand reaches for his helmet once more.

This time, he doesn’t stop you. He allows the lithe, delicate fingers he knows so well to grab at the edge of his helmet, carefully tugging it off before his face slowly reveals itself to you. You smile, cupping a cheek before tracing your thumb along the soft skin of his face.

“I am not jealous,” he says stubbornly.

“Haven’t they taught you never to lie to a princess?” You hum, stepping closer. His lips twitch just a fraction at the edges before two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you towards him. Flush against his chest. Tucked right against his heart. Pressed so close, you almost wonder if you could feel his heart beating through the armor if you paid close enough attention.

“You torment me, my lady,” he murmurs quietly, “I fear I cannot accept this arrangement. It would tear through my soul to watch you be wed to another.”

“Then do not watch me,” you whisper.

You have seen his eyes flicker with soft, warm affection countless times. There is beauty underneath the helmet he wears so often, beauty that not many are so fortunate to see. You see it often, though. In private, hidden moments that he affords you. In the quiet of your chambers where the maids cannot disturb you. In the corners of the palace where no one can interrupt your fleetingly lingering touches and longing gazes.

Your hands hold his face, slowly pulling him closer as you study every precious slope across his skin. The slightly jagged curve of his nose. The plumpness of his lips. The slant of his sharp cheekbones. Every feature you know by heart, and revisit in your dreams.

You smile lightly at the thought of his jealousy, as guilty as you should feel for teasing him. Your knight—and you, his beloved princess.

“Do you wish to marry a prince?” He asks, leaning into your neck, breathing in your scent as his nose trails up your jaw until it reaches your cheek. Your breath hitches. His lips quirk into a smile.

“I wish to marry someone who owns my heart,” you say breathlessly, “prince or not.”

“Perhaps what you need is someone who is far more capable of carrying the weight of your heart. You possess rather discerning taste—it is not easy to please you, my lady.”

You huff, glaring at him from the corner of your eyes as you ask, “do you mean to call me difficult?”

“Among other things,” he chuckles. There’s a light, teasing trail of kisses pressed to your skin, leading straight to your lips. Capitano knows exactly what he’s doing, though—he stops just at the corner of them, making you pout as you try to lean in and close the gap.

He grins smugly, pulling away just enough to create distance between your mouths.

“You should not toy with a princess,” you say, displeased.

He hums, rubbing the small of your back as he counters, “and you should not toy with the heart of a man devoted to you.”

“Forgive me, my dear knight,” you murmur, gently bringing his face closer as your hands cradle his face once more, “I shall not torment you with such teasing again.”

“I am most grateful, your highness,” he fights back a chuckle.

Jealousy is unbecoming on someone as noble as the captain of your military forces. You like the way it looks on him just a little, anyway. Love the way his posture is more rigid and his voice is sharper when forced to consider the possibility of your heart yearning elsewhere. Enjoy the way he holds you tighter and closer as cool armor steals your warmth.

“Shall I tell this prince I am not interested?” You ask with a knowing look.

He hums thoughtfully, a smug smile playing on his lips as he replies, “no, I think I’d rather witness the expression of his highness when he realizes his charms hold no sway over you—a rare defeat for a man so certain of his allure.”

“Someday I shall marry you, my dear knight,” you whisper. Finally, with a softened look, he leans in to kiss you. Slow. Delicate. So gentle, it almost feels like you are one whisper from the wind away from falling apart.

“I look forward to it, my lady. Not even celestia could stop me from claiming your hand.”

————————

The last line is a big rip if you know what I mean 😔

[softaestluv]

Nine Lives

Simon Riley posts an ad for a stray cat he does not want and you answer.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! Reader

Tags: fluff, short n’ sweet, eventual romance/smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 4 Pt. 5, last part | ao3 | mlist✎ᝰ.ᐟ

It has to be some form of trauma. A hallucination. A dream. Anything but that stupid fawn-colored cat outside his door.

Scratching. Meowing. Terrorizing him.

He ignores it for as long as he possibly will. Turns the volume of his TV up, washes clothes to drown out the sound, pretends for a while longer that he doesn’t know what’s waiting for him just outside his wooden door. That it doesn’t have a tail and four legs.

But he can’t push it away forever, he’s a man for fucks sake. He doesn’t flee and cower in the face of a threat. A small one at that, curled on his skull mat, waiting for the moment he accepts his fate and opens his damn door. A hostage in his own home.

So, he cracks his door open— just a smidge.

Looks to see if the animal is really there or if the voices, cats, inside his head are playing a cruel joke on him. And sure enough, there it is, licking its paws leisurely as if it fucking belongs there.

A part of him had been hoping he was going crazy, that he was just imagining the high-pitched meow. He could deal with crazy, preferred it actually.

What he couldn’t deal with was the cat outside who seemed convinced he was its home. He’s grateful he hasn’t deleted your contact yet, for multiple reasons now.

It’s easy to ignore the cat, even easier to shut his door in its face, deny it access to his home. Now, as he remembers the events of last week, he thinks he should bring it inside. He’s not entirely fond of the idea, but he’s even less fond of roaming the neighborhood for a second time for the cat.

This is how he finds himself staring at it with a scrutinizing squint and crossed arms on his kitchen counter. It stretches, two front legs reaching out while its hind raises in the air. Simon has to ignore the fact that it’s dirty paws are on his kitchen counter and that it’s fur doesn’t fly in the air as it shimmies itself into a sitting position. He’ll have to bleach the spot and purge the area of any remnants of the pest.

The cat doesn’t seem to sense his aversion because it just stares back, slowly blinking, tail whipping behind it like it’s happy, content. Staring affectionately at him like he hasn’t spent the last several months doing everything in his power to get rid of it.

When you arrive, he begrudgingly takes it into his arms, opens the door to an anxious smile and more fuzzy socks. He dangles it between the two of you with both hands around its torso.

You squeal at the sight, “Churro! What are you doing here, huh? It’s a long distance, pretty lady! It must have been a very dangerous adventure.”

Simon watches you talk to the cat like it can understand you, watches the way your brows pinch, and a small frown forms on your lips in actual concern for its safety. It’s confusing that you would care so deeply for such a thing, but it makes the corners of his lips twitch.

Churro just meows, rubbing her nose and forehead against your cheek. This makes you coo, smiling gently at her, pressing your cheek against hers in turn.

You haven’t even turned your focus to him for a second, no ‘thank you for watching the demon,’ no ‘hi, how are you?’ Just more kisses and sugar-spun words to your precious kitty.

“Was the big scary man mean to you?” You ask, staring at it with beady eyes, “Did he call you the devil again?”

Oh really, cat lady? That’s how it’s going to be? He supposes teasing is better than you being terrified of him.

He scoffs, “Did no such thing.”

You finally look at him, giggling softly as you pull Churro back against your chest, “I’m sure you were nothing but generous to her.”

“I was. Treated the damn thing like royalty.” He grumbles because he was. Carried it into his home even though he wanted to do the complete opposite just so you could have your bloody cat back. And all he has to show for it is you ignoring him for the likes of the cat.

“Well,” You say, nodding your head, “I’m sorry you had to deal with her again. I left her inside before leaving for work, I’m not sure how she managed to get out.”

That was the first time it happened, and of course, it wasn’t the last. Nothing seemed that way with ‘Churro’ because the following week she made her appearance at his house again.

It became a routine. Once a week Churro made her way over to Simon’s like she was visiting him, Simon messaged you— ‘The demon is here.��

Sat Churro on his counter and watched her with pinpointed eyes while he waited. Then you arrived shortly with snuggles and apologies. A new explanation each time; you closed all the windows, checked twice, even locked them! Same with your doors, there was no way for her to get out, but somehow she always managed to escape.

Simon didn’t entirely mind the whole ordeal. Didn’t mind you, quite frankly, he liked opening his door to Tasman slippers, a glimmer in your eyes, and a soft noise of excitement. Pretended as if it was because of seeing him and not the stupid cat in his hands.

Except somewhere along the lines, Simon’s hatred for Churro morphed into something else completely. Ignoring her for as long as he could turned into letting her in after the first scratch. A glowering scowl shifted to furrowed brows. Crossed arms and balled fists became relaxed and loosened at his side. Helicopter supervision simmered into free access, let Churro roam his house while they waited for you.

That wasn’t to say he liked the damn cat because he didn’t. Tolerated her at most. For you, at least.

Irritation still burnt his lungs when he watched you coddle her, when you ignored him as you took her into your arms and rocked her back and forth, when you cuddled her close to your chest and hummed tender words to her instead of him.

Simon wasn’t exactly sure what it was or what it meant. Not when he deprived himself of anything of the sort, thought he had buried it six feet under and sealed it with a cross. But that was the thing, he couldn’t exactly mourn the loss of something when he hadn’t fully committed to severing it of himself completely, held on to it with a thin thread.

It became painfully apparent when he texted you not to come to pick up Churro one day; it was pouring rain, storming, and as much as he didn’t want to have the damn cat overnight, he’d much rather keep you from being stuck in a storm. Still, he opened the door to drenched clothes, shaking fingers, and chattering teeth. His temples pinched, ushering you inside instantly.

Maybe he shouldn’t care, shouldn’t invite you inside, but he does anyways.

“Bird,” He sighed, “Told you to stay home.”

“I know,” You shivered, petting Churro with a wet palm, “But I felt guilty. I know you don’t want Churro here and we’re just inconveniencing you.”

“Not an inconvenience, I don’t mind doing it for you,” He grumbled, “Stay right here. You’re not going back until the storm stops.”

You looked up at him with wide eyes, mouth parting slightly, but he doesn’t give you time to respond, leaving you standing there in shock before bringing back dry clothes for you, a black sweater, and gray sweats.

“Here,” He grunted, handing you the clothes, “You can change in my bathroom.”

“Oh no! It’s okay, I can just go home,” You argued, attempting to push the clothes back in his grasp.

Simon levels you with a sharp look, makes you pull the clothes to your chest because he won’t take no as an answer for your safety.

“Okay, yeah,” You nod your head, “Yeah.”

He makes tea on the stove while waiting for you, Churro jumps on the counter in the meantime, with a soft chirp, plopping her way over to rub her body against his forearm.

“Oy, be careful,” He chastises, pushing her away, “Stove’s bloody hot.”

“So you do care about her!”

Simon turns around to find you standing in the doorway of his kitchen. There’s a smug look on your face, but he doesn’t focus on that, can’t focus on anything other than how you look in his clothes. You swim in the material, sweater sleeves hiding your hands completely, sweats pooling at your sock-clad feet. He has to pinch the inside of his cheek to hide his smile at the sight.

It’s cute. Endearing. Makes his teeth ache in his mouth, fingers twitching against the pot on the stove in a strangely possessive way. He doesn’t even care that he’s been caught caring for the damn pest when something warms curls in his chest.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lies.

You laugh, padding your way over to his side, “Oh, whatever. Now I know why she keeps coming over here to see you.”

“And why’s that? I can’t for the life of me figure out why she won’t stop botherin’ me.”

“Maybe she has a crush on you,” You joke, cupping Churro’s face in your palms, “Huh, pretty lady? Do you have a crush on the big scary man?”

He snorts, “Not likely.”

You lean towards him as he hands you a cup of tea, “Maybe she thinks you’re her dad.”

Simon stares at you a little dumbfounded, watches you turn to talk to Churro again, asking if she thinks Simon is her dad. He tries to submerge the overwhelming feeling underwater, drown it, and wash away the insinuation, but it’s almost impossible when you’re adorned in his clothes, oversized fabric hanging off your smaller frame.

Excuses himself by clearing his throat, throwing your soaked clothes in the dryer to distract himself from the drowning.

The storm lasts for a little while, so you sit on his couch with Churro curled in your lap, purring quietly to sleep. Simon tries to scavenge a meal for you, but he doesn’t have much in his fridge, wishes this was planned, so he could cook you something worth eating. You don’t mind, shushing him when he apologizes with an assortment of snacks on a tray, giggling softly at his poor attempt to feed you.

“It’s okay,” You reassure, smiling pleased at him, “I’m not really hungry anyways. Next time we can prepare more.”

Yeah, next time.

When the storm relents, the two of you are preoccupied, finishing a movie you wanted to watch. Some rom-com, he doesn’t entirely know, can’t focus much when he’s sitting next to you on his couch. There’s a measly cushion separating the two of you, sitting on either end of the couch, but it still claws at the back of his mind no matter how much he tries to rationalize it.

In his home. Sat on his couch. Wearing his clothes.

He tries not to be greedy, claim you as his own, but it only gets worse when you pull your feet up, leaning your head against the back of the cushion, snuggling deeper into his couch, and making yourself comfortable. He’s sure you don’t even realize that the storm ended or when you turn towards him and ask if he liked the movie.

He doesn’t mind that you stayed after the rain stopped, doesn’t even mind that Churro made her way to his lap halfway through the rom-com. You don’t point it out either, just flicker your eyes with a knowing smile.

Did he like the movie? He honestly can’t recall a single line.

@lighthousebats @cococococ @sai-int @tessakate @starboykel @imrandomstuffsblog @your-internet-tenshi @glossy01 @orangegreensun @uriahs-barn @ye-olde-trash-panda @akkahelenaa

thank you to my sweet @bunnybeaches for the cat name ‘Churro.’ 🐇🤍

[nezuscribe]

part one

you could admit, to some degree, that you knew the danger you were putting yourself into volunteering to become one of the realm's seven holy knights.

but the dangers were something you've grown accustomed to not caring much about.

you knew from an early age that there weren't many paths for noble women. it was either become wives, mothers, widows, or in lucky cases, spinsters. you realized early on that this would be the most terrifying outcome you could think of. so you begged, pleaded, sobbed, and begged even more until your father allowed you to learn how to fight, how to hold a sword and bow properly.

the years bled together, and sooner or later you found yourself with quite a reputation following your wake; a faceless knight who nobody had ever heard of.

you were able to earn a spot as one of the seven holy knights, protectors of the crown and its livelihood. you were lucky that it was in the code of honor not to reveal one's face, as it was unheard of in its centuries of existence to have a lady fighter, but you had slipped up a couple of times, almost revealing your true nature.

thankfully, all the other men were oafs and couldn't tell if you took your helmet off and revealed your face outright.

for a few motnhs you seemed to go undetected. or so you fooled yourself into believing.

the younger prince, gojo satoru, had a knack for busying himself with the lives of the knights. he often trained with you all in the daytime, hanging around during the night as he skipped dinner with his family to eat with you all.

and although you were careful enough not to talk or even lift up the bottom half of your helmet to eat something, it felt like his eyes were always on you.

it also didn't help that you kept besting him in almost every practice. sword fighting, arrow shooting, hunting, anything you could think of, and suddenly the prince, who was revered for his knight-like abilities, was paling in compassion to you.

so perhaps it was your paranoia or your inability to read people's thoughts, but somewhere deep inside, you had a sneaking suspicion he was onto you.

gojo always singled you out in conversations, trying to hear more than a grunt or a nod. all the other men had given up, but gojo persevered, needing to know who was lying underneath all that armor.

"do you enjoy the countryside?" he asked one day, following you around after everybody had hung up their bows, the two of you the only ones left in the courtyard.

you roll your eyes in annoyance, sighing deeply through your nose as you nod once.

"say, the way you hold your bow is reminiscent of some ocean tribes. have you lived there? near the ocean?" gojo crowds around you, watching intently as you put your bow on its hook, watching from the corner of your eyes, seeing the way his smile was eerily deceptive, something cold and hard beneath his cheerful demeanor.

you grunt, not giving a definitive answer.

gojo felt his lips twitching, fists balling at the fact that you had gone on for more than four months without uttering a single word, somehow holding conversations with just two movements.

"some of the men and i were talking earlier," he starts again, and you turn around, hoping he'd get the hint to leave once you start walking towards the corridors that lead to the private quarters, "and we think we'd like to see the town nearby one of these nights."

you still, your armor clanking as the prince halts by your side. he looks down to your helmet, trying to look between the metal slits that help with your breathing.

you don't say anything, sweating bullets as you wait for him to continue.

"we would be honored to have the best swordsmen join us," gojo tries to say, his voice dipping slightly on the word "men," as he tries to gauge any reaction from you.

you blink, wondering if his blue eyes were just a gimmick and they were truly the only interesting thing about him. it's not very often you can see him this close, and you find yourself thinking that the ladies that fawn over him have never seen him panting and groaning and sweating as you hold a knife to his leather-clad chest.

you grunt once again, shaking your head in disbelief that the other knights would risk breaking their code of honor and defacing themselves just so they could get closer to the prince. a prince who isn't even in line to get the throne.

you clank through the stone halls, trying to fend him off as he matches your pace, his face slightly flushed and his cheeks pink.

"is that a yes?" he asks, staring at you as you breathe heavily, the sound echoing around your mask.

you stop at your door, your head tilted down as you shake it.

hearing his muffled shouts of confusion, you almost barricade yourself inside your room, panting heavily as you shed off your armor. You wipe at your brow bone, drenched in sweat, heart hammering wildly in your chest.

you were right. he knows your secret. and it's only a matter of time before others follow suit.

[brunchable]

Christmas Present | B. B.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x F! Reader Themes: Christmas Meet-Ugly, forced proximity, enemies-to-lovers(ish), rom-com Summary: You and Bucky are fighting over the last deluxe holiday gift set. The petty bickering escalates into a full-blown argument in front of shocked holiday shoppers, causing store security to intervene. As punishment, the frazzled guard handcuffs you together in the security office until you both "calm down." A/N : This oneshot is part of my 4K Follower christmas themed celebration. I hope you enjoy this first one! Thank you so much for reading my stories! Dividers by @saradika-graphics

It was supposed to be a quick trip. Grab the deluxe toy train set, pay, and leave. That was the plan. But life had other plans, and those plans came in the shape of a six-foot something man with a smirk as sharp as the jawline above it.

You reached for the last box on the shelf—your prize, your golden ticket, the sole reason you braved the chaos of twenty-third shoppers.

"Excuse me, I believe I was here first," you said sweetly, gripping the box.

"Excuse you, sweetheart," the man countered, one metal hand already gripping the other end of the box. "I had my eye on this before you decided to swoop in like some holiday vulture."

"Holiday vulture?!" you spat, yanking the box closer to your chest. "I don’t see your name on it, Terminator."

He raised an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to make you flinch. “Name’s Bucky, not Terminator. And I’d be happy to write it on the box for you... after I take it home.”

“Not happening,” you hissed, tugging harder. The box creaked ominously under the strain.

“Let go,” he growled.

“You let go!”

By now, a crowd of amused onlookers had formed, phones out, capturing every moment like a live-action reality show. One kid shouted, “Go lady! You’ve got this!” while a woman in a reindeer sweater whispered, “This is better than The Bachelor.”

“Look, lady,” Bucky said through gritted teeth, “I don’t want to ruin Christmas for you—”

“Oh, really? That’s what this feels like!”

“But my friend’s kid specifically asked for this,” he finished, as if that were a valid excuse.

You rolled your eyes. “Well, so did my niece. And unlike you, I didn’t wait until the last minute to shop.”

“Your cart’s full of candles!” he shot back, pointing to your precariously stacked haul.

You gasped, scandalized. “They’re scented candles and they make great gifts! Not that you’d understand.”

“I understand they’re not as hard to find as this!” he said, gesturing wildly to the now-doomed train set.

The tug-of-war escalated, your battle waging in the aisle of festive chaos. The crowd grew, complete with commentary.

“Bet five bucks on the lady!”

“Ten on the guy with the arm!”

And then—CRASH. The box tore clean down the middle, spilling its contents across the floor. Tiny train cars scattered like shrapnel, and a miniature conductor figure flew into a nearby stroller, making the baby cry.

Gasps echoed through the store as you and Bucky froze, still clutching your respective halves. Somewhere in the distance, someone yelled, “SANTA WOULDN’T APPROVE!”

A whistle cut through the air. “Alright, break it up, you two!”

You turned to find a middle-aged security guard glaring at you like an exhausted babysitter. His name tag read “Carl,” and he looked about one tantrum away from quitting.

“We were just—”

“I don’t care!” Carl snapped, his moustache twitching with barely contained rage. “Both of you. Security office. Now.”

The security office smelled like stale coffee and regret. You sat handcuffed to Bucky, who, despite his protests, looked far too comfortable with the situation.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, yanking futilely on the cuffs. “We’re adults!”

“Debatable,” Carl deadpanned, sipping from his 'World’s Best Grandpa' mug. “You two are staying cuffed until you learn how to act like it.”

“I’m not a criminal!” you protested.

“Not what the footage shows,” Carl replied, spinning his chair to reveal the grainy security camera feed of you and Bucky mid-squabble. The freeze-frame of you squawking like a bird while clutching a toy train in a death grip was particularly unflattering.

“I’m offended on her behalf,” Bucky said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, shut it,” you hissed, elbowing him.

“You’re the one who tore the box!”

“You’re the one with the metal arm. That thing’s basically a wrecking ball!”

Carl slammed his mug down. 

“Enough!” He massaged his temples like a teacher on their last day before retirement. “You’re staying here until I feel confident you won’t burn the store down.”

“Burn the store down?” you repeated, aghast, throwing your hands in the air as much as the cuffs allowed.

“Trust me, I’ve seen worse,” Carl muttered, eyeing both of you like feral raccoons fighting over a sandwich. With an exhausted sigh, he locked the door behind him and muttered something about “needing a damn coffee break,” leaving you and Bucky alone in the tiny, overheated room.

The silence that followed was so oppressive it felt like the room had shrunk. Only the faint, mocking jingle of Jingle Bells played faintly from the store’s speakers as you and Bucky sat shoulder-to-shoulder, stewing.

Bucky, apparently unable to sit still, started bouncing his knee—a rapid, relentless motion that made your entire chair vibrate like a washing machine on spin cycle.

“Stop that,” you snapped, glaring at him.

“Stop what?” he asked innocently, his knee bouncing harder.

“Your leg,” you hissed. “The whole chair is shaking! Are you trying to make me seasick?”

His lips twitched, clearly enjoying your misery. “It’s a free country.”

“Not for your knee, it’s not!”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t be bouncing my knee if I wasn’t chained to someone with candle obsession issues,” he shot back.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from the guy who went full WWE over a toy train set!”

“You’re the one who tore it in half, lady!” he said, pointing accusingly.

“I was fighting for my family’s honor,” you retorted dramatically, crossing your arms as much as you could.

“You mean your candles.”

“It’s called being thoughtful, you Grinch impersonator!”

His knee bounced harder, and you grabbed his leg in desperation, making him pause. “Seriously, stop! I’m going to throw up, and then you’ll really regret this.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop. But only because you look like you might actually hurl, and I don’t need Carl coming back and cuffing me to the radiator this time.”

“So,” Bucky continued after a beat of silence, “Do you always fight strangers over train sets, or is today special?”

You glared at him. “Do you always shop last minute and ruin people’s holidays, or is that your side gig?”

He snorted. “Ruining holidays? That’s harsh. I’m saving them.”

“By what? Sabotaging shoppers?”

“By making sure my best friend’s kid gets the one thing he asked for,” Bucky replied, voice softening slightly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. 

“Okay, that’s… kind of sweet,” you admitted reluctantly.

“What about you?” he asked. “Candles for everyone?”

“No,” you mumbled. “The train set was for my niece. She’s… had a tough year.”

Bucky nodded, silence enveloping the two of you yet again, the tinny chorus of Frosty the Snowman blared overhead, and the absurdity of your situation finally hit you. You started giggling, and to your surprise, so did he.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, still grinning.

“This,” you said between laughs. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever been part of.”

“Right,” he agreed, laughing harder.

For the first time since being forced to sit there, you weren’t arguing. Well, unless you counted arguing about whose laugh was uglier.

Carl finally returned, jangling the keys like a janitor who had seen too much. His Santa hat was slightly askew, and his mustache twitched with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. He looked like someone’s adorable grandpa who had just been told the grandkids set fire to the Christmas tree.

“Alright, you two,” he grumbled, unlocking the cuffs. “You’re free. But before you go…”

He planted his hands on his hips, his gut straining against his red vest, and glared at you like you’d just stolen cookies from the jar. 

“I’ve been doing this job for fifteen years, and let me tell you, I’ve seen a lot of nonsense. But this—” he waved a hand between you and Bucky “—takes the fruitcake. Grown adults fighting over a toy train set like it’s the last turkey on Earth? Really?”

You started to open your mouth to argue, but Carl cut you off with a stern wag of his finger.

“No, no. Don’t even try to explain. You’re both guilty. Guilty of being Christmas disasters. And you…” he pointed at Bucky, his stubby finger trembling with indignation. “You’re what? Pushing 40? Shouldn’t you know better?”

That’s when Bucky’s lips twitched. And twitched again. And suddenly, he was laughing. Not just chuckling—a full-on, shoulder-shaking laugh that echoed through the tiny room.

Carl’s mustache twitched in annoyance. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said between gasps for air, “but… I’m being lectured by someone who looks like Santa’s understudy.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “You’re like a cute little Christmas elf—just missing the pointy shoes.”

Carl’s face turned as red as his vest. “I am not cute!” he barked.

“You kinda are,” Bucky said, grinning.

You smacked his arm. “Stop antagonizing him!”

But even you couldn’t suppress a giggle as Carl threw his hands in the air. “You know what? I’m done. Get out. Both of you. Before I call other mall security and have you escorted out by the Grinch Squad.”

Bucky saluted dramatically. “Merry Christmas, Carl!”

Carl muttered something about needing a stiff eggnog and waddled back to his desk, leaving you and Bucky to stumble out of the security office.

“Well, that was fun,” you deadpanned, starting to walk away, only to stop when Bucky called out.

“Wait! Hey!”

You turned, eyebrows raised. “What? Did you leave your dignity back there?”

He ignored the jab, shoving his hands into his pockets. For the first time since the ordeal started, he actually looked... awkward.

“I, uh… was just wondering what you’re doing after this.”

You blinked at him, genuinely caught off guard. “What am I doing? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, serious,” he said with a little shrug, his smirk less cocky and more boyish now. “You’re, uh… funny. And kind of cute, when you’re not threatening to strangle me over toy trains.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. 

“This—” you gestured dramatically between you both “—is the foundation of your flirting strategy? Chaos, insults, and shared custody of a train set?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he teased, grinning now.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I just spent an hour handcuffed to you while debating whether or not to throw you out a window, and now you want to… hang out?”

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, like this was the most reasonable suggestion in the world.

“Because this is ridiculous!” you exclaimed. “I barely know you, we’re still enemies by all accounts, and—”

“You haven’t said no,” he interrupted, cutting you off with a pointed look.

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Damn him and his stupid smirk.

Finally, you sighed, half-laughing at the sheer absurdity. “Fine. But if this turns into another wrestling match over a menu, I’m walking out.”

“Sure,” he said, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Whatever you want.”

As you both walked out of the office areas and back to the mall, you muttered under your breath, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Believe it, sweetheart,” he said, falling into step beside you. “And next time? Maybe we’ll skip the handcuffs… unless you’re into that.”

You glared at him, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, curving into an unwilling smile. Maybe chaos wasn’t such a bad foundation after all.

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, illuminating the room as Bucky groggily reached for the remote. Still half-asleep, he flicked on the TV, more out of habit than interest. The morning show’s upbeat jingle played, and he squinted at the screen, his brain catching up to the cheerful voices of the two hosts.

“—and now, for what might be the most hilarious Christmas shopping moment caught on camera!” the female host announced, barely suppressing her laughter.

Her co-host, a grinning man in a Santa tie, chimed in, “Oh, this is a good one. Forget Hallmark—this is real-life rom-com material, folks. Roll the clip!”

Bucky froze mid-stretch as the screen transitioned to shaky footage of himself and you, locked in a dramatic tug-of-war over the train set in the middle of the toy aisle. The commentary from the crowd was clear as day.

“Go lady! You’ve got this!”

“Ten bucks on the guy with the metal arm!”

“Oh, no,” Bucky muttered, sitting up straighter, dread pooling in his stomach.

The video jumped to the box tearing in half, scattering train pieces like confetti, followed by the baby wailing and someone shouting, “SANTA WOULDN’T APPROVE!”

The hosts erupted into laughter.

“Okay, okay,” the woman said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I’m calling it now—this is the meet-cute of the decade. I can hear the Hallmark writers typing this into a script.”

Her co-host nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. Two strangers, both fighting for the same toy on the eve of Christmas eve—classic enemies-to-lovers setup.”

They both howled with laughter as the clip transitioned to grainy security footage of you and Bucky cuffed together, bickering like an old married couple.

“And this is where the movie writes itself,” the man said, pointing to the screen. “They’re forced to spend time together, cuffed in the security office. Sparks fly. Cue the heartwarming ending!”

The woman leaned toward the camera, her expression conspiratorial. “So, the real question is… did they exchange numbers? Did they get coffee? Did they—”

Bucky groaned and buried his face in his hands as his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it, flipping it over to see a message from Sam:

Sam: Congratulations, you’re famous. 

A second message immediately followed:

Sam: Also, what happened next? Don’t leave me hanging! Did you at least get her number?

Bucky tossed his phone onto the bed with a groan, only for it to buzz again. This time it was Steve:

Steve: They’re right. This does sound like the start of a love story. Please tell me you didn’t blow it.

“Unbelievable,” Bucky muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face as the TV hosts continued speculating.

“What do we think, folks?” the male host asked, gesturing dramatically. “Should we start a Twitter campaign to find out what happened next? I need closure!”

“Absolutely!” the female host replied. “If you’re watching this, toy train couple, please—reach out. America is invested.”

“I’m never leaving the house again.” Bucky groaned louder, sinking into the pillows. 

His phone buzzed again.

Sam: Famous AND trending. Look at you.

Bucky grabbed a pillow and smothered his face with it, his muffled voice barely audible: “I hate Christmas.”

He sighed and shifted, his pillow falling to the floor—he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, his irritation melted away as he looked to his right, where your figure was still peacefully curled under the covers. Your hair was a mess from the night before, your cheek pressed against the pillow in a way that made you look adorably innocent—though Bucky distinctly remembered you weren’t so innocent a few hours ago.

A small, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips. He let out a breath, shaking his head as he muttered to himself, “Actually. . . Maybe I don’t hate it too much.”

tags: @lomlbuckybarnes @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mostlymarvelgirl

@missvelvetsstuff @unaxv @carnal-vogue @bmyva1entine @wheredidiputmyfish

@thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @wanda-widow @filmologetica @awaywithtime @Thealyrs

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @winchestert101 @strawberrybisou @unaxv @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fynnwolff @Janonymus0 @veronicapaula

[regularbeans]

the more people write thinkpieces about why you're problematic if you dont reblog and only like posts (especially art and fics i guess) the less ill reblog those posts. i have three aries placements, dont tell me what to do /hj

[skyguytoast]

ALMOST HERS, ENTIRELY YOURS: AOTC!ANAKIN X PADMÉ'S YOUNGER SISTER!READER

CHAPTER ONE NEXT

SYNOPSIS: Anakin Skywalker has loved Padmé Amidala since he was ten years old — a crush that grew into something deeper over time. But everything shifts when he meets you, her younger sister.

WARNINGS: None yet. Anidala also here, don't if need a warning for them ;)

WORDS: 3.3k

A/N: hii, babes! sooo this little ideia I had while I was listening to “How Bad Do You Want It” by Lady Gaga. hope you enjoy! comments, reblogs & chaos always welcome — and requests are open as always! dividers by @/enchanthings

'𝑪𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆, '𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰'𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆

With attempts on Senator Amidala’s life becoming alarmingly routine, the Jedi Council had ruled that she remain under Jedi protection, not just for her safety, but to ensure the Separatists couldn’t silence her before she brought her motion before the Senate. Padmé Amidala was well-known across the galaxy for her unwavering principles. A fierce advocate for diplomacy, her voice carried weight and those who feared it knew it could shift the tides of war.

The growing tension with the Separatists had stirred chaos on Coruscant. It wouldn’t be long before that chaos would ripple outward, spreading like wildfire across the galaxy. Any hope for truce by democratic means was dwindling, but if there was one voice still strong enough to challenge the storm, it was hers.

Anakin Skywalker could hardly contain the anticipation of seeing her again.

His feelings for the senator hadn’t faded over the years. If anything, time apart had only made them sharper, more vivid, more impossible to ignore. From the moment he first saw her, he believed she was an angel, and nothing he’d learned about her since had proven him wrong. Whether it was in the holonews, Temple rumors, or stories exchanged in quiet corridors, Padmé Amidala’s compassion and courage only made her seem more unreal. More unreachable.

She wasn’t like the others. Not like the hollow politicians he’d overheard growing up. Padmé cared. She saw the galaxy not in star systems and senate seats, but in people, in those who suffered, those forgotten beneath the shining towers of Coruscant’s upper levels. She fought to pull justice upward from the shadows, to remind the Republic of its duty. And that, Anakin thought, made her the only kind of leader worth following.

“I’m sure Senator Amidala hasn’t forgotten about you,” Obi-Wan’s voice cut through the whirl of thoughts in his padawan’s head, calm and amused.

Anakin blinked, heat rushing to his face. He turned away from the elevator’s glass wall, willing the blush not to show. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Master,” he muttered, voice stiff and unconvincing.

Obi-Wan only shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in a knowing smile. He didn’t need the Force to sense how Anakin practically came undone the second the elevator doors slid open. And there she was.

Senator Amidala stood before them, her presence as composed and radiant as ever. She smiled politely as her eyes landed on Obi-Wan.

“Master Kenobi,” she greeted warmly.

But then her gaze fell on Anakin. And it lingered.

Just long enough for his breath to catch and his pulse to roar in his ears.

“Ani,” she said softly, her eyes warming. “How you’ve grown…”

Anakin scratched the back of his neck, cheeks burning. “You haven’t changed at all,” he blurted, then stumbled on his words. “I mean—you’ve just gotten… prettier.”

Smooth, he thought, cursing himself silently.

But Padmé only smiled, gracious and unbothered by his awkwardness, and motioned for them to sit in the sunken living room of her Coruscant apartment. Captain Typho, the ever-watchful head of Naboo’s royal security, stood nearby with his arms crossed, his lone eye scanning the room with practiced precision. It was clear he was already running through contingency plans, ready to bend reality if that’s what it took to protect the senator.

The conversation was brief, or at least, it felt that way to Anakin. If he was honest, he barely registered the words being exchanged. His mind was far too busy spinning up fantasies where he and Senator Amidala were alone together, in a field of wildflowers, on Naboo, on Coruscant, anywhere she would allow him to exist in her orbit.

By the time it was over, he was already standing beside Obi-Wan, halfway into the elevator, still chasing the imaginary sound of her laugh in his head, when his master reminded him of the arrangement: He would be the one escorting Padmé back to Naboo, where she’d spend time with her family while the Separatist crisis was being contained.

And just like that, they were off, the two of them, together. Anakin felt like he was walking on air, grateful beyond measure that the Force had aligned to give him this opportunity. He could barely keep still. To have an excuse to be near her, speak to her, breathe the same air, it was more than he could bear. It was a dream, one he hoped wouldn’t end.

They traveled on a freighter, blending in with the other passengers, keeping a low profile to avoid tipping off anyone who might want to harm her. Even then, in worn robes and modest surroundings, she shone like starlight. The journey was a whirlwind of feelings. Every time she looked at him, spoke to him, asked him something, anything, his heart felt like it might burst from his chest.

Padmé asked him about his life. About his Jedi training. About the man he was becoming.

And gathering a courage he didn’t fully possess, Anakin answered, painting vivid pictures of daring missions and wild adventures. He spoke of triumphs, of narrow escapes, of battles fought alongside Obi-Wan. Of course, with Obi-Wan not there, Anakin took a little liberty with the storytelling. Maybe just slightly exaggerated his own role. Maybe omitted the times things hadn’t gone quite to plan.

But in her eyes, he wanted to be impressive. He wanted to be more than the boy she used to know. He wanted to be the man she could one day love.

When they landed on Naboo, a welcoming party from the Queen’s court was already waiting by the dock. Anakin stepped out first, helping Padmé into the little lake skiff. Her delicate hand lingered against his palm, warm and featherlight, and even after she’d taken her seat to speak with one of the guards, he couldn’t help but glance down at his hand, tracing the ghost of her touch with his thumb and smiling to himself like a fool.

Barely ten minutes later, the boat glided across the still water and docked along the curved wooden pier that wrapped around the Amidala family’s lake house. The soft creak of wood under his boots echoed as Anakin stepped off, stretching out his hand to help the senator once again. But before he could savor the feel of her fingers in his, Padmé was already swept into her parents’ arms, their reunion saturated with long-held emotion and relief.

“Sis!”

An unfamiliar voice called from the doorway of the house, light, melodic, and filled with giddy affection. Anakin’s gaze snapped up, instinctively alert, his stance shifting until he saw you.

Your smile was pure sunlight as you darted forward, lifting your long silk skirt to hurry toward your sister, arms already reaching out for a hug. But as Anakin had instinctively anticipated, your steps faltered, your foot catching on one of the many airy layers of your gown. You teetered forward, wide-eyed, arms flailing. You were a second from tumbling off the dock and into the water.

Until he caught you.

One strong arm wrapped around your back, the other gripping your forearm just before you went under. Your breath hitched, your chest pressed to his, your heart pounding as the world slowed for a moment too long.

You looked up, startled and slightly breathless, straight into the bluest eyes you'd ever seen. The kind of blue that made you forget what you were about to say.

“Oh,” you murmured, blinking. “Wait—are you that little boy Padmé said she met on Tatooine?”

Anakin blinked, like your words had snapped him out of a trance. He carefully set you back on your feet, stepping away as soon as he was sure you were steady.

“I’m a Jedi,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Anakin Skywalker.”

There was a quiet defiance in the way he said it, like he needed to cast off whatever image you’d just conjured. Not a boy from a desert planet. Not a slave. But a warrior. A protector. A Jedi.

Your smile only grew, excitement flaring in your expression. “I’ve never met a Jedi before,” you said, eyes bright with curiosity. “You can, like... move stuff with your mind? Or even better — do you actually carry one of those glowing laser swords?”

“Lightsaber,” Anakin corrected gently, but his lips tugged into a smile, soft and a little cocky, like he couldn’t quite help it. You made him feel seen. Not as a mission or an obligation. But as something... more.

He straightened slightly, his tone slipping into something halfway between duty and pride. “A Jedi’s lightsaber is his life. We’re taught to protect it, to never lose it.”

You leaned in a little closer, not missing the flicker of pride in his voice. “Can I see it?” you asked, like you were asking to see a hidden treasure. “Please? Just for a second?”

There was a sparkle in your eyes, like this was all a grand adventure. You weren't impressed by titles or legacy. You were just curious, joyful, and so effortlessly magnetic it almost made his chest ache.

Anakin hesitated, a quiet grin blooming at the edge of his lips. He knew he shouldn’t. But he also knew he wanted to.

And Force help him — he wanted to impress you.

“Y/N, Padawan Skywalker didn’t come here to play,” Padmé said gently, her tone laced with older-sister patience as she gave you a pointed look.

You pouted but obeyed, not without rolling your eyes like a bratty teenager who'd been caught mid-fun. Anakin noticed, catching the shift in your expression just as you stuck your tongue out at him. He blinked in surprise, clearly unsure whether he should be amused or annoyed. You, of course, took that as a win.

You and Padmé couldn’t have been more different.

Where she was graceful, composed, and precise, a woman who wielded diplomacy the way some wielded weapons, you were all impulse, confidence, and fire. Padmé had always been the one to weigh every word, to calculate every step. You, on the other hand, didn’t stop until you got what you wanted, no matter how messy the path there was. If she was the cool voice of reason, you were the one kicking down the door.

You both carried the same iron courage, the same unwavering hope in people, but yours showed up in sharper, more unpredictable ways. Maybe it was the age gap. Maybe it was her responsibilities as a senator. Or maybe it was simply the weight of her legacy, the fact that you’d spent your life under the shadow of the galaxy’s role model, and your only choice was to walk a different path entirely.

Anakin’s official duty was to protect Padmé, shadow her, guard her, ensure no further attempts on her life succeeded. But the reality was far more boring than it sounded. She spent long hours behind closed doors in tense meetings, writing briefs, and trading coded messages with other senators. And because he wasn’t allowed in the room when classified matters were discussed, he spent much of his time pacing the hallways like a restless hound.

Which meant you quickly became his favorite distraction.

You’d appear with a mischievous smile and a bounce in your step, tossing him a piece of fruit or a cupcake as you passed by, laughing when he fumbled the catch. Other times, you’d simply sit beside him, chattering about anything and everything, sometimes just to make him laugh. It became a rhythm, a quiet, unspoken habit. He found himself waiting for the sound of your footsteps. For that light in your eyes.

Once and only once he let you hold his lightsaber.

He’d meant it as a small gesture, maybe even a show of trust. A way to impress you. But within moments, you’d accidentally activated it, and before either of you could react, you’d sliced your mother’s antique vase clean in two.

You both stared at the destruction in stunned silence, the hum of the blade still vibrating in the air. Then you looked at him, wide-eyed but shameless.

“Oops.”

Anakin groaned, hand over his face. “I’m never hearing the end of this.”

You just grinned, handing the weapon back carefully like it was no big deal. “Relax, Skywalker. I’ll blame it on the wind.”

And in that moment, he knew exactly what kind of trouble you were, and that he liked it far more than he should.

On one of his nightly rounds, Anakin noticed a window left ajar, the curtains swaying lazily in the cool night breeze. He moved toward it cautiously, one hand already brushing the hilt of his lightsaber, prepared for danger, for disruption.

What he found instead was you.

You were perched in the open window, dressed in black pants and a jacket that blended into the night, your silhouette cut from the same cloth as the stars. Your legs dangled freely, swaying just over the edge, as if you were moments away from slipping into the moonlit air and vanishing.

His heart skipped, not from fear, but from the jolt of seeing you there, wild and untamed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low and sharp, his brow furrowed as his hand closed firmly around your arm. The contact was meant to stop you, but his fingers lingered.

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “You don’t know how to have fun, do you, Anakin?” you teased, your smile pulling at the corner of your mouth, sly and impossible to ignore. “I suppose fun isn’t in the Jedi vocabulary.”

He didn’t answer. His jaw was set, his fingers tightening slightly on your arm.

“Y/N, go back to your room,” he said, trying to summon that disciplined tone Obi-Wan always used. “You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“Then come with me,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Protect me, Jedi.”

There was something in your voice, a melody laced with danger, invitation, and the kind of rebellion Anakin recognized too well in himself. You weren’t just tempting him to leave his post, you were tempting him to abandon the safety of his walls. To choose want over duty.

He glanced at the hallway behind him, at the door to Padmé’s quarters, the room he was assigned to guard. That was where he should be. The Jedi Code echoed in the back of his mind like a warning bell. But the fire in your eyes drowned it out.

“Come on, Anakin,” you whispered, fingers sliding down his wrist and lacing with his. “Almost all of Naboo’s guard is stationed here. No one’s going to get past them tonight.”

His resolve crumbled the moment you pulled him closer.

“Fine,” he said, quiet and breathless.

You grinned, not a sweet smile, but something electric. And without another word, you leapt out of the window, tugging him with you. Anakin barely had time to react before he landed behind you on the back of a speeder bike, the one you have parked discreetly at the edge of the estate.

Your hands took the controls. The engine purred to life, and then you were flying, your hair whipping back into his face, your body warm and solid against his. He wrapped his arms around your waist, to keep balance, he told himself. But he didn’t let go.

You flew like you lived, fast, chaotic, alive. The speeder dove and climbed with reckless abandon, your laughter carried on the wind. More than once, he swore you were about to hit a tree, only for you to swerve with perfect, impossible timing.

The world blurred around you, stars above, lake below and still, all Anakin could think of was the warmth of your body beneath his hands, the rush of danger and desire tangling in his chest. You weren’t just a thrill. You were a spark. A question he’d never dared ask, what would it feel like to be free?

The lake shimmered below as you leaned them toward the water, close enough for him to dip his hand into the cool surface. His fingers broke through the glass-like stillness, trailing through glowing fish that darted away in flashes of silver and blue.

For once, there were no rules. No titles. No expectations. He isn't the choosen one. He was just Anakin.

Just you and him, flying too fast through the night, hearts pounding, hands tangled, somewhere between duty and something far more dangerous.

You smiled softly, glancing over your shoulder at him. That carefree grin on his face suited him, bright, unburdened, almost boyish. Anakin was too young to carry the weight of a galaxy on his shoulders. He shouldn’t have had to bear so much so soon. Tonight, you just wanted to give him something simple, a night with no duties, no burdens, no destiny waiting to devour him.

A moment of distraction, a curve too fast and you nearly clipped a tree. Anakin acted on instinct, grabbing the steering handles and forcing the speeder into a sharp turn. The vehicle skidded, tore through a field of wildflowers, and finally came to a halt in a shower of petals and torn grass. The two of you tumbled off the bench, landing in the tangled bloom of crushed blossoms and laughter.

You braced for a lecture. You’d nearly killed them both. He had every right to scold you, but instead, he laughed.

Anakin tipped his head back and let go, laughing so hard he clutched his stomach, his whole body shaking with it. And that was it, you cracked too, letting the tension dissolve into giggles and gasps for breath, tears of joy slipping down your cheeks as you collapsed into the flowers beside him.

“Thank you,” Anakin murmured when the laughter faded into silence. His palm found your back, warm and grounding as he pulled you closer. Your head came to rest on his chest, rising and falling with each quiet breath. “I needed that.”

You smiled softly, tracing the seams of his Jedi uniform with idle fingers. “A near-death experience?”

He chuckled. “Yeah… that too.”

His eyes drifted up to the sky endless and star-drenched. So different from Tatooine. On Naboo, the air wasn’t thick with fear or survival. Here, everything felt softer. Lighter. Free.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I needed to be happy… without feeling guilty about it.”

You looked up at him, gaze gentle, then reached for his hand. Your fingers found his and squeezed, grounding him again.

“Good,” you whispered, a grin tugging at your lips. “cause I don’t plan on letting you go until we’ve squeezed every bit of fun Naboo has to offer.”

“Oh?” he teased, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers grazing your skin just long enough to make your breath catch. The moonlight painted your features like something from a dream, soft, glowing, unreal. “And I don’t get a choice?”

You shook your head, playful but sincere. “You always have a choice, Anakin. You just have to remember that it’s yours to make.”

Your eyes turned skyward again, catching the shimmer of a shooting star as it cut through the dark. “Quick, quick, make a wish.”

He watched you close your eyes, the smallest smile curving your lips as you whispered your hope to the stars. You were radiant like this, not just beautiful, but whole, alive in a way that seemed untouched by everything that weighed on him.

He closed his eyes too.

He didn’t believe in those myths, in childish stories. But if a wish could keep you close, if it could carve out more nights like this, where he wasn’t a Jedi, or a soldier, or a ticking time bomb, then he would wish harder than he ever had.

Because this? This soft happiness? He hadn’t known how badly he needed it. And now that he had… he wasn’t sure he could live without it.

You reminded him that he had choices. That he was still human, still his own. That maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to walk the path that others carved for him.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But under that star-filled sky, your hand still wrapped in his, he decided he was ready to find out.

TAGLIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld @speaknow-sw @freudsweetlamb @devilslittlehelper

[arabella0001]

i know its long but plspls give it a chance!!

Unspoken Tension / Quiet Obsession (Illumi Zooldyck x Reader)

Unspoken Tension / Quiet Obsession

Pairing; Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

Anime: Hunter x Hunter

Synopsis:A woman with secrets, a man with control. Illumi Zoldyck finds her, and their silence lingers with something unspoken.

Warnings: slow burn, dark themes, rough sex, fingering, comfort in Illumi's way

You’ve always kept to the edges, moving through life unnoticed. You’ve had your share of battles—physical and otherwise—and learned early that blending in was as important as any skill. Your past is a blur, just fragments you’ve pieced together, like a puzzle you can’t quite finish. In the shadows, you thrive, and that’s enough for now.

There’s always been a quiet certainty that when the time comes, you'll be ready. You’re waiting for something, though you can’t say what—maybe a clue, or someone who knows more about you than you do. Tonight, it’s just another evening, another bar, another meet-up. But your instincts tell you something’s off.

The bar was shrouded in shadows, the faint flicker of a red neon sign casting eerie shapes on the cracked floor. You pushed through the heavy door, the creak of its hinges slicing through the muffled hum of conversation. The smoky air wrapped around you like a warning, but you ignored it, your heels clicking softly as you approached the bar.

Two men sat at the far end of the bar, framed by the flickering light. One of them lounged lazily, a grin stretched across his lips—Hisoka. Beside him, the other man sat perfectly still, an eerie contrast to Hisoka’s theatrics. Illumi who absentmindedly wrapped his hair around his finger while Hisoka teased him, clearly enjoying the moment.

Illumi’s needle hung from his robe as usual, while his other hand rested casually on his knee, ever ready to strike if necessary.

“Illumi, don’t be so dull. Where’s the fun in that?” Hisoka chuckled, looking amused.

“Be quiet, before I make you” Illumi replied, rolling his eyes in annoyance, still sipping his drink.

Hisoka’s gaze snapped to you almost instantly when he sense your nen, knowing exactly that you are Y/N,  his grin unfurling like a blade hidden in silk. He adjusted his suit jacket with deliberate flair, the faint gleam in his eyes hinting at both curiosity and danger.

‘Well, well, look what we have here,’ he purred, stepping toward you with unsettling grace.”

“A lovely lady, all alone and ripe for the picking.”

He extended his hand towards you, offering it with a gentlemanly air, though a glint of mischief danced in his eyes. Illumi remained seated, his gaze flicking between you and Hisoka, his needle twitching slightly, as though he were anticipating whatever might happen next.

You raised an eyebrow at Hisoka’s bold approach, your crimson lips curling into a smirk. A small part of you felt uncertain—there was something about this situation that didn’t sit right. “And just what do you think you're 'picking'?” you asked, your voice calm, but with an edge of challenge. Despite the unease creeping at the back of your mind, you accepted his hand.

Hisoka's grin widened at your firm handshake, a spark of amusement lighting up his eyes. “Oh, my dear, I’m not sure yet. But I have a feeling you’re going to make this evening very... interesting,” he said, leaning in a bit closer, his voice turning husky. “Care to join me and my friend for a drink? We can discuss the possibilities.”

Meanwhile, Illumi remained passive, watching the exchange with interest. His eyes flickered between you and Hisoka, seemingly impassive. His needle quivered faintly as though waiting for the right moment to strike. When your gaze met his, Illumi simply studied you with his trademark unreadable expression, the coolness of his stare sending a chill through the air.

Your eyes lingered on the Illumi’s needle, his cold presence making your pulse quicken. There was something unsettling about the stillness in his posture—it was like he was watching you with the precision of a predator. A chill ran down your spine, and despite the intrigue it sparked, you couldn’t deny the sense of danger radiating from him. Your heart beat a little faster, the unease creeping up on you, yet you couldn’t look away.

“You seem... interesting,” Hisoka said playfully, glancing over at Illumi with a mischievous glint. “Our friend here looks like he’s already sizing you up. No need to worry about him,” he added, with a wink.

You turned to Illumi, your gaze steady, though you felt a slight unease at his intense observation. The silence between you two was thick with unspoken tension. His presence was imposing, yet you couldn’t look away.

“Well now,” you said, breaking the silence. “A drink won’t hurt.”

You slid into the stool next to Illumi, crossing your legs and leaning back slightly, still feeling his piercing gaze on you.

Hisoka clapped his hands together clearly pleased with your response. “Excellent choice! Another round for us, bartender,” he called, signaling for more drinks.

Illumi remained silent, his posture relaxed but alert. He regarded you with the same intense focus, his gaze sharp, as if assessing you on some deeper level.

“So, tell me” Hisoka said, returning to his seat beside you after collecting the drinks. “What brings a stunning woman like yourself to a place like this? Looking for adventure, perhaps?” Hisoka’s question was light, but the underlying curiosity was clear.

You took a slow sip of your drink, never breaking eye contact with Illumi. His attention was making you feel uneasy, but you stayed composed. You couldn’t help but wonder: why was he playing with that needle? What was his deal?

After a moment, you turned to Hisoka, offering him a small, confident smile. “Just passing through, waiting for a friend,” you replied smoothly, your voice calm but with a hint of mystery. “What about you two?”

Hisoka chuckled, sipping from his own glass. “Just enjoying the finer things in life: good company, fine liquor,” he said, winking at you playfully. “Perhaps a little entertainment, if you’re in the mood.”

Illumi, on the otherhand, didn’t respond verbally. He simply tilted his head slightly, studying you with a gaze that felt as though he were trying to see through you. The needle twitched once more, drawing lazy circles in the air, as if testing the limits of the tension between you.

The silence stretched on, uncomfortable, until Illumi finally spoke. “Your friend had better hurry,” he said, his voice cold and flat. “This isn’t a safe place for someone like you to linger.”

His words were cryptic, but there was an edge to them, something that made your skin prickle.

You glanced at Illumi, your eyes narrowing. “Someone like me?” you asked, not sure if you were being threatened or warned. Hisoka, sensing the tension, stepped in to break the silence.

“Now, now, let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said with a soft chuckle, placing a calming hand on Illumi’s shoulder. “Our guest seems perfectly capable of handling yourself. Aren’t you, Y/N?”

Hisoka’s tone was light, but there was a subtle edge beneath the words, as though he, too, were aware of the growing competition for your attention.

You noticed the way Hisoka’s touch on Illumi’s shoulder seemed both friendly and possessive. It was clear they had some sort of complicated relationship, and you were caught in the middle of it. But what caught your attention, is that they know your name, but you decide not to speak about it.

You raised an eyebrow at Illumi’s comment, trying to keep your cool despite the unease settling in your chest. “I’m not sure I understand. Are you perhaps… threatening me?” you whispered, your voice steady, even though the tension in the room was making your heart race.

Illumi’s lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. “Threaten you? Oh, no. I'm merely offering... a warning.” he purred, his tone oozing with condescension. “Consider it a courtesy.”

Hisoka quickly intervened, his voice soothing. “Pay him no mind, Y/N. My friend there speaks in riddles sometimes. It’s just his way of showing interest.”

Despite Hisoka’s attempt to downplay the situation, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something more complicated was at play here.

You looked at Illumi’s mocking smile, the chill creeping up your spine at his tone. You turned back to Hisoka, trying to ease the tension. “I’m not sure I buy that,” you murmured to yourself, then smiled at Hisoka, attempting to lighten the mood. “But thanks for the intervention.”

Hisoka chuckled, clearly unfazed by the tension. “Ah, always so perceptive, aren’t you?” He raised his glass in a toast. “To new acquaintances and the intriguing games we play, hmm?”

The tension between the three of you remained thick in the air. Illumi leaned back in his seat, watching you intently, his needle still tracing lazy patterns in the air.

“So, what do you do for a living?” you asked, trying to shift the focus back to Hisoka. You could feel his eyes flickering over you, sensing your curiosity.

Hisoka grinned, clearly pleased by the question. “Oh, I dabble in many pursuits,” he said. “Collecting rare artifacts, attending underground fights, savoring exquisite cuisine...” He paused, letting the words hang in the air for dramatic effect. “And occasionally, I provide a... more exclusive form of entertainment for those who know how to appreciate certain... unique talents.”

His words were playful, but there was a sense of pride in them, as if he relished in his dangerous lifestyle.

As you turned to Illumi, you could feel the weight of his silent gaze. His presence was suffocating, and you sensed the layers of his mystery, but he didn’t respond.

“What about your friend?” you asked, your tone casual, but with a trace of challenge. The air between you two thickened.

Hisoka’s grin widened, but he avoided giving you a direct answer. “Illumi here is a man of many talents,” he said vaguely. “He has a... certain calling in life.”

Before you could ask more, Illumi stood up abruptly, the scraping of his chair on the floor making you tense.

“Enough idle chatter,” he said coldly. “If you’re done prattling, perhaps our host has something more stimulating in store for us.”

He turned and began to walk toward the exit, leaving an unsettling silence in his wake. You watched him leave, feeling a mix of relief and confusion. His mention of a "host" caught you off guard. Who was he talking about? The way he spoke suggested something far more serious than a casual meeting, but you couldn't place the connection yet.

“Well, that was certainly an interesting introduction,” you said to Hisoka, trying to shrug off the discomfort.

Hisoka chuckled, unbothered by Illumi’s abrupt exit. “Yes, Illumi can be a bit... intense,” he said. “But don’t worry, he means no harm... unless provoked.”

Hisoka leaned closer to you, his breath warm against your ear. “I find your reaction to him quite fascinating,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “You’re more than just a pretty face, aren’t you?”

You turned your gaze back to Hisoka, intrigued by his words, but still uncertain of where this night would lead.

“Well, I've faced worse than his eccentric personality,” you smile jokingly.

Hisoka’s grin widened, clearly amused by your bravery. “Is that so? I’d love to hear more about these ‘worse’ encounters of yours. Perhaps over dinner, hmm?”

He signaled the bartender for another round of drinks. As they waited for their refreshments, Hisoka continued to regale you with outrageous tales of his adventures, each one more bizarre and captivating than the last.

Meanwhile, Illumi re-entered the bar, his expression as inscrutable as ever. He slid onto the stool next to you, his presence subtly overwhelming. Despite the physical space between you, you couldn’t escape the weight of his gaze, as if he were silently dissecting your every movement.

You glanced at him as he returned, going back to the host he’d mentioned earlier—but of course, you had no idea what he meant by that. There was something about the way he had said it, a certain expectation, as if his presence here was tied to more than just a casual meeting.

You noticed Hisoka’s quick, subtle gesture when Illumi sat down—a nearly imperceptible nod, as if confirming something without words. It didn’t escape your attention, but you couldn’t quite place its significance.

“Okay, I’m done,” you say calmly, though clearly irritated. “Do you have a problem?” you ask, looking at Illumi, bracing yourself for whatever might come next.

Illumi’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his expression unreadable. However, there was no sign of anger or aggression in his demeanor. Instead, he tilted his head and studied you with a curious, almost intrigued look.

“Problem?” he repeated in a low, measured voice. “Hardly. I simply find your... audacity rather intriguing. Most would have fled in terror at the sight of me, yet here you stand, unflinching.”

He leaned back in his stool, his posture relaxed, but his gaze never strayed from you. “Tell me, what drives someone like you to face danger so directly? Is it bravery, stupidity, or perhaps something else?”

The question lingered, heavy with a subtle menace. Illumi’s gaze pierced into you, as if trying to read something in you only you could answer. Hisoka observed the interaction, clearly fascinated, eager to see how you’d handle Illumi's probing.

You took a deep breath, trying to remain composed despite Illumi's unrelenting stare.

“It’s none of your business,” you respond firmly. “And... why should I be terrified of you?” you meet his gaze without flinching, even though your heart races slightly faster.

Illumi’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile at your defiance. “Brave words,” he murmured softly. “We’ll see how long they last.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your wrist in a fleeting, chilling touch. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of disgust and morbid fascination. “Perhaps I should demonstrate just how terrifying I can be,” he purred, his voice carrying a dark, unsettling promise.

Before you could react, Hisoka placed a hand lightly on Illumi's shoulder, his voice a smooth contrast to Illumi’s ominous tone. “Now, now, let’s not scare off our lovely guest just yet,” he chided, a playful edge in his words.

Turning to you, Hisoka flashed that signature, teasing grin. You quickly pull your arm away from Illumi’s touch, a sense of unease growing in your chest. Your heartbeat quickens, his aura undeniably dangerous, but there’s also something about him that draws you in. Still, the feeling of being unsettled and annoyed lingers.

“Thanks,” you say to Hisoka, giving him a brief but grateful look while keeping your attention fixed on Illumi. “But I think I’ll leave now.” You stand, meeting Illumi’s intense gaze one last time.

Hisoka rose to his feet with a sweeping bow. “A pleasure, Y/N. I do hope our paths cross again, though perhaps next time in less... tense circumstances.”

As you made your way to the door, Illumi remained seated, his gaze unwavering as he watched your every movement. “Until next time” he whispered, his voice carrying a dangerous promise.

Once you exited the bar, Hisoka whistled lowly. “Quite the spark between you two,” he said, his eyes flicking to Illumi. “I hope you can handle the flames to come.” Illumi remained silent, watching the door with a slight, unreadable tilt of his head. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of something crossed his face—perhaps a mix of interest and calculation—but he didn’t comment. Hisoka smirked, sensing the night was far from over.

You stepped outside into the cool evening air, the wind brushing against your face. Your thoughts raced with everything that had happened—Illumi, Hisoka, the odd tension that hung in the air between the three of you. Something about them—about him—kept you intrigued, despite everything telling you to stay away.

The following days passed in a haze. Between training your Nen and trying to keep your mind focused, the encounter with Illumi and Hisoka lingered at the back of your thoughts. You went through your routines, honing your skills in the solitude of your own space, but a nagging thought kept surfacing: Could this strange connection with them somehow serve your ultimate goal?

Your instincts told you to stay cautious, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something much larger.

That night, just as you were about to slip into restless sleep, a knock at your door shattered the silence. Your heart raced, pulse quickening with anticipation. Hesitant, you approached the door, peeking through the peephole. A shadow loomed outside.

"Illumi?" you whisper, barely above a breath.The knocking continues, more insistent this time.

You hesitate, every instinct telling you to stay safe. Yet, curiosity overwhelms you. Slowly, you open the door just a crack.When you see Illumi standing there, you freeze for a moment, unsure what to do. Part of you wants to slam the door shut, but the other part... is intrigued.

"How do you know where I live?" you ask, your voice a little more uncertain than you'd like to admit. "What are you doing here?" You keep your gaze locked on him, your body on alert.

Illumi steps inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the door softly behind him. In the dim light, his presence feels almost suffocating—like a predator watching its prey.

"You shouldn't be surprised," he murmurs smoothly, his voice like silk. "In our world, secrets aren't hard to uncover. Especially when someone as... captivating as you is involved."

He steps closer, his proximity sending a ripple of heat through your body. The danger in his every move is undeniable.

"I came to extend an invitation," he says, his voice low, mesmerizing. "Tomorrow night. A private gathering. It will be... an experience you won't forget."

You swallow, trying to hold your ground as his gaze locks onto yours. His presence, so close, sends an electric current running through your skin, leaving you with a chilling sense of unease—and, for some reason, something else.

"I don't think so," you respond, trying to keep your composure. "I don't trust you yet to accept an invitation from someone like you."

Illumi’s lips twitch into a small, calculating smile as he watches you. His gaze is cold, yet there’s something predatory in it. "That’s precisely why you should consider it," he says, his voice low and steady. He reaches forward, his fingers grazing the side of your face with eerie precision, his touch cold yet deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine.

"We’re not used to being dismissed," he continues, his voice unwavering and cold, yet there’s an underlying intensity. "Especially by someone with potential. Consider it a test—a way to prove you’re worth our attention. A challenge, if you will."

He leans in slightly, his breath cold against your ear. "If you prove yourself, the rewards may outweigh the risk," he says, his voice steady but carrying an unsettling weight. He pulls back, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he turns to leave. "Until tomorrow night. Don’t take too long."

You watch him leave, your heart still pounding in your chest, the intensity of his presence lingering in the air. You hate that your body responded the way it did. Part of you feels intimidated, but there's also an undeniable temptation, a pull you can't seem to shake.

The next day, you're pacing your apartment, anxiety gnawing at you. The offer, the invitation, the mystery—it's all too much to ignore. Despite your better judgment, you're drawn to the dangerous allure of Illumi and Hisoka. By the time the sun sets, you've made up your mind.

You arrive at the mansion on the outskirts of town. The eerie quiet of the place sends a chill down your spine, but your curiosity pushes you forward. Inside, you spot Illumi waiting for you, his piercing gaze immediately locking onto yours.

"Well, well," he drawls, his voice like velvet. "Look who decided to join us. I must say, I'm impressed."

You stand tall, despite the nervous flutter in your stomach, meeting his gaze with a steely resolve. "Impressed by what exactly?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "I must admit, I find your... choices somewhat intriguing." You don’t dare voice your true thoughts, though a part of you feels the pull of his presence.

Illumi chuckles softly, a sound that sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. "Oh, my dear," he purrs, his eyes dark with quiet amusement as he circles around you, "it’s not just my... choices that draw you in, is it?" His voice is smooth, dangerous, a predator’s calm before the hunt. "It’s the power I carry, the silent threat, the allure of what lies beneath the surface."

He steps even closer, so close you can feel the heat of his presence. Stopping behind you, he leans in, his breath grazing your ear. "But don’t worry," he murmurs, his fingers cold as they gently cup your chin, turning your head to face him. "I won’t hold it against you. In fact, I find your boldness... rather intriguing."

With a deliberate motion, he guides your chin to face him fully. His cold fingers send a shiver through you, contrasting with the warmth of his breath against your skin. "Shall we proceed?" he asks, his voice low, commanding, almost hypnotic.

You try to hold your ground, though it’s hard not to react to his proximity, to the way he takes control of the space between you. "Let’s get this over with," you say, your voice betraying a hint of unease, though you strive to sound unaffected. "Lead the way."

Illumi's grip tightens slightly, a silent reminder not to challenge him further. "As you wish," he responds, releasing your chin with a fluid motion before stepping back.

He leads you down the mansion’s corridors, each step echoing through the vast, silent halls. When you reach a heavy door, guarded by silent figures, Illumi unlocks it with a key, revealing the eerie blue light spilling from within.

"Welcome to our little sanctuary," Illumi announces. "Inside awaits an experience beyond your wildest imagination."

You step inside hesitantly, immediately feeling the weight of the atmosphere. The air is thick, pulsing with an almost tangible energy, and the blue light casts an ethereal glow over everything.

"What is this place?" you ask, your voice tight with uncertainty. "And who else is here?" You glance around, sensing eyes on you from the shadows, though you can’t make anyone out.

Illumi senses your unease and speaks with a calm, almost possessive tone. "This is a sanctum for those who appreciate the finer things in life," he explains, guiding you deeper into the room. "The company is... eclectic. But don’t worry, they mean no harm... for now."

He looks at you, his gaze unreadable. "As for the others, let's just say you've caught the attention of some very... interesting individuals." He places a hand on the small of your back, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "We’ve been discussing the possibility of adding you to our little family."

Your breath catches. "Family?" you repeat, your voice wavering slightly. "I don’t even know what you do. I’m not sure I’m interested in joining your... family."

You glance around again, noticing how the shadows seem to shift, as if alive, watching you.

Illumi’s grip on your back tightens, his voice low and cold. "Oh, you’re already a part of it, whether you like it or not," he says, his tone calm yet firm. "Once you've crossed paths with us, there’s no turning back."

He leads you to a raised dais at the center of the room, motioning for you to sit. "Sit," he commands. "Now."

You obey, though the feeling in the room only grows heavier, more oppressive.

From the shadows, Hisoka emerges, a wicked grin on his face as he looks you over. "Well, well, look at our little bird perched so prettily," he says, his voice dripping with dark amusement. His gaze shifts to Illumi. "She looks like she belongs here, don't you think?"

You feel a shiver of dread as Hisoka's gaze locks onto you, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Part of you feels threatened, yet the way Illumi stands near you, his eyes fixed on Hisoka with a certain quiet possessiveness, makes you feel... somewhat protected.

Hisoka steps closer, his grin widening. "In a world full of mediocrity, we seek out the extraordinary," he says with a mocking tone. "And you, my dear, are a rare gem indeed."

Before you can respond, Illumi places a hand on Hisoka’s shoulder, signaling for him to stop. "Enough games," he says quietly, but with an edge to his voice. He turns back to you, his demeanor shifting to something more serious, yet still oddly intimate. "We’re not merely what people assume us to be. We are... curators of chaos, seekers of the sublime."

You listen to his words carefully, still trying to wrap your mind around everything. You're intrigued, but more than a little scared. There's so much you don't understand.

"So, what is it you want from me?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper. "What is your game? What are you, assassins?" You joke, but oh dear, their gaze tells you everything, and you freeze, realizing the truth of their job.

Illumi’s smile grew, a thin, calculating line that didn’t reach his eyes. "Assassins, mercenaries, enforcers—labels are irrelevant when you're dealing with the best of the best," he said, his voice a low purr. "We’re not concerned with ownership; we’re more interested in partnership."

Hisoka snorted, his grin widening. "Partnership implies equality, sweetheart, and you're nowhere near our level. But don’t worry, we’ll bring you up to speed."

Illumi placed a hand on your knee, his touch surprisingly gentle considering the deadly nature of their profession. "Think of it this way—you'll be part of an elite circle, operating on the fringes of society. No ordinary life for you anymore, my dear. Just the thrill of the unknown, the rush of adrenaline in the face of danger..."

Your heart pounds in your chest as you realize they are indeed assassins, and it troubles you more than you intended. You feel in danger here—there’s no way out. The mansion is full of people waiting for you to join their group, but... why?

As you overthink, staring at them intently, you suddenly realize something that terrifies you. You've heard of an assassin family—the Zoldycks—and you can't help but ask, a tremor running through you.

"Illumi... what's your full name?" You look at him, hoping for honesty, feeling tense and drawn to this dangerous man, almost seeking his comfort despite the fear bubbling inside you.

Illumi’s smile widened, a devilish glint in his eyes. "Ah, you've done your research," he purred, leaning in closer to you. "My full name is Illumi Zoldyck."

He watched your reaction intently, savoring the shock on your face. "Yes, I come from a long lineage of assassins," he continued, his voice low and hypnotic. I’m the shadow that moves unseen, the force that shapes outcomes without lifting a finger. I’m a master of control, an architect of fate—everything I touch bends to my will."

Hisoka chuckled darkly, interjecting, "And a total psycho, if you ask me." Illumi shot him a withering glare, but then focused back on you.

"But enough about us," Illumi said, his tone shifting to a more intimate cadence.

Your eyes widen at the revelation, a chill running down your spine. You knew about the Zoldycks, but never thought you would meet one, especially not one so close to you right now.

"A Zoldyck..." You mutter under your breath, trying to process the new information. You look at him, feeling a mix of fear and fascination as you’re drawn to him. "Why do you need me to be part of... your group?"

Illumi doesn't answer directly about your role in the organization, but he can’t help but feel drawn to you in a way his family wouldn't approve of. Though cold and calculating on the surface, there's something different when it comes to you. He won’t show this weakness, of course.

Illumi leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded you with an unreadable expression. " Let’s just say... you’ll fit nicely into the framework we’re building. There’s always a place for the right person."," he replied cryptically.

Hisoka, ever the provocateur, couldn’t resist inserting himself into the conversation. "Yeah, she's got the spark, the fire in your belly. We could mold your into something truly exceptional."

Illumi’s gaze flicked to Hisoka, a warning glint in his eye before returning to you. "Of course, it’s not just about our needs. We believe you have potential—a latent talent waiting to be unleashed."

Hisoka paused, studying your reactions closely. "So, what do you say, my dear? Are you ready to embrace your destiny and become part of our little family?"

You swallow, feeling like a pawn in a game you don't fully understand. The allure of power, of being part of something bigger than yourself, is undeniable.

 "I... I’ll think about it," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, torn between fear and curiosity. You can't tear your eyes away from Illumi.

Hisoka, ever the provocateur, couldn’t resist inserting himself into the conversation. "Oh, my, you're torn between fear and curiosity? How delicious! I can't wait to see what you’ll choose... or maybe I just want to watch you squirm."

Illumi’s gaze flicked to Hisoka, a warning glint flashing briefly in his eyes before returning to you. There was an undeniable intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was considering you, weighing you, perhaps even contemplating something more. "Of course, it’s not just about our needs. We believe you have potential—a latent talent waiting to be unleashed."

Illumi rose from his seat, towering over you, his eyes boring into yours. "I’ll give you time until tomorrow night."

Afterward, you head home, your mind consumed by everything that happened. As you think, your thoughts drift to Illumi.

As you departed, Hisoka called after you, his voice echoing through the mansion's grand halls. "Don’t take too long, darling! We’re eager to see what you'll become!"

Illumi, meanwhile, remained standing, his piercing gaze following you until you disappeared from view. Once alone, he allowed himself a fleeting moment of introspection, his thoughts drifting to the enigmatic woman he had encountered.

Despite his usual composure, there was an unfamiliar warmth simmering within him, a sensation he couldn’t quite define. Illumi pushed the feeling aside, focusing instead on the task at hand—molding you into the perfect asset for their organization.

The next evening, as planned, Illumi awaited your arrival, his demeanor as cool and collected as ever.

You arrive at the mansion, nervous and troubled by the decision you just made. As you step inside, you see Illumi standing there, looking calm and collected as always. Your heartbeat quickens.

Illumi greeted you with a nod, his eyes assessing your appearance and demeanor. "You've decided, then?" he asked matter-of-factly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Come, let's discuss the details of your new role."

Without awaiting a response, Illumi turned abruptly, his movements deliberate and fluid as he led you deeper into the mansion. His steps echoed in the silent corridors, and you couldn't help but feel the weight of his presence, like he was drawing you into a world you weren't sure you were ready for. The maze of corridors felt endless, each turn more isolating than the last.

"I assume you have some experience with combat, " Illumi said, his voice low, almost assessing. His gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, a subtle but deliberate scrutiny. "We'll start with a physical test. I want to see what you're capable of. "

As Illumi finished speaking, the door creaked open behind you, and Hisoka leaned in casually, his grin widening as he sized you up. 'Well, well,' he purred, 'Let’s see if our recruit lives up to the Zoldyck legacy. "

Following Illumi, your pulse quickens, a mix of nervousness and something else, something unfamiliar. The door to the training room swings open, and the cold gleam of weapons lining the walls hits you like a slap. This was no ordinary training facility—it was a shrine to death, and you were about to become a part of it.

I... yes, I have some combat experience,' you reply, trying to sound confident, but your voice betrays a hint of uncertainty. His gaze, slow and deliberate, traces over you—making you feel both exposed and oddly... seen. You force yourself to stand tall, though your heart races under the weight of his scrutiny.

You notice Hisoka observing you with keen interest, his grin widening as he watches your interaction with Illumi.

With a deep breath, you brace yourself, feeling Illumi’s eyes still on you, studying, calculating. His nod is almost imperceptible, yet his gaze remains sharp and intense, like a predator’s. 'Let’s start with something simple—agility, reflexes. Show me what you can do.' His words, though neutral, hang heavy in the air, a silent challenge."

He pointed to the obstacles ahead—hurdles, balance beams, pendulums swinging with mechanical precision. 'Your task is simple,' Illumi said, his voice calm but firm, 'Cross without making a mistake. Only the ground should feel your weight. Understood?'"

Before you could respond, Hisoka chimed in, "And remember, sweetie, speed and precision are key! Show us what you're made of!"

Illumi glanced at Hisoka, his expression a sharp mix of annoyance and something else—something colder. But he didn’t waste words. His gaze snapped back to you, every ounce of his attention now fixed on your every move. "On my count," he instructed, raising his hand. "Three... two... one..."

You nod, taking a moment to observe the obstacles before you. Your mind races with strategies and tactics, trying to decide the best approach.

As Illumi starts counting down, you spring into action, moving swiftly across the floor. You leap over the hurdles, balancing carefully on the narrow beams, and dodging the swinging pendulums with quick reflexes.

Halfway through, you feel a surge of adrenaline, pushing you to move even faster. With a final leap, you land safely on the ground, panting lightly.

Wiping the sweat from your brow, you look up at Illumi and Hisoka waiting.

Illumi watched your performance with a critical eye, noting your speed, agility, and overall technique. When you finished, he gave a slight nod of approval. "Not bad. You managed to complete the course without major errors."

Hisoka, on the otherhand, was practically bouncing with excitement, clapping his hands togetyour gleefully. "Bravo, bravo! What a delightful display of athleticism! I must say, I'm thoroughly impressed."

Illumi raised an eyebrow at his friend's exuberance but turned his attention back to you. "Next, we'll assess your marksmanship skills. Follow me."

Without a word, Illumi turned, leading you to a shooting range tucked in a quiet corner of the room. The stark silence of the space was almost oppressive, broken only by the faint sound of your breath. 'Prove your worth,' he said coldly, 'Handguns, rifles, knives. Show me what you can do.

You follow Illumi to the shooting range, feeling a mix of confidence and trepidation. You’ve handled guns before, but not in a formal setting like this. Nodding, you select a handgun first. Illumi helps you check the weight and grip before you aim at the target, his touch on your hand making you unfocused for a second. Taking a deep breath, you squeeze the trigger, hitting the center of the bullseye. Next, you move on to the rifle, your aim steady and true as you fire off round after round, each bullet finding its mark except one. Finally, you pick up a knife, flipping it expertly between your fingers before demonstrating your throwing skills. The blade embeds itself in the wood of the target.

Illumi observed your performance with a calculating gaze, his expression unreadable. When you completed the tests, he stepped closer, inspecting the target results.

"Decent accuracy with the handgun and rifle," he remarked, "but room for improvement. That stray shot could’ve been fatal in a real-world scenario."

Hisoka, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the minor flaw. "Pfft, a single miss? Hardly a concern, darling! With practice, you’ll be hitting your marks every time."

Turning to you, Illumi continued, "Your knife work is satisfactory, though perhaps a bit flashy for our purposes. We prefer subtlety and efficiency in our assassins."

He paused, studying you intently. "Overall, you demonstrate potential, but you still lack the polish and discipline required for our organization."

You listen to Illumi's critique, a small part of you stung by the criticism, but you push that aside, focusing on his words of guidance instead.

"Okay." You nodded. His cold, enigmatic demeanor makes you so aware of your surroundings.

Illumi's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he nodded curtly. "Very well. We'll continue your training tomorrow. For now, rest and prepare yourself mentally for the challenges ahead."

With that, he turned and wanting to leave, leaving you alone with Hisoka. The latter grinned at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Don’t worry about old Illi’s harsh words, sweetheart. He’s just trying to whip you into shape."

Hisoka sauntered closer, his presence overwhelming in its intensity. "I, on the otherhand, think you’re perfect just the way you are. Though I do hope you’ll indulge me in a few... extracurricular activities tonight."

He leaned in, his hot breath tickling your ear as he whispered, "I have a feeling you’d look stunning drenched in blood."

With that, Illumi shot Hisoka a glare, making him leave. Hisoka already knows that his friend Illumi is interested in you, but he doesn’t say it directly. Illumi doesn’t understand why he’s drawn to you—the cold, calculating, and emotionless man on the surface. He can’t help but make you squirm and tease you in his own way, but he mostly focuses on the mission ahead.

Illumi’s glare held a clear warning, and Hisoka knew better than to push furtyour. With a playful smirk, he bowed mockingly before turning on his heel and departing, leaving you alone once more with the enigmatic assassin leader.

Illumi returned his attention to you, his expression unreadable. "Tomorrow, we will focus on strategic thinking and adaptability. Be prepared to face unpredictable scenarios."

Without another word, he dismissed you, his actions as abrupt as they were efficient. As you exited the training room, you couldn't shake the sensation that Illumi's interest in you went beyond mere professionalism—but the cryptic nature of their interactions left you unsure how to interpret his intentions.

Later that night, Illumi entered your quarters without awaiting an invitation, his usual composed façade slipping for the briefest moment as he took in your appearance. The fleeting flash of desire in his eyes earlier seemed to intensify in this intimate setting, and despite his attempts to suppress it, he couldn’t ignore the pull.

"I trust you're resting adequately," he stated, his voice low and measured. "Tomorrow, we'll be engaging in close-quarters combat drills. Your agility serves you well, but you must learn to harness your strength more effectively."

As he spoke, Illumi’s gaze roamed over your form, lingering just a moment longer than necessary, his eyes tracing the curves of your body beneath your attire. The air between you thickened, heavy with an unspoken tension. It was a strange feeling, as though his usually tight control was slipping—something more primal simmered beneath the surface.

"Remember," his voice trailed off, his eyes still lingering on you as he tried to steady his breath. You can practically feel the heat radiating from his body as he stands closer, his presence overwhelming in the small space.

You swallow, trying to maintain composure under his intense gaze. His voice is cold and calculated, but you can’t ignore the thrill that runs through you at the sound of it. You nod, acknowledging his instructions about the upcoming training session.

The air between you both feels electric, charged with something neityour of you can fully control. As Illumi draws closer, his proximity seems to suffocate you, making it harder to breathe. Your senses heighten as he stands just a little too close, a small distance remaining between you—but not enough to ignore the intensity of his presence.

Illumi’s internal struggle was evident. His disciplined assassin’s mind was still sharp, but it was no match for the growing pull of his desires. He had been raised to control everything, to compartmentalize every part of himself—sexuality included. Yet, for some reason, you seemed to be different. This thought frustrated him; he couldn’t allow such feelings to complicate matters. But even as he thought this, his body betrayed him.

Illumi’s gaze darkened as his fingers tightened at his sides. He clenched his jaw, struggling to maintain control.

"Illumi...?" You look at him, hating yourself for the way your body seems to lean toward him. His presence is consuming, and despite your attempts to fight it, you find yourself wanting him closer.

Illumi’s resolve cracked under the weight of his desires, his stoic mask slipping away. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he closed the space between you, his hands reaching out to pull you flush against his hardened body. His touch was rough, possessive.

"You should not intrigue me so," he hissed, his breath hot against your ear. "It complicates things unnecessarily."

But despite his words, his hands remained on you, his fingers pressing possessively into your waist, his body hard against yours. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable, an animalistic hunger he could no longer suppress.

Your breath caught in your throat as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you tightly against his muscular frame. The danger he embodies is palpable, but it only draws you closer, your body betraying your better judgment. You can feel the pulse of his heartbeat, the heat radiating from him, and yet, you can’t pull away.

His words, laced with frustration and desire, hung heavy in the air. You can sense the internal battle he’s fighting, the need to keep control clashing with something far more primal. You can practically feel the tension between you, the undeniable pull that neityour of you wants to acknowledge.

"I could say the same thing," you whisper, your voice barely audible, yet the words seem to carry a weight of their own.

Illumi’s grip tightened on you, his thumbs brushing along the sensitive skin of your lower back as he ground his body against yours. "Then perhaps we should indulge in these... complications," he purred, his voice dripping with dark promise.

With swift, practiced movements, he spun you around, pinning you against the wall. His lips crashed onto yours in a fierce, demanding kiss. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, claiming you with a ferocity that left you breathless. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve, every inch of you as though he couldn’t get enough.

The intensity of his passion overwhelmed you, leaving you gasping for air. You clung to him, returning his kiss with equal desperation, lost in the whirlwind of sensations, pleasure, and danger that only he could provide.

You gasp as Illumi’s kiss deepens, his dominance taking over as he pulls you closer, his movements quick and forceful. The danger and excitement mix within you, the fear of what might happen next blending with a yearning you can’t deny.

His skilled tongue dances with yours, igniting a fire within you that spreads throughout your entire being, you moan softly into the kiss, surrendering to the overwhelming sensations. Ilumi's hands explore your body with a hunger that mirrors your own, leaving trails of tingling pleasure in their wake, you arch into his touch, craving more of his intoxicating caresses.

Illumi's lips left yours, trailing scorching kisses along your jawline and down the column of your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin as he nipped and sucked at the tender flesh.

One hand slid beneath your shirt, palming the soft mound of your breast as he continued his assault on your senses. His thumb flicked over your nipple, coaxing it to peak before pinching gently, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"We shouldn't rush this," Illumi breathed, his hot exhalation fanning across your damp skin. "But I fear my restraint is wearing thin." His fingers deftly unfastened your pants, sliding inside to stroke the slick heat of your core. "Tell me to stop, if you dare."

You barely register the sound of your pants being undone until his fingers slip inside, stroking your already drenched folds, making your knees buckle slightly, you can believe this the composed assassin Illumi you know, but you can’t help but feel aroused by him/

Illumi's fingers delved deeper, curling inside you to stroke your inner walls with a practiced ease that belied his typically reserved nature, his voice a low rumble filled with dark satisfaction. "Your body knows exactly what it craves, doesn't it?"

As he spoke, he added a second finger, stretching and filling your with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The wet sounds of their intimacy mingled with your ragged breathing, creating a lewd symphony that only served to fuel Illumi's desire. Though Illumi was never one for excessive words, but in this moment, he can’t help, his voice brough

"You should see yourself now," he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours as he worked your tighter. "So compliant, so eager for more. It's almost...beautiful." With a sudden twist of his wrist, he found that secret spot deep within your, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your veins.

You cry out, unable to contain the intense pleasure, your back arches. The way he is so talkative, speaks so confident, so hynoptic, sends a thrill through you, even as a part of you wonders how he can be so bold, so unashamed of his desires.

“Illumi…” you gasp as you grind further on you his hand.

"Yes?" Illumi purred, his fingers never ceasing their relentless pace as he sought to unravel you completely. "What is it you desire, little assassin? Speak, and I might grant your request."

He leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Perhaps you’d prefer to break under my control, against the wall, with nothing but the sound of how you crumble to my mercy?" You gasp at his filthy words, your eyes widen of this part of him, almost possessive.

Illumi's free hand slid up your side, his palm sizzling against your overheated skin as he cupped your breast, kneading the soft flesh roughly. "Or maybe you yearn for something more...depraved?" His thumb circled your nipple, tugging it into a tight peak that sent jolts of electricity straight to your clit.

Your breath hitches as Illumi’s words paint vivid images in your mind, each one more tantalizing than the last, his touch is addicitive, possesive, every caress igniting a fresh wave of desire within you, making you tremble.

Illumi's fingers picked up speed, plunging in and out of your quivering channel with a ruthless precision that bordered on violent, he groaned "I wonder how many times I could make you cum before you collapse from exhaustion."

He grind on your behind, bitting down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, as his other hand slipped beneath your shirt once more. His nails scraped across your ribs, leaving red welts in their wake, before he reached your breasts. Rough palms squeezed and kneaded the supple mounds, tweaking your nipples into stiff peaks that throbbed in time with the pounding of your heart.

"Illumi, please... "you manage to gasp out, your voice barely above a whimper.

"Yes, what?" Illumi demanded, his tone sharp with impatience. "Speak clear, Y/N"

His fingers curled inside your, rubbing that sweet spot with a maddening persistence. "Do you want me to fuck you harder? Deeper? Make you scream my name until your throat is raw?"

His fingers plunge deeper, faster, the brutal rhythm threatening to consume you whole. you can feel the coil of tension building within, making you close to your climax.

You start screaming, feeling how your orgasm wash over you and with a swift movement, not letting you relax, he spun you around making you gasp, pressing your back against the cold metal of the wall, the rough surface provides a stark contrast to the heated, intimate contact of his body pressed against yours as you gasp. One hand gripped your hip, holding your steady as the other fumbled with his belt, freeing his throbbing erection.

"I’ve decided I’m going to take what I want. Now," his tone sharp, positioning himself at your entrance.

His words are filthy, depraved, and they only serve to stoke the flames of your arousal higher, you can feel his hardness prodding at your entrance, a thick, pulsating promise of the pleasure to come.

“Yes, Illumi, fuck…please“ you admit breathlessly, your resolve crumbling under his touch and words.

With a feral snarl, Illumi surged forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust. You cried out, your back arching as you felt him stretch your open, the sensation bordering on pain but suffused with overwhelming pleasure.

“So willing” Illumi hissed, his hips snapping against yours in a relentless rhythm. "This is what you needed, isn't it? I want to hear you admit it.”

“Yes…” You nodd desperately, feeling so intense and trembeling.

“Good. “" He leaned in close, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, his hot breath mingling with yours. "And I'm going to give it to you over and over again, until you're begging for mercy."

A strangled moan escapes your lips as Ilumi fills you completely, the feeling of being so thoroughly claimed sending shockwaves of ecstasy through your entire being.

Each forceful thrust drives you closer to the edge, the friction of his hard length against your sensitive inner walls pushing you towards a precipice from which there's no return.

“yes.. Iillumi please, “you pant out, your voice a broken, pleading thing as you lose yourself in the relentless pace of his hips.

"Please what,Y/N?" Illumi taunted, his start gripping your throat slightly, moving your head towards him, as he drove into your with renewed vigor. "Tell me what you need, what filthy things you want me to do to you."

He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as his tongue dominated yours. At the same time, his fingers found your clit, pinching and rolling the sensitive bud with merciless precision.

"Come," he commanded, breaking the kiss to nip at your jawline.  As if in response to his words, your orgasm crashed over your like a tidal wave, ripping your apart and rebuilding your anew in its aftermath. You screamed his name, your voice echoing off the walls as your pussy clamped down on his shaf.

Your mind goes blank as the intense waves of pleasure wash over you, Ilumi's relentless stimulation pushing you past the point of no return.

Your screams mingle with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, the obscene squelch of your arousal coating his cock as he continues to pound into you even as you come undone.

Ilumi's command hangs in the air, a dark challenge that only serves to heighten your awareness  of his own impending climax, you can feel him twitching inside you, his grip on your hips becoming almost painful as he struggles to hold back and you push into him more so you can help him.

With a guttural roar, Illumi buried himself to the hilt one final time, his cock pulsing as he unleashed a torrent of hot seed deep within your spasming depths. Each powerful spurt seemed to go on forever, painting your insides with his essence until you are filled to bursting.

As the aftershocks of your shared climax subsided, Illumi slowly withdrew, his softening member slipping free of your abused hole with a wet pop. A trail of cum dripped down your thigh, a visible testament to the thorough breeding you just received.

"Well, that was satisfying," Illumi murmured, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he admired his handiwork.

His sharp eyes studied you for a moment, his stance unwavering. "You’re in no condition to keep standing like this."

Before you could spleak, he moved swiftly, placing a firm hand at your back to guide you toward the bed. His touch, though not gentle, was steady and unyielding. "Lie down," he commanded, his voice a low murmur.

You feel utterly exhausted, your body spent, yet vulnerable—vulnerable in a way you never thought you would be with a Zoldyck. The fear lingers that it was just a fleeting, intimate moment for him, and you long for the comfort of aftercare. You're conflicted, unable to predict his next reaction, fully aware of his cold, enigmatic, and stoic nature.

You look at him, unable to control the vulnerability in your expression. You can’t help but wonder, despite his personality and history, if you’ve become important to him—though it doesn't show on the surface.

Illumi’s gaze softened, if only for a heartbeat, as he took in your vulnerable expression. It was the briefest of cracks in his otyourwise impenetrable facade—a fleeting flicker of something raw, something human beneath his usual cold exterior.

Without a word, his fingers brushed over the marks on your neck, a touch so delicate it almost felt alien—so different from the relentless passion they had just shared. The contact was soft, almost tentative, sending a shiver through you, who couldn’t help but feel the weight of this quiet intimacy.

But just as quickly as it had appeared, the tenderness faded, replaced once more by his usual aloofness. "Get dressed," he said sharply, his voice regaining its customary chill. With his usual precision, he began to gatyour his discarded clothes, a stoic figure once more. "We have matters to attend to."

Your heart skips a beat at the brief, unexpected softness in his eyes—a connection so fleeting, so fragile, that it leaves you aching for more. But the moment evaporates as swiftly as it came, and you’re left questioning if it was ever truly there or just a brief illusion, a crack in the facade that closed too soon.

Can… you stay a little longer? you ask, a quiet uncertainty in your voice, hesitant of how he’ll respond.

Illumi freezes for a moment at your request, his assassin’s discipline momentarily faltering. The connection between you is something unfamiliar, something he hasn’t had to process before. His mind is caught between his hardened, emotionally detached instincts and the surprising intensity of the bond you're offering.

Illumi paused, his hand hovering just above his shirt as he considered your words. The room grew heavy with the tension of his contemplation. Finally, without a word, he sat down on the bed, his posture rigid, but not dismissive. He was clearly weighing something—something beyond his control.

"You want me to stay," he said flatly, his voice cold but with a slight edge of curiosity. His eyes never left yours. "Is that because you enjoyed our...interlude? Or is it something else entirely?"

There was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, a brief crack in his impassive exterior that he quickly masked. It was evident that You’s unexpected emotional intimacy had caught him off guard, forcing him to confront feelings and desires that he had never fully acknowledged before.

Your heart races as you watch Illumi sit, his presence overwhelming, as always, but now more than ever, it pulls you in despite the tension between you. His words cut through you, making your emotions feel more tangled, and you realize just how much you’ve invested in this moment—how much you’ve allowed yourself to feel.

"Yes... and no, " you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper, stepping closer, but still unsure.

You reach out, pausing, as if to test the waters, before carefully placing your hand on his knee. A quiet hope stirs within you—that this small touch, this tentative gesture, might offer the reassurance both of you are craving.

Illumi’s muscles stiffen at your touch, a sharp breath escaping his lips as your fingers make contact. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, just staring at where your hand rests on his knee, as though trying to process the strange new feelings this simple connection stirs within him.

Slowly, cautiously, he places his hand over yours. His touch is deliberate, firm, and warm, but there’s a hesitation in it—a carefulness that reflects how much he’s struggling with the emotions that you’ve brought to the surface. "I see," he says quietly, his voice low, but there’s a shift in it. "In that case, I suppose I can spare a few more minutes."

Illumi stands, his hand hovering briefly before he reaches for you. When he pulls you into his arms, the gesture is stiff, almost as if he’s testing how to navigate this unfamiliar territory. His arms wrap around you, but the embrace feels tentative, as though he’s still unsure of what to do with the warmth he’s suddenly feeling.

In the stillness of that moment, Illumi’s heart races in his chest, the thundering beat a stark contrast to the icy calm he’s always projected, betraying the chaos he’s desperately trying to suppress.

As Illumi pulls you into his arms, a sense of calm washes over you. His warmth is solid and grounding, a stark contrast to the heat and chaos of your previous encounter. You rest your head against his shoulder, savoring the closeness—the simple, quiet connection that feels like it might be more than just physical.

Though your emotions swirl within you, you keep them in check, not wanting to overwhelm him. Instead, you focus on the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soothing sound of his heartbeat that seems to anchor you both in this rare moment of peace.

"Thank you," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your own heart.

Illumi’s arms tightened around you, holding you tight. The soft pressure of his body against yours was a sensation he hadn’t known before, and it both unsettled and captivated him.

"For what, exactly?" Illumi asks, his voice cool, but with a subtle hint of curiosity. "I'm not used to such gestures. Explain to me, why do you feel the need for this?"

But even as he spoke, Illumi didn’t pull away. Instead, his body stiffened for a moment before he leaned in, his lips brushing your temple in a brief, but telling gesture. It was a small act, a flicker of something he rarely allowed himself to show—soft, but unmistakably affectionate. It wasn’t much, but in that fleeting touch, something subtly shifted between them, a crack in the ice that had always surrounded him.

The press of his lips against your temple sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. The tenderness of the gesture, despite his usual stoicism, made you ache for more. You leaned into him, feeling a warmth spread through you, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to savor the intimacy that had quietly bloomed between you, fragile but undeniably real.

"For being here," you reply softly, your voice tinged with vulnerability. "For trying, even if it’s not something you're used to."

"Don’t get used to this," he murmurs, his tone strangely quiet, almost as if he's speaking to himself, not wanting to admit the slight shift inside him.

Illumi’s grip on you relaxed just slightly, his thumb stroking gentle circles on your back. Your words, simple as they were, had touched something within him. "Trying," he muttered, his brow furrowing slightly. "Perhaps that's an understatement for what we’ve done. But with you… it feels different. Necessary, almost."

He trailed off, his words unspoken, but the emotion behind them clear. Illumi was used to being distant, to keeping his feelings locked away. But with you, that wall had started to crumble—piece by piece, allowing something deeper to emerge.

Your heart swells at Illumi’s honesty, his words a raw admission that makes you feel even more connected to him. You press yourself closer, wanting to bridge the emotional gap between you, to share in the understanding that seems to be growing between you both.

"I feel the same, Illumi," you whisper, your voice sincere and filled with unspoken understanding.

Illumi's breath caught in his throat at your words. The sincerity in your voice reverberated through him, stirring something deep he wasn't prepared for. For years, he'd hardened himself against the idea of emotional connections—intimacy had always been something distant, too complicated to allow. But with you, the tension was palpable, like something he couldn’t push away, something he wasn’t sure how to control.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was gentle, but with an intensity that spoke volumes. It was a stark contrast to the fierceness of their earlier encounter, but somehow, it felt more consuming—this kiss was softer, but it lingered with a weight he couldn’t ignore. It felt different, like a shift, like something he couldn't quite put into words.

As the kiss deepened, Illumi became painfully aware of every touch—your body pressed against his, the softness of your skin, the way your breath matched his, shallow but steady. Every movement seemed to pull him in deeper, and for once, Illumi couldn't escape it. The intensity of the moment overwhelmed him, but it was a feeling he found himself craving—something he hadn't realized he'd been missing until now.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The North

Uh oh. New hyperfixation just dropped.

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Tragaryen!Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cold cuts through your thick cloak as you descend Cannibal’s side, his black scales glinting faintly in the weak northern sun. Winterfell rises before you, a stoic fortress that speaks of enduring hardship and unyielding honor. The men waiting at the gates, wrapped in furs, watch you with expressions ranging from curiosity to mistrust. To them, you are not the Dragon Queen’s emissary, not a rider of the Cannibal, nor a strategist who has studied every battle fought in the Seven Kingdoms. You are just a girl—a second daughter.

But they will learn.

Cannibal growls low behind you, the sound reverberating in your chest, and the men instinctively step back. You hide your smirk as you step forward, head held high, your boots crunching on the snow-packed ground.

Lord Cregan Stark waits in the courtyard, his gray eyes like a winter storm, scrutinizing you. He is taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered and clad in furs that make him appear even more imposing. A faint scar bisects his left eyebrow, and his expression is as unreadable as the Wolfswood in winter.

“Lady Targaryen,” he says, his voice deep and resonant, carrying over the murmurs of his men. “We do not often see dragons in the North, let alone one such as yours.”

You incline your head, keeping your voice steady despite the cold biting your cheeks. “Cannibal and I go where duty commands, my lord. My mother has sent me to call the banners of the North in defense of her claim to the Iron Throne. The honor of House Stark is known even in the halls of Dragonstone.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but not unkindly. “And yet, she sends you instead of your elder brother. I wonder why.”

The question hangs in the frosty air, a test if ever you’ve heard one. You meet his gaze unflinchingly.

“My mother does not send fools to treat with wolves,” you reply. “Jacaerys flies east, but I have studied the North’s history and strategies since I was old enough to hold a book. I know its people, its lords, its victories—and its sacrifices. You may question my youth or my blood, Lord Stark, but do not question my ability.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, perhaps a hint of amusement or approval, but he says nothing for a moment. Finally, he gestures toward the hall.

“Come inside. The North is not kind to dragons—or their riders—when left too long in the cold.”

You nod and follow him, acutely aware of the curious gazes trailing after you. Cannibal rumbles again as you leave him behind, his presence a lingering shadow even as you step into the warmth of Winterfell’s great hall.

The great hall is alive with the warmth of a roaring hearth, its walls hung with banners of direwolves and the scent of roasted venison thick in the air. You sit at a long table, opposite Lord Cregan, with his advisors flanking him. They are older men, clad in heavy furs and carrying the stern expressions of those who have weathered many winters.

From the moment you entered, they have looked at you as though you are a curious ornament, a bauble sent south to charm and flatter.

“…Of course, it is a delicate matter,” says one, a gray-bearded man named Lord Mors Karstak. His tone is patient, as though explaining a simple concept to a child. “The men of the North value strength, but they also value respect. Perhaps it would be best, Lady Targaryen, if you left the… delicate matters of war to those better suited to them.”

Your spine stiffens, the words wrapping around your pride like a vise. You meet his gaze, your expression unmoving, even as your blood begins to boil.

“And what exactly do you mean by ‘delicate matters,’ Lord Karstak?” Your voice is even, but it carries an edge sharper than Valyrian steel.

The room falls still. Lord Karstak shifts in his seat, clearly expecting you to demur, but you do not give him the satisfaction.

“Well, my lady,” he begins again, his tone softening as though you are a maiden too tender to hear the truth. “The raising of men, the planning of battles, these are tasks that require a certain… authority.”

“Authority,” you repeat, leaning forward slightly. “I see. And what about riding dragons, Lord Karstak? Do you believe that requires authority?”

His brows furrow. “I—of course, my lady, but—”

“Do you ride a dragon, Lord Karstak?”

The question lands like an arrow, and the other advisors glance at him uncomfortably. He clears his throat. “I do not, my lady.”

“Do you command the loyalty of a beast that has lived longer than the walls of Winterfell?” you press, your voice growing colder with each word. “Have you flown above the clouds, stared down armies, or felt the fire of your mount burn away the enemies of your house?”

Karstak is silent now, his face redder than the embers in the hearth.

You lean back, letting the moment settle before turning your gaze to the others. “I may not have gray in my hair or the winters of the North etched into my face, but I am a dragonrider of House Targaryen. My mother has trusted me with the honor of commanding dragons and men alike. I suggest you remember that before assuming I am here to embroider banners or pour wine.”

Lord Cregan remains silent, but there is a glimmer of something in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or at least curiosity.

Finally, it is another advisor who speaks, a lean man with the pinched face of a fox. “Well said, my lady. But the North is no place for grand gestures or fiery displays. It is built on trust and loyalty. And trust is not so easily won by words alone.”

“Trust is earned,” you agree, your gaze steady. “But if you wish to see action, you need only ask. Give me a challenge, and I will meet it. If you seek proof of my worth, I will provide it.”

The men exchange looks, some dubious, others intrigued.

Cregan finally speaks, his voice calm but firm. “That will not be necessary. Lady Targaryen has come here with her mother’s trust, and I intend to see that trust is respected. If any of you doubt her words, you may speak to me directly.”

The tension eases, though Karstak continues to glower. You incline your head toward Cregan, silently acknowledging the support, though you know this is just the beginning. If the North requires proof of your strength, you will give it to them in full.

You are no gentlewoman of the court. You are a dragon. And soon, they will all understand.

[theonottsbxtch]

can you do a bonus part to your franco x piastri!reader series, where the rest of the grid reacts to their relationship

THE OTHER GUY BONUS PART | FC43

an: i really enjoyed giving you guys this bonus part, they're so cute i love them so much

fc: random brunettes on pintrest

twitter

interview with yn piastri

The bright lights of the paddock press conference feel warmer than usual, or maybe it’s just the tension in the air. You’re sitting in front of a lady who pulled you aside for a quick interview, her eyes sharp, knowing that every word, every glance, will be dissected later. The end of the Formula 1 season always brings its own frenzy, but this time, all the focus is on you. You could feel the attention, the hum of anticipation in the air.

The interviewer leans forward, a grin on her face as she adjusted her microphone. You knew what was coming. After weeks of speculation, cryptic posts, and a whirlwind of gossip, it was finally out. She was most definitely about to ask the question that has been burning on everyone’s mind.

“What a way to end the season, yn,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “That was quite a statement you made.” There was a pause, just long enough for the her to try and get you to say something. “Franco Colapinto. What a bold choice.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your legs slowly, letting the moment linger. You watched as she waited for your response, hanging on your every word. You smirked, leaning into the mic just a little.

“What can I say?” you shrugged nonchalantly, though you knew exactly what you were doing. “I pitied the guy.”

You could see the corners of her mouth twitch, trying to hold back a laugh. She wanted more, they always did.

“Is that all?” the interviewer presses, her tone playful but probing, looking for cracks.

You didn't flinch, not even a bit. You’d played this game long enough, and you knew how to stay on top. Your lips curved into a smirk, your eyes narrowing slightly in mischief.

“Yup,” you said, keeping your voice light, almost bored. “This is my charity work for the year.”

The interviewer burst out into laughter. You let the words hang in the air, knowing full well they would be all over the headlines tomorrow. But before the interviewer could push further, you felt a warm presence behind you, familiar hands sliding around your waist.

You stiffened for just a second, caught off guard—not by the touch itself, but by the timing of it. You knew it was him. Franco pulled you closer, his chest pressed against your back, his scent—clean and comforting—filling your senses. You could hear the faintest murmur of his breath against your ear before he planted a soft kiss on your cheek, completely unbothered by the cameras flashing all around. His embrace was steady, like he’d done this a thousand times before.

The room fell into an almost stunned silence, as the interviewer watched the two of you, waiting for the next bite of drama. But there was nothing left for them to feed on.

The interviewer’s eyes widened slightly, clearly trying to decide whether to ask more or just let this moment speak for itself. She cleared her throat, a little flustered by the sudden turn.

“Well, I think that’s a perfect note to end on,” she said with a nervous chuckle, glancing between you and Franco. “Thank you, yn, Franco. I’m sure we’ll all be talking about this for a while.”

lando norris twitch stream

williamsracing

liked by ynpiastri, francolapinto, alex_albon and 984,247 others

a surprise visit from our favourite internet sensation

*tap to load more comments*

francolpainto: muyyy lindaaa

userone: i'm telling my kids they were romeo and juliet

usertwo: best wag ever

lilymhe: how he pulled her will always remain a mystery

oscarpiastri: @/ynpiastri i'm telling mum you're a traitor

f1 posted a new video

the end.

taglist: @iimplicitt @isaadore @iamred-iamyellow @justheretoreadthxxs @obxstiles @how-what-why-huh @raizelchrysanderoctavius @sainzzreputaticn @xxx-betty @dukeofjjune @dejavuontrack @littlegrapejuice @mxdi0 @st4rgirl-ellie @dullypully @cinderellawithashoe

[jyoongim]

i came across this reel and my immediate thought was "lucifer finding out alastor wanted to date his daughter" (not charlie ofcccc)

Morningstar!Reader x Alastor

>i switched it up a bit so it’ll be Lucidaddy finding out Alastor is dating his baby<

————————————————————————————-

“Just play it cool sis. Its just dad” you tried to reassure your sister, Charlie who was sweating profusely. You grabbed her hand and gave her a smile which made the older girl calm down a bit.

”Youre right! Its just dad…hahaha”

Vaggie had suggested that since the hotel wasn’t going like planned that Charlie should call y’all father. 

Who just happened to be the King of Hell itself.

Charlie shot it down, but you knew that your dad could help relieve some of the stress off the both of you.

So you had everyone in the hotel cleanup and promise they would be on their best behavior.

especially your boyfriend.

”Just be your charming self without the sarcasm please” You pouted up at the tall demon, who sported a smile as he hummed in acknowledgment at your words.

You were nervous to introduce Alastor to your father. You didn’t really have much experience with dating and the relationship between the two of you was as good as it was between him and your sister (slightly better because you’re his baby). You just wanted everything to be smooth enough to slip that you were dating someone.

Surely nothing could go wrong right?

——————————————————————

“Hi dad wel-OH!” Charlie wheezed as Lucifer pulled her into a big hug, squeezing the air out her lungs

”Charlieeee!” He gushed before his eyes caught yours.

You tried to avoid the bone-crushing hug, but your father was too fast; pulling you in as well.

”Oooh my girls how I’ve missed you!”

You missed how Alastor’s eye twitched.

You and Charlie squirmed out of his grasp, trying to regain your composures as you sucked air back into your lungs.

Charlie cleared her throat “Dad welcome to the Hazbin Hotel” she gave a wobbly smile as she showed the last minute decorated lobby.

She introduced all the residents so far and just as she was continue showing him around, Lucifer looked at the bar

”Oh! What in the unholy hell is that?” He looked to you

”babygirl tell me you didn’t approve of that?”

Before you could say anything, Alastor manifested by your side.

”I thought it adds a bit of color, don’t you think?” His smile was big, showing off his teeth.

Your dad grimaced, looking from Charlie to you to Alastor “who-who what are you the bellhop?” he asked.

Alastor laughed “haha! Oh no! I am the host of the hotel. Maybe you’ve heard my radio broadcast?”

Lucifer deadpanned “nope. Maybe that’s why the girls call it the ‘Hazbin hotel ahaha”

you and Charlie winced.

Alastor narrowed his eyes “It was actually my idea.”

”Oh? Well it wasn’t every clever” Lucifer challenged, making Alastor bend to his level ”Ahaha Fuck you” Alastor hissed.

You and Charlie got between the two, you frowning at Alastor, slapping his chest, while Charlie tried to distract dad.

”OoohOk! Dad Alastor here has been a big help.” She said trying to paint the Overlord in a more positive light. She looked at you as if to help plead her case.

”She’s right dad” you said with a smile “Without Alastor I don’t know how we would have gotten this far” you looked at the red demon smiling “he’s been good to us”

That was true. You have no idea where the hotel would be without Alastor’s help.

“These two lovely ladies have such optimistic hearts. I am more than happy to fulfill any desire they have” Alastor said, smiling down at you, wrapping an arm around you, pulling into his side.

Your father narrowed his eyes at the actions and growled lowly.

”uuuh huuuhh. Well-” he slapped Alastor’s arm with his cane and guided you and Charlie to the other guests to be introduced.

”how about you introduce me to your OTHER friends?”

When Charlie introduced Vaggie, you felt your stomach ball in a knot. “Oh you like girls THANK goodness!ahaha” Lucifer’s eyes caught yours, a nervous smile of his face “don’t tell me my baby is in a relationship as well?” Oh what a hopeful look he had.

You looked at Charlie, who gave you an encouraging nod, you cleared your throat, straightening up

”o-oh well about that…” you nervously laughed, looking down as you wring your hands.

A large hand grabbed yours to ease your nervous antic, and instead intertwined your fingers together. You look up to see Alastor standing behind you and bringing your interlocked hands to his lips and press them to the back of your hand. He smiled at you softly as he wrapped his other arm around you.

You looked over to see the King of Hell looking like he’s going to be sick. 

“Dad…Alastor isn’t just the host of the hotel…he’s also my boyfriend” you said smiling at your dad.

Lucifer went to say something, but your sister stopped him, placing a hand on his shoulder “Dad she’s happy and i know Alastor looks like he’s up to no good which most of the time he isn’t   But he actually makes her really happy. Look”

The short king watched as the tall red demon gave you a squeeze, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and nuzzle you. He saw how Alastor looked at you with complete devotion, while you looked at him with love in your eyes.

He sighed, bringing your attention back to him. He held out his hand, a tight smile on his face “nice to meet you”

Alastor grinned and shook his hand…before wiping it like it was the most repulsive thing “pleasure to meet you sir!”

You sighed a breath of relief. That wasn’t so bad.

”Tell me…you haven’t slept with my daughter have you?”

”DAD!”

”DAD!”

”what?! I can ask that!?”

”Your youngest has an insatiable sexual appetite”

”AL!”

”SAY WHAT!?”

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 27 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Content Warnings: This chapter contains Implied Yandere and slight gore—this is a work of fiction, I do not condone or glorify toxic relationships and violence in real life; experimental writings—a.k.a. me trying out a different style of being more descriptive and new p.o.v.s shifts.

See < End Note > for Bonus Contents, since I feel unhinged after writing this chapter. Might delete those bonus later? Depends.

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Beru landed beside Igris with a faint thud, his wings folding neatly behind him. His antennae twitched; his gaze fixed on the peculiar scene unfolding ahead of them.

“Even my brethren do not deign to partake,” Beru intoned, his clawed hand sweeping toward the shadow ants. “Most unusual, for they oft descend upon such spoils without delay.”

Igris followed the direction of Beru’s gesture and noted the truth of it. The shadow ants, notorious for their ravenous appetites, remained in tight clusters, seemingly hesitant to approach the carnage. Other shadows, like the bears, also hovered at the periphery. Except for Tank, who was otherwise preoccupied with a particular albino young lady. He was making himself comfortable under a canopy, as to not disturb Blanche’s dozing off on his back, drowning herself in the thickness of his coat.

How exceedingly ironic, Beru mused, his multifaceted gaze fixed upon a ravenette as she wrenched a limb asunder with ease, offering half to her pale-haired kin—who, it seemed, struggled to sever her own share from the particularly stubborn carcass. They both then proceed to take a bite simultaneously with an audible crunch.

Is this, perchance, the sentiment humans harbor when they behold us feasting upon their brethren?

Beru’s mandibles clicked.

A most curious sensation, indeed.

“Who would have foreseen that the composed one harbored such… ferocity?”

Igris couldn’t help but agree, though he refrained from speaking it aloud, as they continued to watch Red skinned off and, subsequently, mutilated another carcass.

"Mhm,"

"KIEEEK—!"

By My Liege's—!

{“By My Liege’s will!”

—is what the full oath would’ve been, had Igris spoken aloud.}

"She's scary." Trick hugged herself, visibly shuddering.

“…When did you get here?" Igris hoped what was perceived on the butterfly’s end of the communication line wasn’t as clipped as he had realized his own voice would’ve sounded. Though outwardly composed, it was quite a bit shameful for a knight such as he to admit the slight tightening of his reflexes—the instinctive reach for his sword.

He had almost drawn his weapon at Lady (Name)'s beloved summon.

Though, to be fair, Trick did just… appeared out of thin air.

At the very least, Beru had fared no better. The ant had all but leapt away, wings flared, claws at the ready.

That fact alone granted Igris a measure of solace.

The mentioned silver-haired humanoid tilted her head innocently, “I’ve been here the whole time, though?"

Ah, yes, an illusionist.

Igris recalled Lady (Name)'s words—masters of deception, skilled in the art of trickery. He had merely not expected their craft to be potent enough to slip past his senses. Nor Beru’s.

Granted, the shadows soldiers had never before been the victims of the butterflies’ targeted hallucinations.

…Fortunate that we stand as allies.

No matter how battle-hungry one could be, Igris could not deny the headache these beings would pose as adversaries. And their mistress—even without My Liege’s evident fondness—would have proven a challenge herself alone.

“Speaking of...” Trick’s voice drew his attention as she turned her head and called over her shoulder. “Bestie!”

A blonde figure perked up from her crouched position a short distance away. Sol held a stick in one hand, its tip drawing crude lines in the damp earth. Around her, a small gathering of shadows and butterflies watched intently.

Igris squinted, realizing what Sol had been sketching. Iron, in particular, seemed pleased as he admired the drawing of himself. It wasn’t particularly skillful given the medium, but the exaggerated proportions made him appear larger and stand out more than the other shadow knights drawn into the mud.

"Lady of woe,” A single rose materialized on Trick’s outstretched hand, she brought it closer to plant a kiss. “Bids her halls,” The flower was then thrown, where it burst into a rain of red petals above. “A rosy banquet.” She bowed in curtsy, the extended fabric from behind her blown in the air from the exaggerated movement, momentarily showing the pattern of fluttering silver.

As she rose from the position, she gave a wink, “How's that for your next painting?”

Sol rolled her eyes in jest, giving a mock salute, but her smile bright. Trick bring a hand to her chest and made an expression as if she was hurt, but the subtle lift of her lips, if one would look just a little bit closer, would’ve told another story.

"Anyway," Trick turned back to Igris and Beru—who now had petals stuck all over their armor and exoskeleton respectively—yellow irises alight with something almost dreamy. “Isn’t my sister just the prettiest?!”

It was a well-known fact that the butterflies were far more...vibrant than the shadows—literally and figuratively. Yet even with that knowledge, Igris still found himself unprepared for the sheer whiplash of Trick’s one-eighty.

The stars in her eyes, clasping her hands together, and the swooning sigh were a stark contrast to mere moments ago, when he could practically hear the chills that ran down her spine.

“Did you not just claim she was frightening?” Beru asked, incredulous, every little movement he made causing petals to fly off.

“That’s exactly what makes her more beautiful!” Trick retorted, as if he just offended her.

Igris sighed internally.

Then again, ‘internally’ was the only thing he could achieve in regards to his current level-locked speech—

{Do we really need to remind him?

<<Yes>>}

Back to the situation at hand—

At that point, Igris had already begun tuning them out, letting their bickering fade as background white-noises as he plucked the petals off his armor, letting the reds fell down to the muddy purple-ish ground. His gaze had returned to the ballerina on stage.

The more he observed her, the more she reminded him of a particular kind of women he had only ever exchanged curt words with in his time as a human knight.

Sharp intellects, veiled beneath layers of practiced poise and intricately folded fans. Women who, in an era that condemned outbursts and demanded submission, wielded their wits often more so any man.

The way Red’s delicate fingers plucked a shard of flesh from the centaur-like corpse was not unlike the refined precision of slicing through a Mont Blanc at an olden tea party—silver knife and fork in hand, but otherwise the picture of grace.

And Igris could not help the thought that emerged then—those very same women could be as vicious as a knife to the back upon society’s stage. Ripping one another to shreds with honeyed words and carefully calculated maneuvers that would ruin rather than kill.

Whether one was complacent or bold, none were spared in the brutal games of favor, wealth, and power.

Igris knew that better than anyone.

“F-Father—"

Thump.

“…”

His gaze lingered, distant at times.

"She reminds me of the noblewomen of old..."

As he recalled how Red often followed Lady (Name) without fail—always at her beck and call.

With a contemplative hum, Igris continued his musing.

"Court ladies?"

Trick made a grand gesture with both hands of Igris for Beru to see—

Ding. Ding. Ding!

. . .

…Where did that sound even came from—

"See? He gets it!"

Ignoring one annoyed shadow ant, she turned toward Igris beaming, her voice brimming with pride. “You’re not far off the mark, Sir Knight! My sister was a duchess!”

… ‘was’?

“You should’ve seen her, Sir Knight!” Trick continued, practically vibrating with excitement. “She was such a riot! Even now—”

"Child. Fetch."

In an instant, Trick straightened, catching a tiny chunk of flesh casually thrown her way directly with her mouth. She bit into it immediately, her silver hair swaying lightly as her expression contorted into a disgruntled one a few chews in.

Igris could only stare, his judgment hidden behind his armored helm. Beside him, Beru clicked his mandibles in what Igris assumed was shared disbelief.

How... peculiar, this court of butterflies is.

——oOo——

Red approached the trio, uniform somehow remained as immaculate as ever. The white clean, the black and red mayhap hid any mess that might’ve been. Gracefully unhurried—as if she hadn't partaken in anything as taxing as a butchery in a rainy, muddy jungle.

"Well?" One brow was arched in pointed inquiry as her gaze settled on Trick.

"…Bitter." Trick swallowed with apparent difficulty before sticking her tongue out, as though the act would’ve contributed on getting rid of the horrid taste on her tastebud.

Red’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Igris thought he heard her mutter under her breath, “At least she didn’t throw up.” Then, with a quiet sigh, she continued, “Didn’t you beg Mother to invest points into some < Devourer >’s skills for you?”

A picnic basket materialized in Red’s hand. She handed it to Trick.

"A < Devourer > can't afford to be picky." Red added, watching as Trick hesitantly took the basket.

When Trick lifted the lid, the scent of iron hit both Igris and Beru. The neatly packed cubes of raw meat inside were unmistakably from the magic beasts they had slain. Each piece was cut with surgical precision, their edges clean and uniform.

Trick wrinkled her nose, initially recoiling at the sight. But, as if she had a sudden light-bulb moment, her expression shifted. She turned around, scanning the area with renewed determination until her eyes landed on the sleeping duo under canopy.

“B—”

“Are you expecting her to cook for you right now?” Red interjected; her tone flat. “No.”

"Then–"

“Freeze it for later?” Red crossed her arms. “Sure, she could. Except the fact that it'll just be ordinary meat by then. The sooner you eat it, the more points you’ll gain. That’s the whole point of this exercise, isn’t it?”

"B-But—"

"Eat."

Trick’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and she complied, reluctantly picking up one of the cubes and placing it in her mouth. Her expression was dejected as she chewed, each bite taken with the exaggerated misery of someone enduring a punishment.

Chew.

“…”

Swallow.

“…hic.”

Red let out another sigh watching Trick’s display.

“…Have the garments been handed out?”

When Trick nodded pitifully in affirmative, Red plucked a cube of meat from the basket herself. The smell of burning wafted as the raw meat darkened and sizzled between her fingertips. Then, she brought it to the younger’s lips, and Trick took it gratefully.

"Better?"

Trick nodded vigorously as she chewed, her mood visibly improving. Red patted her head gently.

"Beru."

The shadow ant stiffened, mandibles clicking in surprise. He had not expected to be called. And yet, as her crimson gaze settled upon him, he swore—for reasons beyond his comprehension—that her eyes softened.

"Here."

Red snapped her fingers, and near Beru’s feet materialized several large stacks of... tupperware???

“We noticed the soldiers weren’t eating, so we took the liberty of saving some up for you all,” Red explained, gesturing toward the containers as she fed another carefully prepared morsel to Trick. “It’s only fair, considering most of the kills were yours.”

“We do not require—”

“I am well aware that shadows don’t require such sustenance,” Red cut in smoothly. “That eating is more habit than necessity. But we wanted to express our gratitude for the meal. It was also—technically—the first time some of us handled prep work. So please, it would make us very happy if you would accept our thanks.”

Beru hesitated before peering inside one of the containers. His antennae twitched as the scent of fresh meat drifted upward. True to her words, each was filled to the brim with neatly portioned flesh—cut into cubes, spheres, hearts, stars… even bunny-shaped pieces.

Igris, though remained silent, could not help but marvel too. When had the butterflies managed to harvest, prepare, and store all this without anyone noticing? A feat that bordered on the miraculous—or the terrifying, depending on one’s perspective.

Beru glanced from the containers to Red, then to Trick—who, upon feeling his stare, conspicuously turned away, still chewing.

After a pause, he straightened. “…On behalf of the shadows, I thank you, Madame.”

Red tilted her head but did not seem displeased. A faint smile ghosted her lips.

“Please send our regards to the others.”

She nodded once in acknowledgment.

Beru then turned his gaze toward Trick. “And you as well. Thank you.”

“…Hmph.”

Red shoved feed another cooked piece into Trick’s mouth with the same gentle care—ensuring that Trick didn’t start sulking again.

And so, Igris continued to observe. The way Red treated Trick and Beru—like children under her care.

It is… oddly endearing.

——oOo——

As the last vestiges of flesh disappeared into eager mouths, loose fabrics flowed like waterfalls. When the dark warriors merged back with their master of shadows, white tunics danced like packs of swans with the reemergence of kaleidoscope flights from behind. Thus, your newborns, ready to be greeted in your gardens—their home, joined their origins in kind and disappeared from the skies in dust of gold. Left in their wake, stark and gleaming, alabaster-white under the relentless rain—terrain of eerie beauty stripped bare of chaos.

"So..." Jinwoo cleared his throat, brushing rain-slicked hair from his forehead as the bags of essence stones disappeared into his inventory. "Is this something I should expect after every raid?”

He meant to say it in jest, an attempt to break the ice fell short when the beat of silence stretched, before you turned to him, your expression soft but distant, as though part of you was somewhere else.

“Sorry,” A fleeting gold, like light rippling through water. “Could you repeat that?”

Jinwoo’s gaze flickered briefly to the battlefield before back to meeting yours.

"...That," He jabbed his thumb toward the clearing behind—or rather, to what had taken place there just moments ago—with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do I need to get used to that?”

“You don’t have to,” You replied softly, gaze drifting to the desolate expanse. But then, in a blink, as if only just now waking from a dream, your brows knitted, a look more concerned for him than the situation. Meeting gazes again, a thread of worry weaved your voice. “Does it bother you? I can—”

“Wait, slow down.” Jinwoo interjected quickly, raising a hand before you could go down the rabbit hole of drastic measures—only you could come up with—if you thought he was truly disturbed. Measures you would follow to a T, no matter the inconvenience. He knew you well enough by now to guess, and the last thing he wanted was for you to overthink this.  “It’s just… new. Need a little time to adjust, sure—”

He'd long been desensitized to the horrors of this world. Keeping up with you had kept him on his toes more often of course, but who wouldn’t be at least a little shocked when those pretty little things displayed a primal side so openly that might’ve rivaled his shadows?

Systematic, elegant, and utterly ruthless.

Struggling to reconcile it with the image one had grown accustomed to—

You studied him for a moment, a quiet hum leaving your lips. “If it makes you uncomfortable, they don’t have to do it. They don’t need blood or flesh to function as usual, but… it’s more beneficial now.”

“How so?”

—and curiosity just won over in the end.

Your tone shifted to something more matter-of-fact. “For the younger ones, besides the extra exp to level them up, the bonus energy gained can make them more effective, stay active longer. As supports, you know the drill, but in terms of gathering information? They can further interact with people directly without being as quickly exhausted independent of me.”

Huh.

That’s useful.

Very useful.

As unsettling as the image of butterflies devouring raw flesh was, and the sight of human body made from the inside, the utility might be worth the goosebumps.

Other inappropriate uses aside—as far as his own shadows went, they were invaluable for protection and surveillance. But they weren’t equipped for subtle interactions. They couldn’t question people or coax out information—not in the way your butterflies apparently capable of at least.

As much as Beru’s value went, Jinwoo doubted anyone would open up willingly to a towering, insectoid figure interrogating them unless stated otherwise, or to any shadow soldiers for that matter, whether they could speak or not. Informed targets might not be ideal at times.

Fear was still a viable option, but he would rather not have his kids terrorize innocents.

Your butterflies, on the other hand, would definitely be more practical in extracting information if they could disguise themselves and blend seamlessly into society.

As for acting with autonomy—Jinwoo thought back to that time in the snow-land red gate and let a smirk tugged at his lips.

They’re persuasive alright.

They seemed freer also in the sense that they weren’t bound to other objects to move, with few exceptions but definitely still less than shadows were to his soldiers.

Imagine the possibilities.

Jinwoo was almost jealous.

All in all, his shadows were the perfect battle weapons, warriors, and guards. Yours? The perfect supports, spies, even informants.

How much more of a perfect complement could this be?

Speaking of...

Jinwoo’s gaze drift to you. His lips pressed into a thin line.

Should he ask you?

Should he attach a soldier to you?

Ah, so you don’t trust her after all.

The voice was insidious and sharp—like his daggers.

The pang in his chest was immediate and heavy—guilt?

I do, the heart argued, vehement.

It’s for her—

For her or for you?

Mocking.

Does she really need you to keep her safe?

Taunting.

You barely know who she is.

Then I’ll keep learning, to get to know her, properly.

Is that not just another excuse to keep her close then?

Ah.

All this time, still just scratching the surface—

He went through this before.

I want to know her (everything).

Silence.

"That's... convenient."

Really?

Jinwoo winced internally.                                 

Was that all he can say? Couldn’t he come up with a proper compliment? Even saying something along the lines of the lame-old “cool” would be better at this point!

Why was he such a mess in front of the one person he wanted to—

“Thank you.”

Oh.

Damnit.

Damn you, for how tender you looked at that moment, standing just within his reach.

Damn you, for those knowing and fond eyes, staring back at him.

Damn you, for how soft your lips looked in that smile, directed at him.

Fingers twitched on his sides.

Damn him, for craving you to look at him (always).

“Take the < Illusionists > for example.”

You lifted your hand to his view, fingers curled, holding something out of sight, “Not only do they gain more knowledge to reach perfect mimicry…”

A single cherry blossom unfurled in your palm.

“…the duration of their skills also lasts much longer.”

Before Jinwoo could process, you exhaled softly.

He was then bombarded with multiple blossoms, straight to his face.

“Pfft.” You stifled a laugh behind your hand at his widened eyes and slightly parted lips. What made the sight sillier in your eyes was the silver butterfly perched on his cheek, chiming—

“Good day, Sir. Goodbye, Sir. Have a pleasant day!”

—before going poof!

Jinwoo didn’t move.

On instinct, his mana flared—to sense, to analyze—but there was nothing. He couldn’t detect the signature presence illusions carried, the usual flicker of magic that would have clued him in under normal circumstances.

No.

For a second there, he absolutely couldn’t sense you, even though his gaze never left yours.

And that—that was definitely not < Stealth >.

“The < Devourers > and < Conversion-ists> are more straightforward.”

You continued, as if you hadn’t just—

“To sum it up, the < Devourers > gain more physical bonuses—strength, durability, and such. While the < Conversion-ists > receive more ‘recipes,’ essentially.”

Jinwoo swallowed. His hand twitched.

“Jinwoo?”

You reached out, fingers hovering near his cheek but hesitated at the very last second, merely a hair’s breadth away before your fingertips could graze his damp skin, when you saw how empty his gaze had become behind dripping raven bangs.

“I can’t…”

His grip caught your wrist before you could retreat.

You neither flinched nor pulled away.

“You just—!”

Vanished.

Like a g̴l̷i̶t̴c̸h̴.̵

Jinwoo’s jaw tightened.

His eyes—

They reminded you of the last few chapters of the manhwa. Building up his decision to bear the fate of the whole world on his shoulders, alone. The way Normal Selner had looked at him, realizing he had already succeeded. How the illustration depicted his irises as pitch black, swallowing all light with naught a trace.

Oh, please don’t make that face.

"Jinwoo…" You gently brought his hand—the one gripping yours so tightly you felt the joints shifting under—and his other hand to your cheeks.

"See?" You closed your eyes, pressing your face against his touch.

Yeah.

Jinwoo exhaled, slow, unsteady.

Then—he leaned in.

Your presence—you—against his palms.

Right here. You’re right here.

Until his forehead could touch yours.

And so, so warm.

——oOo——

{In illustrations, we could take creative liberties to depict our reality.}

{Whether it’s creating multiple aspects out of proportions openly or changing just a single, subtle enough detail, one reason is to clue us in on the meaning behind it.}

{So, I’m curious…}

{If I described the moment Jinwoo leaned in, the moment light returned to his eyes at your touch, your warmth—

The black in his eyes rippled.

Like ink washing away, the pitch dark gave way to stormy grey. Then lighter. Until—

Against the glowing hue of blue, at the very center of it all—

(you)

If you simply knew, if you simply saw how that light reflected, unmistakable in its shape.

A heart…}

{How would you react, ‘Trial Player’? ~}

——oOo——

“What were you thinking about earlier?”

“Hm?” You blinked at him.”

“When I first asked about the < Feast >,” Jinwoo clarified. “You seemed… distracted.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” You paused, gaze dropping. “Just…”

“Just?” He pressed gently.

“I can feel it,” Your voice was barely a whisper as your hand rose to your chest, resting over your heart.

“How happy they are.”

“‘They’?” Jinwoo asked, though he already suspected the answer.

"My children,” Your gaze met his then, and something in your expression shifted. The edges of your eyes softened, your expression so tender, so genuine, it took his breath away again. “Eating makes them happy."

“I’m happy for them,” you added simply, smiling so radiantly—

—so disarmingly, it almost made him forget the reality of your words.

Jinwoo found himself staring, wondering how someone could look so utterly beautiful in such unsettling context. Spoken of something so—objectively—disturbing with the way of tone so warmth, so truthful, so serene, that made it feel natural, made it feel... right.

And yet, he couldn’t look away.

And yet, he didn’t feel repulsed.

And yet… he was the one who felt strangely electrified—

No.

—Jinwoo was thrilled.

The hum of the gate beckoned, a low, resonant vibration that pulled you both back to the present.

It was time to leave.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [28/02/2025]

Double update? Double update. 😉

Thank you @eternadreeblissa for providing this chapter's surprise illustration! The version I put here is cropped a bit to bring out more focus on the eyes. I'll provide the full-version + the alternate versions ('cause all of them are too good to pass up) in this chapter's reblog here! 🙏🥹❤️

How do we feel about breaking-the-4th-wall segments, Everyone? Yea or Nay? 🤔

Beru, I love you, but your pattern of speech is killing me. 😭

Igris, you're a good boy. I'm sorry I'm making you that-one-tired-roommate-of-Beru's-before-Bellion-arrived. I'm also sorry if me bringing up your past—which I also took some creative liberties on in writing—dug up any past trauma for you. 🙏🥹

Trick is dramatic, theatrical, and fangirl all-in- one. Low-key female & human-but-also-not-so version of Beru? Hmm, maybe. Hopefully, I can make her distinct enough from Beru so their kinda love-hate dynamic that I'm aiming for won't be boring. 🫡

Guess which < Children of 'Trial Player' > took after (Name)'s motherly nature the most? That's right, Red. I guess not much surprise there? She's that-one-older-sister-who-mothered but is still her mother's daughter. 🥹❤️

On crack, JinwooxReader in this chapter is basically these:

{ —1—

Jinwoo: *Making up his mind about something-something deep related to (Name)*

(Name): *Making Jinwoo question absolutely everthing about his decision just a few seconds later*

(And this won't be the last time this happen.) }

{ —2—

(Name): *Starting to openly show her dark side, still just the tip of the iceberg*

Jinwoo: "I feel scared, but that's hot."

These two are going to get more and more fucked up the further we go down this AU. Jinwoo is still in the process of falling, while (Name) is already further ahead than him in that void, she just hid it very well. Funny thing about this is part of their dynamics in the future that I'm aiming for (for now, future subject to change) being like this:

Wife!(Name): "This Jinwoo is my eldritch yandere husband and I LOVE him. I won't change him for any version of him and I'm the only who can handle this him in the multiverse." (and she can, this is not a drill, the Rulers and the World Tree bear witness, she's saying this matter-of-fact and with well-hidden yandere-ish.)

Husband!(Jinwoo): "(Name) is my wife, my only one in the multiverse, and I will tear everything apart if she's taken as much as a step away from me. Don't even try. Can she still scare me? Yes. But she's the only one who can while also makes me horny 'cause it's her, my goddess, and I'm her first and only."

TP AU!Suho: "I love them, won't exchange them for any multiverse version of 'my' parents. But mine are definitely too fucked up."

(Wait until it's your turn, boy. You might be the same or worse than them)

TP AU!Suho: "...Heh?"

(Somewhere in the abyss of my very very ancient drafts, forgotten until I feel like digging them up:

Guide!Reader: *Safe and sound until—* "Achoo!")

TP AU!Suho's younger sister (placeholder name for now): "Hmm? I love my family🦋💀."

TP AU!Cha Hae-in: "Yup, this is my reality alright. As long as my bestie is here, everything will be fine. Kudos to my other versions that married their versions of my second dearest friend Jin and have their versions of my dear nephew as their child tho. Still won't change mine for anything, my number one ship have sailed and I'm not going anywhere as long as they're here."

The ¿System?: *Chilling with the butterflies🦋 and shadows💀 somewhere* 😎🍹 }

That's all, folks!

Feedbacks are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading. 🙏💕

[writingbluerose]

TWST DRABBLE #18

The distant jazz music could be heard from all around while you and the others walked on the pale-yellow cobbled streets. Admiring the traditional houses and gentle music, you were most grateful that Jade had invited you and Grim to this event ;

When he came personally to Ramshackle to invite you, you found it hard to say no, double hard since he was your boyfriend and all that. What you didn't expect was that he'd invited Rook, Riddle and even Malleus to come assist him. Didn't he say he only needed to fill Floyd's spot...? Well, you'd rather not ask him...

And that's how you ended up here. Jade was in the front, guiding you to the main spot of the wedding with the others behind him, you watching Grim and Malleus happily chatting “Ohh, a fish!” “Grim be careful...” But the cat did not hear you, he happily skipped after the fish not noticing the barrel that he soon ran into, “Ah look at that he went right into that barrel” Malleus' gentle voice had an amused tint to it, you sighed, “His fault for being a glutton all the time” “You should pay more attention to your surroundings Grim” Riddle's stern voice scolded him while he watched the cat sniff from the pain before taking a spot on your shoulders ; “I'm truly mesmerized by this place Jade, so did you truly grow up here?” The merman chucked “Here yes, but not on the surface, as you know I was born an eel so of course I had spent my childhood in the waters. But of course, me, Floyd and Azul were given a lot of training and lessons about how to live on land before we got our first transformation potion” “Is that so? — Malleus put a hand on his chin in wonder — to think you'd need to learn so much just for a potion...” Jade chuckled again before continuing his walk

After a while of walking, you finally arrived at the place. A beautifully decorated harbor with a wooden path heading to a boat decorated with a dozen of different white flower bouquets. At the beginning of the wooden path, a gate of the same material could be seen, decorated with beautiful pink roses accompanied by a white cloth that was slowly shifting in the wind. And of course, the main decoration couldn't be missed, a beautiful silk path with beautiful designs fit for the theme of the city you were now in “Jade this is amazing! I don't feel like I'm enough to go to this wedding, it's beautiful” Jade laughed and put his hand around your waist “Now don't be so modest my dear, I chose you to come with me for a reason after all” Jade gave you one of his soft smiles “Oh how nice, you're all here! I hope you didn't wait too long”

Suddenly, a smooth yet soft voice made its way to your ears, and turning around, you found standing behind you an amazing tall lady, dressed in a black dress with a hat that blocked the sun out of her face, a face that..., it looked oddly the same with Jade's... could it be—? “Ah yes, everyone, this is my mother” Of course! The resemblance is uncanny... “And who is this nice company Jade?” “These are my best friends from Night Raven Collage” Everyone's expressions quickly turned to surprised ones, since to be called a best friend by the Jade Leech? That was something else ( Malleus seemed quite happy at the title, his smile was quite giddy )

You laughed at his expression, not noticing Jade making his way to you. He gently took your hand and guided you to his mother : “And this, mother — he gestured to you with a smile — is my girlfriend” You blushed, embarrassed, before giving the woman a little wave, at which Jade chuckled once again “My, my, is this the little Shrimpy I've heard about from Floyd? He could never stop talking about how you have my son Jade over here wrapped around your fingers” Jade's eye twitched at hearing whatever his twin said to his mother, but kept his smile on anyway, “My name is Georgina Leech, it's wonderful to meet you dear” You gave her a small smile in return to hers “The pleasure is mine miss” The woman took your hands in hers and shaked them, making you laugh

This might be the best event you've been to yet

© writingbluerose 2025

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : fluff, kissing, fighting, injuries, blood, deaths, mentions of claustrophobia, vaginal fingering, PiV, nipple play, gladieus.

A/N : This is the longest chapter so far. A special mention for @anakinca who’s really involved with this story 🤗. Pay attention. Enjoy 🫶🏻.

•| ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴠ : ɪᴍᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴ |•

History is a river of blood, flowing relentlessly through the ages. To understand its currents, one must first pay its toll.

THE MOMENT YOUR SERVANT RUSHES INTO THE ROOM, breathless and pale-faced, you already know something is wrong.

“My lady,” she says, voice hushed but urgent. “The Emperor’s men are here.”

A chill runs down your spine. Your hands, steady moments before, feel suddenly cold. You barely have time to compose yourself before the heavy sound of armored boots echo from the entrance hall.

Beside you, Anakin stiffens. The tension in his body is immediate, coiling like a predator sensing a trap. He is still a fugitive—an escaped gladiator whose existence outside the Colosseum is a crime punishable by crucifixion. If the Emperor’s men find him here, there will be no trial, no mercy. Only death.

“Go,” you whisper urgently, turning toward him.

He doesn’t move. His blue eyes, sharp as a wolf’s, stay locked on the entryway as if he can already see the soldiers stepping through the marble halls. His hands twitch at his sides, ready for violence.

“Anakin,” you snap under your breath. “You have to hide.”

His jaw clenches. “Like a cowering child?” His voice is a low snarl, simmering with defiance. “I would sooner die fighting than slink away into the shadows.”

“You will die either way,” you say, stepping closer, lowering your voice to a whisper. “If they see you, you won’t get the chance to fight. They’ll drag you through the streets in chains. They will break you.”

Something flickers in his expression—pride warring with reason. His breath comes heavier, nostrils flaring, but he does not argue.

You nod toward an adjacent chamber, one hidden behind heavy curtains and lined with painted screens. “Stay there. Do not make a sound.”

He hesitates a moment longer, his defiant gaze searching yours as if trying to find another way. But he knows there isn’t one. With a frustrated grunt, he turns and disappears into the chamber just as the sound of approaching voices grows louder.

You take a slow breath, masking every trace of unease, and step forward to meet the Emperor’s envoy.

Cassius Metellus arrives with an air of quiet authority, his toga pristine, his expression unreadable. He is flanked by four armed guards, their golden lorica segmentata glinting in the sunlight pouring through the atrium.

“My lady,” he greets smoothly, inclining his head. But his sharp eyes roam the space, taking in the towering columns, the mosaics underfoot, the arrangement of fruit and wine on the polished table. He is assessing. Calculating.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Cassius?” You keep your voice light, feigning the poise of a woman who has nothing to fear.

The envoy smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. “I bring a message of goodwill from the Emperor.”

You incline your head, waiting.

He pauses just long enough to let the silence stretch, to watch for any flicker of discomfort. Then, with an air of practiced nonchalance, he continues:

“The Emperor has heard… whispers.” He picks a ripe fig from the silver tray beside him, rolling it between his fingers. “Whispers that you have taken an interest in a certain gladiator.”

Your heartbeat tightens in your throat, but you do not flinch. Instead, you let out a soft laugh, graceful and amused, as if he has just accused you of something utterly absurd.

“A gladiator?” You arch a brow. “Do you think so little of me, Cassius? That I would lower myself to chasing after men of the sand?”

Cassius tilts his head, watching you closely. “You have always been unpredictable, my lady.”

You smile, as though you enjoy the game. “And you have always been paranoid.”

He chuckles, but you can see the doubt lurking behind his eyes. “Rome is built on paranoia. It keeps the powerful alive.”

You step closer, tilting your head in mock curiosity. “And are you here to protect me? Or to warn me?”

Cassius considers this, then takes a bite of the fig. The rich juices stain his fingers. “I am here because the Emperor does not tolerate secrets. And neither does Rome.”

A flicker of unease prickles beneath your skin.

Cassius takes his time wiping his hands on a linen cloth before reaching into the folds of his toga. He pulls out a sealed scroll, pressed with the Emperor’s golden insignia, and holds it out to you.

“The Emperor extends an invitation,” he says. “A grand feast at the imperial palace. You will attend.”

His tone makes it clear—it is not a request.

You take the scroll carefully, feeling the weight of it in your hands. Your mind races. The Emperor knows something. Maybe not everything, but enough to suspect. Enough to watch.

“I am honored,” you say smoothly, slipping the scroll into the folds of your gown.

Cassius smiles, but there is something sharp beneath it. “Good. I would hate to think you were avoiding the Emperor’s good graces.”

With a final nod, he turns on his heel, his guards following close behind as they disappear through the villa’s entrance.

Only when the door closes behind them do you let out a slow, measured breath.

You are not safe. Neither is Anakin.

The door had barely shut behind Cassius before Anakin stepped out of his hiding place, his movements sharp and deliberate. He was furious.

"You lied to them like it was nothing," he said, voice low but edged with something dangerous.

His eyes burned into you, narrowed in accusation, but beneath his anger, there was something else. A sort of disbelief, as if he had just watched you transform into something he did not recognize.

You met his gaze, your expression carefully composed. "This is how Rome works, Anakin. Lies keep people alive."

He scoffed, shaking his head as he turned away. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his breath coming heavier. He was pacing, his body tense with restless energy. A caged lion, too strong for the walls around him, too wild to be trapped.

"And now you’re summoned before the Emperor?" His voice was harsher now, tinged with something dangerously close to fear. "Do you think he doesn’t know? That this is just a simple feast?"

You said nothing. Because, of course, you knew. The Emperor was not a man who sent invitations without reason.

Anakin exhaled sharply through his nose, his frustration only growing. He hated this. Hated the politics, the games, the feeling of power slipping through his fingers. He had spent his life fighting with steel and strength, where everything was simple—kill or be killed. This was different. Here, he could do nothing.

"You should leave Rome," he said suddenly.

You frowned. "What?"

"Leave," he repeated, stepping toward you. "If the Emperor suspects you, he won’t stop until he has what he wants. Run before it’s too late."

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "And go where?"

He was silent. He had no answer.

"This is my home," you said. "I don’t run."

He studied you for a long moment, his jaw tight, something unreadable flickering across his face. You could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating, pressing between you.

But then, he turned away again, shoulders rigid, and said nothing more.

The past week had been a test of patience—for both of you.

Anakin, stubborn as ever, refused to rest properly, refused to talk, refused to do anything but glare at the walls of the small home he now found himself in. And you, just as relentless, refused to leave him alone.

You tried everything. Soft words, quiet companionship, even shared meals, but nothing cracked his defenses. So you resorted to something much more effective: pestering him into submission.

If he went to sharpen his gladius, you sat beside him and talked. If he took his bandages off too soon, you scolded him like a worried wife. If he tried to disappear for hours, you followed him.

It was somewhere between your teasing remarks and your exaggerated sighs that he finally snapped.

"Gods above, do you ever stop talking?"

You grinned at his frustration. "Do you ever start?"

That was when he shoved you—hard enough to send you tumbling into the mud just outside the house, the wet earth splattering across your tunic and arms.

You gasped, sitting up slowly, blinking as the dirt dripped from your hair.

Anakin stood above you, arms crossed, his face locked in a cold mask—except for the telltale twitch at the corner of his lips. He was trying not to laugh.

Your glare could have withered a field of wheat. "You brute!"

The twitch deepened. His shoulders tensed as he fought against the inevitable, but then—

A breath. A snort. A deep, belly-deep chuckle that turned into a full, rich laugh.

It was the first real sound of life you'd heard from him since you'd brought him here. And despite your humiliation, you felt warmth spread through your chest at the sight of him, head tilted back, golden under the sun, laughing like he hadn't in years.

You couldn't even be mad.

The morning air was warm, carrying the scent of wildflowers and fresh earth. You stood beside your horse, running a brush through its sleek coat, murmuring softly as the creature shifted beneath your touch. The quiet was peaceful, almost sacred, a moment of stillness before the day truly began.

And then—

“You ride,” came a voice behind you, rough and abrupt.

You glanced over your shoulder to find Anakin standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Obviously,” you replied, returning to your task.

A pause. Then—

“We’re going.”

You blinked. “Going where?”

He snatched the reins from your hand, ignoring your question as he mounted the horse with ease. Then, without looking at you, he extended a hand.

For a moment, you only stared. It wasn’t a request—it was an order, masked in something else. A test, maybe. A challenge.

He was offering something, in his own way.

You took his hand.

The world tilted as he pulled you up in front of him, settling you between his arms. His chest pressed against your back, firm and warm, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your tunic.

Then, without warning, he smirked and spurred the horse into motion.

Wind tore through your hair as the horse galloped forward, its hooves pounding against the soft earth. The fields blurred around you, a sea of green and gold, wildflowers bending in the wake of your speed. The rush of it filled your veins, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You felt alive.

A breathless laugh escaped you, carried away by the wind. Behind you, Anakin chuckled, the sound low and pleased. His arms tightened slightly, fingers firm around the reins, but his body shifted in a way that told you he was watching you—watching the way your eyes shone, the way your lips curled with exhilaration.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no fear. No running, no fighting, no past pressing down on your shoulders. There was only this—freedom, the open sky, the man behind you, and the way your heart soared.

"You like that, little one ?" he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

You couldn’t answer. You were too busy soaking in the moment, too caught up in the rush of it all—the world spinning, his breath against your skin, the sheer joy of being alive for once in your long lifetime.

Eventually, the horse slowed, its gallop easing into a steady trot before coming to a stop near the crest of a hill. You both sat there for a moment, catching your breath, the quiet stretching between you.

Then, slowly, you turned your head to look at him.

He was already looking at you.

Something passed between you, something unspoken but undeniable. You both knew what this was. What it had been building to.

Your fingers found the edge of his tunic, gripping lightly as you leaned in. His breath fanned across your lips, his eyes half-lidded, dark with something dangerous, something wanting.

And then you kissed him.

It was soft at first—hesitant, searching—but the moment he responded, everything shifted. His lips moved against yours, slow and deep, as if savoring the moment. A sigh escaped you, melting into him as his hands settled on your waist, fingers tightening just enough to make you shiver.

When you pulled away, he was smiling. Not his usual smirk, not a grin filled with arrogance or challenge—a real smile. Honest. Unburdened.

You barely had a moment to register it before he suddenly gripped your waist and lifted you off the horse.

Your feet barely touched the ground before he tackled you down, rolling you into the grass with a firm, playful shove.

A surprised yelp left your lips as you hit the earth, the scent of crushed flowers filling your lungs.

And then—he laughed.

A real, full-bodied laugh, rich and warm, spilling from his lips like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

You stared up at him, breathless, heart pounding, feeling something fragile and terrifying take root in your chest.

Your Anakin. Yours.

Everything was fine.

For now.

You’re still catching your breath, cheeks flushed and hair tousled from the tumble into the wildflowers, when Anakin sits back on his heels, something unreadable in his gaze.

He reaches out, plucking a flower from the tangled grass—a cymbal flower, its pale purple petals delicate between his fingers. He twirls it once, then holds it out to you.

You take it, brow arching. “You’re giving me a Ruins of Rome?”

He tilts his head. “A what?”

“That’s what people call them,” you say, rolling the fragile stem between your fingers. “They grow where Rome has crumbled. Among broken stones and lost things.”

Anakin hums, glancing at the wildflowers that sway around you both. “Then it makes sense.”

You look at him, waiting for the smirk, the teasing remark—but he only studies the flower, his expression quiet.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, rougher. “You’ve ruined me, you know.”

Your breath catches slightly, fingers stilling against the petals.

He exhales sharply, like the words are slipping past his defenses before he can stop them. “You break down everything I thought I was. I don’t know if I should hate you for it, or—” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

The silence stretches. The wind moves through the grass, rustling through the ruins in the distance.

You swallow, heart hammering. “And this flower?” you ask softly. “You’re giving it to me because…?”

His jaw tenses. He hesitates, then meets your gaze. “Because it reminds me of you.”

Your chest tightens, heat creeping up your neck. He’s watching you too intently now, too openly, like he’s laid himself bare and doesn’t know whether he regrets it yet.

The weight of his words lingers, thick and heavy between you. You don’t know what to say, don’t know what to call this, whatever it is. So instead, you bring the flower to your lips, letting its petals brush against your mouth before tucking it carefully into your hair.

Anakin’s eyes darken slightly at the sight, but he only huffs a breath, shaking his head. He leans back, hands bracing against the earth, and looks up at the sky. “You’re impossible,” he mutters.

You smirk. “And yet, here you are.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. And for now, that’s enough.

Anakin leans back on his hands, gaze lifting to the sky as if searching for something in the endless stretch of blue. You watch him for a moment, then ask, “Do you love the sky?”

His brow furrows slightly, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“The sky,” you repeat, tilting your head. “You look at it like it holds something for you. Do you love it?”

Anakin exhales through his nose, glancing at you sideways. “It’s just the sky.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You never let anything go, do you?”

You shrug, plucking at the grass beside you. “Maybe not. So? Do you love it?”

His gaze drifts upward again, something distant in his expression. “I don’t know if ‘love’ is the right word,” he admits. “But I’ve always felt… drawn to it.”

Your fingers still. “Because of your name?”

Anakin turns his head toward you, his expression unreadable. “Skywalker,” you say, testing the name on your tongue. “It sounds like someone who belongs to the sky. Did you ever think that maybe you were meant for it?”

His jaw tenses slightly, eyes narrowing. “I was never meant for anything.”

The bitterness in his tone is unexpected, sharp enough to sting. You press your lips together, watching as he looks away. The moment stretches, the ruins silent around you.

Finally, he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not my real name,” he mutters.

Your breath catches. “What?”

His fingers tighten against his jaw before he drops his hand, meeting your gaze. “It’s not the name I was born with.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “Then where did it come from?”

Anakin looks back at the sky, his expression unreadable. “Someone gave it to me,” he says finally. “A long time ago. I don’t remember who.”

Something about the way he says it makes you realize he won’t tell you more—not yet. And for some reason, that makes your chest ache.

So you don’t press. You just lean back beside him, staring up at the sky he cannot love.

For a long while, Anakin doesn’t speak. He just watches the sky, something heavy in his gaze. You don’t push. You wait.

Then, finally—softly—he says, “My father was a Roman.”

You blink, turning to look at him. It’s the first time he’s spoken of his family. He doesn’t meet your gaze, eyes still lost in the sky.

“A general,” he continues. “Maximus.” His jaw clenches around the name, as if it tastes like iron. “He married my mother, Shmi. She was Iberian.”

You stay silent, letting him speak at his own pace.

“He left when I was seven,” Anakin says. “For war. Told me I’d see him again when Rome was finished with him.” A bitter smile ghosts over his lips. “He never came back.”

Your stomach tightens.

“My mother and I lived on the family estate. It wasn’t much—just land, crops, a few horses. She worked hard to keep it going.” He exhales through his nose. “Then, when I was nine, the soldiers came.”

His voice hardens, but there’s no anger—just a distant, hollow weight.

“They burned everything,” he says. “Killed the workers, the animals. My mother.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t know why,” he murmurs. “Maybe they were meant to kill me, too. Maybe they thought I wasn’t worth the effort.” His fingers tighten in the grass. “But they left me there, alone.”

You swallow. The thought of him—small, broken, left behind in the ruins of his home—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.

“I don’t remember how long I stayed there,” Anakin admits. “I must’ve wandered. The next thing I knew, I was in chains, bound for Rome.” His lips curl slightly, self-mocking. “I barely spoke Latin back then. Didn’t understand a damn thing anyone said.”

Your throat feels tight.

“The Colosseum has been my home ever since.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. He looks at you then, meeting your gaze for the first time. There’s no sadness in his eyes. No vulnerability. Only the quiet, relentless steel of a man who has survived.

You don’t know what to say. What could you possibly say?

So instead, you reach for his hand, resting your fingers over his knuckles. A silent gesture. A quiet offering.

Anakin looks at your hand, at your touch. He doesn’t move for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he turns his palm upward and curls his fingers around yours.

The thought settles heavily in your mind—was there ever a life where Anakin Skywalker was meant to be happy? Or was he always destined to walk through the world with loss clinging to his heels like a shadow?

In every story, every world, does he always suffer?

Your chest tightens. You don’t think. You just move.

You slip your arms around him, pressing yourself against his warmth. At first, he stiffens—a reflex, the instinct of a man not used to softness, to comfort given without reason. But then, slowly, he exhales, his body loosening just slightly beneath your touch.

You say nothing. You don’t tell him you’re sorry, because you know he doesn’t want pity. You don’t tell him he’s not alone, because you don’t know if that’s even true. You just hold him, hoping he understands.

His breath ghosts against your shoulder. For a moment, just one, he leans into you.

Then, almost reluctantly, he pulls back.

His hands remain on your waist, his gaze searching yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something raw, hesitant, like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, unsure if he wants to fall.

“You’re strange,” he murmurs. His voice is quieter than usual, rough at the edges. “You shouldn’t care.”

You meet his eyes and answer honestly. “But I do.”

Something flickers across his face. He doesn’t speak again. He just watches you, like he’s trying to figure out what to do with you, with whatever this is between you.

But then, as if catching himself, he exhales sharply and releases his hold on you, stepping back. “Come on,” he mutters, looking away. “It’s getting late.”

He turns, walking ahead.

But you don’t miss the way his fingers brush absently over his arm—the same place where your touch had lingered just moments before.

The villa felt too quiet that night.

You sat in your chamber, the invitation from the Emperor resting on the table beside you. You had not touched it since Cassius placed it in your hands. It sat there, like a weight, like something inevitable.

Outside, the air was thick with heat, the city beyond your walls still alive with distant voices and the faint sound of a lyre playing somewhere in the night. But within the villa, something was… wrong.

The usual murmur of servants had faded. The distant noises of Rome felt muted. The silence was not peaceful—it was unnatural. Stifling.

Anakin felt it before you did.

He had refused to sleep, his body still thrumming with frustration from your earlier conversation. He sat in the shadows of the courtyard, his fingers running absently over the hilt of a stolen gladius, his mind restless.

Then—he felt it.

A shift in the air.

A scent—iron and sweat.

Steel.

His eyes snapped to the shadows along the rooftop just as the first whisper of movement came.

Instinct took over.

The assassin struck from the darkness, a blade flashing toward his throat.

Anakin moved without thinking, dodging just in time. The dagger sliced the air where his neck had been a heartbeat before. In the same motion, he grabbed the attacker’s wrist, twisting it with brutal force until the bone snapped.

The man let out a strangled cry, but Anakin was already moving. He grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into a marble column. The sickening crack of bone rang through the night.

Then—silence.

For a moment, he thought it was over. But then, out of the darkness, more figures spilled into the courtyard.

From the rooftops, from the open windows.

There were too many.

Anakin’s grip tightened around his sword. His breath came steady, his pulse quickening. He had fought battles before. He had faced death a thousand times.

But something told him this was different.

Because tonight, they weren’t just here for him.

The moment the first body hit the ground, you knew this wasn’t an assassination—it was a capture.

The assassins did not strike to kill. Their movements were precise, coordinated, meant to subdue, not to slaughter. Their weapons glinted in the dim light, curved and barbed, designed to wound just enough to weaken. Some lunged for Anakin, ropes and chains glinting in their hands, while others fanned out to block your exits. They wanted him alive.

For what, you didn’t know.

Anakin fought like a man possessed. But no—this was not the polished brutality of a gladiator, not the honed skill of a soldier drilled in formations and rules. This was something older, something raw and violent, something unshackled from discipline.

He moved before his attackers could react. His body was a blur of motion—ducking, twisting, striking with deadly efficiency. One assassin lunged, a dagger arcing toward his ribs, but Anakin caught his wrist, twisted hard enough to make bone snap, and wrenched the blade from his grip. In the same breath, he turned the stolen weapon against another, driving it up beneath his ribs.

Another came from behind, but Anakin was already moving, shifting his weight to slam his elbow into the attacker’s throat before spinning and disarming a third in a single brutal movement.

It was chaos. And yet, for him, it was natural.

A shadow moved in your periphery.

You barely had time to react before a blade slashed toward you. You twisted, the cold kiss of steel grazing your arm. The assassin snarled, already lunging again, but your hand found the iron poker by the brazier. You swung it with all your strength. The iron connected with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending the man stumbling back.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Another attacker rushed you, and you turned the poker in your hands, jabbing the burning-hot end forward. It met flesh, and the cultist howled, staggering back, clutching at his seared face.

Across the room, Anakin moved like a storm. His breath came fast and ragged, but he did not slow. He wrenched a blade free from a fallen body, spun, and drove it into another’s throat.

For a moment, silence.

Then—the sound of more footsteps.

From the hallways. The courtyard. The very walls of the villa.

Anakin wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving. He turned to you, jaw tight, eyes burning with something violent.

“We’re surrounded,” he growled.

The sight of him should have been terrifying.

Blood painted his skin in dark streaks, some of it his, most of it not. His tunic was torn, exposing the hard lines of his chest and arms, glistening with sweat. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, the rise and fall of his ribs betraying the force of his exertion.

And yet—you could not look away.

There was something devastating about him like this. A creature of war, untamed and unyielding. His golden curls were damp, sticking to his forehead, a stark contrast to the violence surrounding him. His eyes—sharp and searing—flashed beneath the flickering lamplight, full of something both primal and intoxicating.

You swallowed, pulse traitorous.

He turned his head slightly, catching your stare, and something in his expression shifted. His lips curled into something dark, something knowing.

“What?” His voice was rough, breathless, almost mocking.

You should have looked away. You should have focused on the battle, on the men regrouping outside your doors, on the very real danger pressing in from all sides.

Instead, you held his gaze and, with the barest hint of a smirk, said, “Nothing.”

His grin was sharp, breathless, almost feral.

Lies. You both knew it.

Anakin took a step closer, bloodied and breathless, his voice low and edged with something wicked.

“Liar,” he murmured, his lips barely ghosting the space between you. His breath was warm, laced with the copper tang of blood and the heat of battle. “You’re staring at me like you want me to pin you against that wall.”

His fingers brushed your waist—just a fleeting touch, barely there—but it sent a slow, burning ache curling through your stomach.

His smirk deepened as he leaned in, voice a rasp against your ear.

“Careful, little one,” he whispered. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might just give you what you want.”

The stone doorway groaned as you forced it open, revealing a passage shrouded in dust and shadows. Without hesitation, you grabbed Anakin’s wrist and pulled him inside, your breath unsteady as you pushed the heavy door shut behind you. The scent of damp earth and old stone filled your lungs, thick with the weight of centuries.

Anakin turned, his blue eyes flickering in the dim light of the single torch you had managed to grab before descending. “What the hell is this?” he muttered, his voice low, reverberating against the narrow walls. His body was still taut with the remnants of battle, his bloodied hands flexing instinctively, ready for another fight.

“An old escape route,” you murmured, brushing cobwebs from your path. “One I never thought I’d have to use.”

The passage sloped downward, uneven steps slick with moisture, carved long ago by hands now turned to dust. You moved quickly, feeling the walls for support, knowing every turn, every hidden drop. This tunnel had once belonged to priests, smugglers, the forgotten ones of Rome—those who moved in whispers beneath the city's grandeur.

Anakin followed, silent but wary. His presence behind you was palpable, a force of heat and breath and barely contained tension. “You have secret tunnels beneath your villa?” he finally asked, voice laced with disbelief.

You cast a glance over your shoulder, the torchlight catching the sharp angles of his face. “Rome is built on layers, Anakin. The past never truly disappears.”

He huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. “You’re full of riddles.”

You didn’t answer. Not when you could still hear the faint echoes of movement above—the cultists searching, their boots striking marble floors. If they realized where you had gone, if they found the entrance…

You forced yourself to move faster. The tunnel grew narrower, the air cooler. Your fingers grazed the carved markings on the walls—symbols of gods long forsaken, prayers whispered in the dark. The weight of history pressed against you, heavy, suffocating.

Anakin was quiet behind you, but you could feel his unease. He had fought his way through blood and chaos only minutes ago, and now he was descending into the underbelly of a city he barely understood, following a woman who seemed to know more than she should.

“How far does this go?” he asked, his voice softer now, edged with something unreadable.

You don’t answer because the moment your feet touch the damp stone of the tunnels, you hear it—footsteps, distant but unmistakable. First above, faint and hurried, then below.

The cultists know about the tunnels.

Your pulse spikes. They are already inside.

You barely turn to warn Anakin when his fingers close around your wrist, rough and unyielding. Then he’s pulling you forward, his pace relentless. You don’t protest. There’s no time.

The tunnel is a winding, suffocating labyrinth beneath Rome, carved by hands long dead, its purpose shifting over the centuries—temples turned to catacombs, catacombs turned to escape routes. But now, the narrow stone veins of the city have become a trap.

The air is damp, thick with the scent of wet earth and old prayers. Your sandals slap against the uneven ground, the echo of your steps colliding with the frantic rhythm of the ones chasing you.

Anakin’s grip is iron, his strides long, unyielding. He moves like an animal that has survived too many hunts, his body tense with the knowledge that running is not cowardice—it is survival.

The tunnel forks. You hesitate for a breath too long, but Anakin doesn’t. He yanks you left.

You nearly stumble.

Behind you, the cultists follow. Closer now. Their footsteps are lighter than yours, trained for this kind of pursuit.

The passage ahead tightens, forcing you both to slow. The walls narrow, rough-hewn stone scraping your arms as you push through. The floor tilts downward—slick, uneven. Your torch flickers wildly as you plunge into deeper darkness.

A sudden dead end. No— not an end. A gap. A narrow crevice, just wide enough for a body to squeeze through.

You hear the footsteps gaining.

Anakin doesn’t hesitate. He presses through the crack first, his body twisting against the damp stone. His breath is sharp as he forces himself through, his muscles coiled tight. The moment he vanishes into the darkness beyond, you follow, chest flattening against the rock, ribs compressing as you inch forward.

It’s agony—slow, suffocating. The cold dampness of the stone clings to your skin. Your breath shudders out of you as you push forward, inch by inch.

Then, from behind you—voices. The cultists have reached the gap.

You don’t dare look back. You force yourself through, hands scraping at the slick walls.

Then—Anakin’s hands find your waist, gripping you, pulling you the rest of the way through. You stumble forward into a wider passage, your breathing ragged.

But the cultists are still coming.

You start running again.

The air grows thicker, the stone around you changing. Not carved, not built—something older. The tunnel opens into a cavern, wide and yawning. Pillars rise from the ground like the ribs of a beast long buried.

Then the ground trembles beneath your feet.

You barely have time to understand what’s happening before the sound erupts—rock groaning, splintering, shuddering.

The cultists are forcing their way through the crevice behind you—too many bodies pressing into a space too narrow.

And then—

A crack like thunder.

The ceiling buckles.

A deafening roar as stone crashes down, dust exploding into the air. You throw up an arm, stumbling back as the tunnel behind you collapses, swallowing the passage in a cloud of debris.

The sound fades. Silence.

Then—only your ragged breaths.

You and Anakin are alone.

But you are also trapped.

The dust from the collapse still clings to your throat, thick and dry as you press a hand to your chest, forcing air back into your lungs. The cavern is silent now, the only sound the unsteady rhythm of your breaths and the distant echo of dripping water.

Anakin leans against the rough stone wall, his body rigid with tension. Blood trails from a fresh gash on his arm, carving a dark path down his skin. He exhales sharply, his gaze flicking from you to the sealed-off tunnel, jaw tightening.

“We’re not getting back that way.” His voice is rough, edged with frustration.

You swallow, steadying yourself. “No.” You shift your gaze forward, where the tunnel stretches into deeper darkness. “We go deeper.”

Anakin watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the flickering torchlight. The way his eyes trace your face, the way his fingers curl slightly as if resisting the urge to reach for something—there’s something weighty in his silence.

“You knew about this tunnel,” he finally says, voice low. “What else do you know?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you step forward, pressing into the depths of Rome’s forgotten veins.

—

The air grows colder the deeper you descend, thick with damp stone and the faint scent of something ancient. The tunnels twist and narrow, some passages barely wide enough for you to squeeze through. Anakin stays close, his breath warm at your back as you navigate through the maze.

Water glistens along the uneven walls, remnants of an abandoned aqueduct long forgotten by Rome. The city above is loud, vibrant with life and power, but here… here, the world is still.

Then, at last, you find it. A crack of moonlight, thin and silver, spilling through the slats of a hidden grate. The exit.

But it is high, wedged into the stone ceiling, impossible to reach without aid.

Anakin steps forward without hesitation. “I’ll lift you.”

You glance at him, hesitating. He’s bleeding, exhausted.

“I can climb,” you insist.

He scoffs. “You’ll slow us down.” Then, his hands find your waist, firm and steady. “Up.”

You barely have time to brace yourself before he hoists you upward. His strength is effortless, his grip sure, and you grasp at the stone ledge, pulling yourself up. The rough edges bite into your palms, but you push through, swinging a leg over the narrow opening until you are crouched at the top.

Turning, you reach down. “Give me your hand.”

Anakin jumps, catching the ledge. You grip his forearm, straining to pull him up. His muscles flex beneath your fingers as he pushes himself the rest of the way, landing beside you. For a breath, you are close, his body warm from exertion, his breath fanning against your cheek.

Then, he steps back.

Without a word, you lead him forward, into the night air.

The temple ruins rise before you, skeletal remnants of something long abandoned, swallowed by time and neglect. Ivy climbs the worn pillars, twisting like veins over the broken stone. The night is cool, the air thick with the scent of damp earth.

Anakin leans against one of the columns, his body finally yielding to exhaustion. He doesn’t speak as you kneel beside him, tearing a strip from your tunic to wrap around the gash on his arm.

His skin is warm beneath your fingers, tense at first, then yielding as he exhales slowly. The torchlight casts his face in shadow, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the cut of his mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” His voice is quieter now, rough with something unreadable.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you press the cloth against his wound with careful hands, securing it. Then, softly, you whisper,

“Because you are not meant to die yet.”

The air between you is heavy, thick with something you can't quite name. Anakin, still leaning against the pillar, watches you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His breath is still ragged, his body bloodied and worn, but in his eyes, there's a fire that won't be quenched by exhaustion. His gaze moves from your face to your lips, lingering, before his voice breaks the silence.

"Why are you doing this, please little one ?" His question is low, barely above a whisper, as if afraid that the answer might be more than he’s prepared to hear.

You press your hand to your chest, catching your breath, still haunted by the escape through the tunnels, the chaos of battle, and the danger that still looms. "Just someone who doesn't want you dead," you say softly, your words a quiet repetition, but the weight behind them pulls at something deep inside him. The tension that builds between you is palpable, the kind that vibrates in the air, thick and intoxicating.

Before you can process the thought fully, he moves. It’s a blur of motion, a quick shift that has him closing the space between you in an instant. His lips crash against yours, hard and demanding, a stark contrast to the softness of his earlier words.

You gasp into the kiss, shocked for a split second, but it doesn’t take long for you to give in, to respond with equal fervor. His hands find their place on your body—one at the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other weaves into your hair, his fingers gripping you like a lifeline. The heat of his body radiates against you, the scent of him—blood, sweat, and something else, something raw—surrounds you.

His kiss is urgent, desperate, as if he's trying to find something in you, to make sense of everything that has happened. His body presses against yours, hard muscle meeting soft curves, and you feel the intensity of the moment settle between you, igniting a spark that neither of you can deny.

You try to pull back, to breathe, but Anakin’s hold on you tightens, and he deepens the kiss. “Don’t you dare...” He grunts, lowly. His tongue brushes against yours, searching, insistent, as if he wants to consume you. His hands move from your back to your sides, exploring the shape of you as if he's memorizing every inch. There’s no longer any space between you, only the tension, the heat that rises with each passing second.

You feel it, the clash of emotions, the rawness of the moment—fear, desire, something that feels like longing mixed with something far darker. He’s a man who has lived through violence, through hardship, and in this moment, he seeks something different. Something tender, something real.

But even as the kiss deepens, as the world outside fades away, you can’t escape the reality that this can’t last. The danger that follows you both, the web of lies and deceit that binds you, it’s all still there, pressing against your consciousness.

Anakin’s breath catches as your lips meet, a shudder running through his muscular frame. His hand fists in your silken hair, holding you to him as his mouth slants over yours, demanding and hungry. He kisses you like a man starved, like he's trying to devour you whole, to lose himself in your sweetness.

He breaks away, just slightly, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, his voice a low rumble. “Gods, you taste so sweet... like ambrosia. I could feast on you for hours and never be satisfied.”

His other hand slides down to the small of your back, pulling your soft curves flush against his hard, battle-worn body. You can feel every ridge and plane of his muscles, the heat of his skin even through the fabric of his tunic. His heart pounds against your breast, a steady, insistent rhythm that mirrors your own racing pulse.

Anakin’s eyes are dark as he stares down at you, his gaze intense and searching. There's a hunger there, a raw, primal need, but there's something else too - a softness, a tenderness that belies the fierce warrior exterior. It's a look that steals the breath from your lungs and sets your soul aflame.

Anakin breaks the kiss, his breath ragged as his hands move to the clasp of your toga. With deft fingers, he unties the fabric, letting it fall open to reveal the creamy expanse of your breasts. His eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight of your exposed flesh, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

"Exquisite..." he murmurs, before dipping his head to lavish your breasts with kisses and nips. His lips are soft yet insistent, trailing a path of fire from the swell of your breast to the sensitive peak. He teases you with feather-light kisses, his tongue flicking out to circle your nipple before drawing it into his mouth to suckle greedily.

Anakin's hands map the curves of your breasts, kneading the soft mounds, his calloused fingers leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. He rolls your nipples between his fingers, pinching and tugging, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

"Your skin... it's like the finest silk," Anakin rasps between kisses, his voice rough with want. "I could worship these beauties for hours and never grow tired." He punctuates his words with a sharp nip to your collarbone, soothing the sting with a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses.

"I thought you…worshipped nothing." You gasped breathlessly, wetness pooling between your legs.

Anakin's touch is electrifying, his passion fierce and consuming. He makes you feel cherished, desired, like the most beautiful woman in the world. Under his ardent ministrations, your body comes alive, aching and yearning for more of his touch, his kisses, his everything. The world outside fades away until there is only the two of you, lost in a haze of sensation and desire.

Anakin chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your skin. He lifts his head to meet your gaze, his eyes glinting with mischief and lust. "Oh, I don't worship the gods, little one. But I could believe in the temple of the flesh, in the divine pleasure to be found in the union of a man and woman." His voice is a low, intimate murmur, sending shivers down your spine.

To emphasize his point, Anakin traces the curve of your breast with a calloused finger, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "And right now, I could worship this temple, reverence every inch of your exquisite body until you're trembling and begging for more." His hand cups your breast, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "I could bring you to the heights of ecstasy, make you scream my name until it's the only word you remember."

“So you worship something, finally…” You gasped, arching your back. 

Anakin grins at your breathless teasing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Aye, I worship the goddess of lust, the muse of carnal desire that lives within you." His voice is a low, seductive purr as he leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "And I intend to make offerings to her at the altar of your pleasure, again and again, until the stars fall from the sky and the earth trembles beneath our feet."

His hand slides down your side, over the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip. He grips your thigh, pulling your leg up to wrap around his waist as he presses his body flush against yours. You can feel the hard length of him, hot and insistent, pressing against your core. He rolls his hips, grinding against you, and you can't hold back the moan that escapes your lips.

"Feel that, little one ?" Anakin growls, his breath hot against your neck. "Feel how much I want you, how badly I need to be inside you, to claim you, to make you mine?" His hand slides under your thigh, squeezing the firm muscle as he pulls you harder against him. "The gods may have abandoned me, but my body, my very soul, has never wanted anything more than to worship yours."

Anakin's hands begin to roam your body with purpose, his touch intent on preparing you for what's to come. He starts at your thighs, his calloused fingers kneading the soft flesh, working his way up to your hips. He traces the curve of your waist, the dip of your belly button, before moving to your breasts. He cups them gently, his thumbs circling your nipples, coaxing them to stiff peaks.

Leaning down, he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, your throat, the sensitive skin just below your ear. His tongue traces the delicate curve, his lips brushing your racing pulse. "I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with desire. "I want to map your body with my mouth, to learn your secrets, your hidden pleasures."

One hand slides between your legs, his fingers brushing against your most sensitive spot. He teases you, stroking you through the damp fabric of your undergarments, feeling the heat of you, the evidence of your arousal. "You're so wet already," he whispers, a note of awe in his voice. "So ready for me." He presses harder, rubbing in tight circles, his touch sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core.

His other hand grips your hip, holding you in place as he grinds against you, letting you feel the hard, thick length of him. "I'm going to fill you up, sweetheart," he promises, his voice a low, seductive growl. "I'm going to stretch you wide and deep, until you're trembling and begging for more." He nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. "Are you ready for that, love? Ready for me to claim you, to make you mine?"

Your breath still. "I was always yours, but are you mine Anakin ?" you replied softly, hands in his golden hair. 

Anakin stills for a moment, his hand pausing in its sensual exploration of your body. He leans back to look at you, his gaze intense and searching as it meets yours. There's a flicker of something raw and vulnerable in those sky-blue eyes, a hint of the man beneath the warrior exterior.

"Yours," he says softly, his voice rough with emotion. "From the moment I first saw you, there was something about you that called to me, that made me feel...alive. Like a piece of my soul had found its way back home." He reaches up, his calloused thumb brushing your cheekbone, his touch achingly tender.

"I've been a gladiator for so long, a weapon in the hands of others. I forgot what it meant to feel, to want, to need, to be at peace...until you." His hand slides into your hair, cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your silken locks. "You make me feel things I never knew I could feel, things I thought had been burned out of me long ago."

He leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own. "I am yours, sweetheart. Body, heart, and soul. I am yours to command, yours to cherish, yours to own." His voice is a fervent whisper, a solemn vow. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you, if you'll have me."

"I have you…I have you in every life…" you whispered, trembling. Tears started to pour down your eyes. You had him. You had your first love, your first everything, right here in your arms, after all this time. 

Anakin's heart clenches at your trembling words, a surge of love and protectiveness welling up inside him. Seeing the tears glistening in your eyes, he leans in to press a tender kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing away the salty trails. "In this life and the next, and the one after that, I will be yours. I will find you, I will love you, I will protect you." His voice is a solemn vow, a promise sealed with the fire of his devotion.

Anakin's hands grip the fabric of your dress, bunching it up slowly as he revealed more and more of your creamy thighs. His eyes darkened with desire as he pushed the garment higher, exposing your most intimate place. He could see the damp patch on your undergarments, evidence of your arousal, and it made his member throb with anticipation.

Without breaking eye contact, Anakin slowly slid a calloused finger beneath the fabric, brushing against your slick folds. He groaned at the feel of your wetness, your body already so ready for him. "Gods, you're dripping," he growled, his voice rough with lust. "So hot and ready for my touch."

He pushed your undergarments aside and slid a long, thick finger deep inside your tight heat, feeling your walls clench and flutter around the intrusion. "This is where I belong," he murmured, pumping his finger slowly, teasingly. "This is my home, my haven." He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you, as his thumb found your sensitive pearl and rubbed tight circles around it.

Anakin's other hand slid under your bottom, squeezing the firm globe as he pulled you harder against his hand, his fingers plunging deeper, harder, faster. "I'm going to prepare you for my cock," he promised, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "I'm going to make sure this sweet little cunt is ready to take every thick, hard inch of me." He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that special spot that made your toes curl and your body shake. "I'm going to fill you up so deep and good, you'll be feeling me for days."

Anakin's breath catches as he feels your slick heat clenching around his fingers, your body so responsive and eager. He can't wait any longer - he needs to be inside you, to claim you, to make you his in the most primal way possible.

With a low, guttural groan, he withdraws his fingers from your dripping core. Your whimper of protest turns into a gasp as he takes himself in hand, his thick, hard length jutting out proudly from his body. He notches the swollen head at your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what's to come.

"Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart," Anakin commands, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Hold on tight."

As you obey, looping your legs around his waist and locking your ankles at the small of his back, Anakin grips your hips and with one powerful thrust, he sheaths himself inside you. A guttural moan tears from his throat at the exquisite feeling of your tight, wet heat enveloping him like a velvet glove.

He pauses for a moment, allowing you both to adjust to the sudden intrusion, before he starts to move. His hips set a deep, steady rhythm as he begins to make love to you in earnest. Each thrust drives him deeper, stretching you wider, filling you more completely than you ever thought possible.

"Gods, you feel incredible," Anakin rasps, his breath hot against your neck. "So tight, so perfect, like you were made just for me." His hands roam your body as he loves you, cupping and squeezing, worshipping every curve and swell. "I'm going to make you mine, sweetheart. I'm going to ruin you for any other man."

He captures your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to dance with yours as he loses himself in the exquisite sensation of your body welcoming him home. Each powerful thrust drives him closer to the edge, but he holds back, determined to bring you with him to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

Anakin gazes down at you, his eyes roaming over your face, taking in every detail. Even in the moonlight, with the dirt and blood from their harrowing escape still clinging to his skin, he is the most beautiful man you have ever seen. The hard planes of his face, the sharp angles of his jaw, the fullness of his sensual lips - every feature is etched with a rugged, masculine beauty that steals your breath.

Your Anakin. Your man. The one you searched for decades. In your arms, safe. 

Your eyes rolls behind and when his mouth fiund yours, swallowing your moan, you dislocate. You don’t implode or anything but you decompose. A few pieces at a time. They fly off, into orbit, almost. A galaxy that is falling apart. A sumptuous annihilation, in slow motion. The seams that hold your wounded heart together begun to crack, one by one.

The morning light spills through the cracks in the ruined temple, gilding everything in gold. It stretches over the worn stone, over the tangled limbs and heated skin, over the way your bodies remain entwined even in sleep. For a moment, you could be mistaken for something eternal—sculpted by the hands of the gods themselves, two figures carved from ivory and shadow.

But even statues are meant to crumble.

Anakin stirs first. His breath is deep, slow, as his body wakes to the warmth pressed against him. His arm is slung over your waist, his fingers idly tracing circles against your skin. The memory of the night before lingers in his muscles—a ghost of pleasure, of possession, of something far more dangerous.

Then he sees it.

The gash on your arm. The wound from the fight in the tunnels, reopened in sleep.

And the blood—except it isn’t blood.

It gleams in the light, gold instead of red. Ichor.

The breath leaves his lungs. His entire body stiffens, going rigid against you. He blinks, once, twice, as if trying to convince himself he’s still dreaming. But no. The proof is right before him, seeping from your skin like a secret finally unearthed.

A strange sort of silence settles over him, thick, suffocating. His mind races through memories, through whispered myths and curses long since uttered.

Then, carefully, deliberately, he pulls his arm away from your waist.

The warmth between you vanishes in an instant.

You stir at the absence, a soft murmur leaving your lips before your eyes flutter open. The first thing you see is Anakin, now sitting upright, staring at you with a look you cannot place.

A look of betrayal.

The moment you feel the cold steel of Anakin’s gladius pressing against your throat, your heart lurches in your chest. His entire demeanor shifts, the heat of the night replaced by a cold, calculating anger. His eyes narrow, hard as stone, as they lock onto yours, and you know the warmth of the moment is over.

He pulls the blade away just enough to keep it hovering at your skin, the edge barely grazing your throat. The air between you thickens with tension as he searches your face for something—anything—he can’t seem to find.

"What the hell are you?" His voice is low, seething with an intensity you haven’t heard from him before. His hand grips your arm tighter, his gaze flicking down to the gash there, where the golden ichor is slowly seeping out, a stark contrast to the red you should’ve been bleeding.

You swallow, trying to steady your breath, but you can feel the weight of his gaze on you. “It’s not blood,” you murmur, unable to hide the truth. “I’m not like you.”

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes flash with a deep fury, and you can feel his anger radiating off him like a storm ready to break.

“What the hell are you, really?” He repeats, his voice now colder than before, tainted with the unmistakable sting of betrayal. The blade presses just slightly harder against your skin, and you’re sure it’s not from your words—it's from his own fury.

You stay silent, though it’s hard to breathe with the steel so close, the sharpness of it reminding you how dangerous this moment has become. Anakin's eyes darken as the weight of what’s happening sinks in.

"You're a goddess." His words are flat, disbelieving, like the very concept disgusts him. "You lied to me." He takes a step back, his grip on you loosening, but his gaze is still burning with anger, disbelief, and something colder—betrayal.

"I didn't lie," you say softly, trying to keep your voice steady. "I just didn’t tell you everything. I never meant for you to—"

He cuts you off, his voice rising with a growing rage. "You never meant for me to what? Find out you were some goddamned immortal? You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You think I wouldn’t see it when the blood isn't even blood?" His breath comes out in a sharp exhale, his body tense like a coil about to snap.

You try to step toward him, to bridge the space between you, but he holds up his hand, stopping you. "Don’t touch me," he growls. "You were playing me this whole time. You used me. All this time… and you never thought I deserved the truth?"

The words hit harder than you expected. You take a step back, struggling to meet his gaze. “Anakin, please, just listen—”

“Listen?” he interrupts, the bitterness in his voice almost suffocating. “Do you think I give a damn about what you want me to listen to? I despise gods. I’ve fought for my life, my soul, in a world that was made by them and for them. You think I’ll just accept this? Accept you?”

He’s pacing now, the anger rolling off him in waves. His fingers flex, the gladius now hanging loosely at his side, but the fury hasn’t abated. He looks like he might break something, anything, just to release the rage inside him.

“I was never supposed to be a god,” you finally say, your voice shaking, but your resolve firm. “I never wanted this. This wasn’t a choice.”

He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't care. All I know is you've been hiding what you really are from me. And I don't know what hurts more—the fact that you're not even human or the fact that I—" He pauses, swallowing hard as though the words are stuck in his throat. “I trusted you. I thought… I thought you were different."

You take a shaky breath, trying to control the heat building in your chest, the surge of frustration at his words. You never wanted him to know this part of you, but you never thought it would destroy everything between you. You can see the anger in his eyes, the walls he’s building now between you both. You don’t know how to tear them down.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t undo what I am. I can’t change what I was made into. I didn’t want you to know because I thought it would make you hate me.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. He steps closer again, his presence overwhelming. “You thought wrong.”

There’s a tense silence between you as you both struggle with the weight of this truth. The tension in the air is thick, electric, and for a long moment, neither of you moves. You both breathe, trying to process everything that’s just unfolded.

Finally, Anakin speaks again, his voice softer now, though the edge of anger still lingers. “I don’t know who you are anymore. But I know one thing… You’re not the woman I thought you were.”

Your heart drops at his words, the rawness of them sinking into you like a blade. But you can’t lie to him. You can’t pretend that you aren’t something else. Something he will never understand.

“I never wanted to be this,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “I never wanted you to see me like this. But it’s who I am. It’s who I’ve always been.”

Anakin stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “You better pray I can learn to live with that.”

Before you can answer, the stillness of the morning is shattered by a voice—deep, commanding, and almost reverent. It echoes off the ancient stone, reverberating through the ruins like a whisper from the past.

"Remus."

The figure steps from the shadows, his form tall and imposing, draped in dark, weathered robes. His eyes are sharp, piercing, and full of something dark—worship, fear, recognition. The Cult of Romulus, you realize, and this man is not just any follower; he is someone high-ranking, someone whose mere presence makes the air feel heavy with anticipation.

The moment the word leaves the cultist’s lips, Anakin’s entire body goes rigid. He freezes, his hand tightening around the gladius. His breathing hitches for a fraction of a second. His eyes widen, pupils dilating, and you can see it—something flickers behind his gaze, something painful and distant. His jaw clenches, and a deep shudder runs through him. The name cuts into him, like a shard of broken glass lodged into his chest.

"Remus," he repeats under his breath, the word tasting foreign and somehow familiar. It's a name that calls to him, but his mind won’t allow him to remember. It’s just out of reach, the memory elusive, slipping through his grasp like sand.

His chest heaves, and his eyes flash with confusion and something darker—fear, perhaps, or anger. He shifts his weight, as if his body is struggling to cope with the weight of the unknown. It’s like a wound, deep inside him, something ancient and painful. But before he can grasp the memory, before he can make sense of it all—

The cultist strikes.

In one fluid motion, the man lunges forward, his dagger gleaming in the moonlight with deadly precision. It moves faster than Anakin can react. The blade buries inside his torso, a hot, searing pain that sends a shock of electricity through his body. He gasps, stumbling back, but the cultist doesn’t stop. The dagger presses harder, aiming for his throat, for the heart—there’s no mercy in the strike, only a desperate need to see him fall.

Anakin’s world spins as the blade finds its mark, a jagged wound opening on his side. The pain is blinding, and his legs give way beneath him. His body crumples to the ground, his vision blurring, the world darkening at the edges. He tries to keep his focus, to stay conscious, but it’s slipping, like a shadow creeping over his mind.

His hand twitches, reaching for the gladius, but it’s too late. His fingers graze the hilt, but his strength fails him. The weapon slips from his grasp, clattering to the stone floor with a dull thud. He feels his heart slow, the blood pooling in his body, warmth draining from his limbs.

Through the haze, he hears the cultist’s mocking voice, but it’s distant now, like an echo from a place far away.

"Rest, Remus. The gods are calling you. It’s time to come home."

A scream. A loud thud.

The world fades into darkness, and the last thing he feels is your soft hands pressing against the wound—before everything goes black.

The past demands its tribute, and the price is always paid in blood. Only those who dare to bleed for it shall rewrite what was once written.

[amongemeraldclouds]

starry eyed

Tom Riddle never meant to feel affection. That warm, sickly feeling felt like indigestion and heartburn. An inconvenience. But Salazar, you had never been on a date. It was an injustice he needed to make right.

Tom Riddle x f!Reader | Based on this request | Fluff

✿ Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Tea Party | 1.9k words

It was just supposed to be another project. Tom Riddle expected you to just be another schoolmate who would let him do most of the work so he could have things exactly as he wanted. He never minded the work; enjoyed it, even. But he did mind having another student’s grimy fingers all over his carefully planned and skillfully executed projects. Just the thought of it made him want to cast crucio on whoever owned those grimy fingers.

Yet you managed to squeeze your way through his neatly arranged schedule. A row of clean lines and routines that made room for your squiggles and smiles. Literally. You had penciled yourself in his timetable “library with y/n for Astronomy project :)”. At least you had capitalized the A in Astronomy as all subjects should be.

That was how he first found himself walking towards you at the library. People respected him, was even intimidated by him. But you smiled up at him like you had been friends forever and he nearly doubted for a second if he was supposed to be there. He figured you were either naive, a lamb prancing into the lion’s den, or simply unbothered.

“Why did you invite me here?” He asked, placing his books across you in the library.

“Hi Tom,” you beamed, ignoring his question. “I’m doing great. Thanks. For a smart person, that sure is a silly question.”

He clenched his jaw and so you soldiered on. “We were paired together for the project so I thought we’d meet tonight to discuss. You may not be used to it Mr. Perfect, but I always help out with all my projects so like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

“Fine,” he breathed out quickly. “Just try to keep up,” he said curtly as he opened his books to discuss.

“Maybe you’re the one who has to keep up with me,” you said, unfazed.

But he ignored you and launched straight into the project details and his plans. Your eyes widened and you grabbed your notebook and pen. Tom’s mouth twitched and you imagined it was his version of a smile. He really was going to make it difficult for you, but you were up for the challenge.

You may have also had a crush on him, but that definitely had nothing to do with the way your heart was pounding in your chest. School could also be intense and exciting. Ha.

By the third written sentence, you managed to catch up and gather all the details he had in mind for the project. You asked questions about the plan and Tom was surprised you mentioned a minor detail he had not previously considered. It irritated him, but you had also managed to earn his respect.

The discussion had been a lot more engaging than he thought. Though it probably didn’t say much considering his expectations had been so low, it had melted with the lava down the centre of the Earth.

You tapped on the table lightly. “Now that we’ve accomplished a lot, it’s time for snacks!”

Tom blinked, not sure if he heard you right. “What are we to do with snacks?”

You blinked back. “To eat. So we can take a break from all the studying?”

“I don’t do breaks. My focus levels are perfectly fine,” he stated.

“This is why you’re so grumpy all the time! You don’t eat snacks or take breaks,” you slapped a hand to your forehead.

“Ah yes you have cracked the mystery. You now know everything about me,” he replied sarcastically and you snorted. If you hadn’t felt so tired, you may have spent some energy being embarrassed for your un-lady like behaviour in front of your crush. But you had your priorities straight.

“Try these biscuits I baked and I promise you will know all about joy and the wonders of the universe,” you offered.

“So it’s spiked?”

You looked horrified. “I’ll have you know my baking is magical all on its own.”

“It’s bad enough that I have to work on this project with you. If I go on this break with you, will you leave me alone to complete this project?”

“Maybe,” you said, scooping up your belongings and rushing out the library before he could change his mind. You inwardly cheered when he followed you.

Tom didn’t take any of your words seriously, but when he bit into the biscuit, the buttery goodness that melted in his mouth made him feel like he was coming home to a place he never knew he belonged to. Not that he would ever tell you.

“What’s your favourite astrological event?” He asked as he savoured the biscuit.

“I love meteor showers, though I’ve never seen one before. Imagine seeing a cluster of stars raining down the sky,” you said, after a moment’s pause.

“Don’t have to imagine, I’ve seen it before,” he said unimpressed.

Your eyes widened in fascination. “What did you wish for?”

He looked affronted. “I don’t do wishes, I make things happen.”

You slapped your thigh and his eyes followed your movement, making you blush. “How could you not make a wish? It’s like having a magic lamp and using it as a teapot. Where’s the wonder and romance?”

“Magic is a science, it’s why we’re here,” he insisted.

“We’re here for biscuits,” you declared instead and shoved another into your mouth. He inwardly smiled. Sure, if anything were to be magical the way you saw it, he supposed it could be those heavenly biscuits. 

He was sure that was the last time he’d meet you outside of class. But the very next day, he found your squiggly handwriting on his timetable again. “Library with y/n for Astronomy project + snack break :)” He sighed, but he secretly looked forward to the buttery biscuits.

You made good progress on the project as the days passed. Tom continued to be surprised by your helpful contributions. Sure they were unconventional and your process was far too scattered for his liking, but you came up with creative ideas and were equally as committed as he was to the project.

Tom suggested extra research for some information he wanted to include and you managed to read all the chapters he wrote down. All for the love of education. You were certainly not a girl trying to impress your crush. Nope.

The snack breaks were also not as miserable as Tom thought they would be. You got to know each other better and there was something strangely fascinating about you. Then there were those life-changing biscuits.

He sometimes found himself craving those buttery goods during his long hours of studying. The problem was that he could not get them anywhere else except from you. It didn’t help that you were nearly done with your project and would soon have no reason to see each other. That diabolical woman, he thought.

Something else stayed with him. On one of your snack breaks, you finally built up the courage to ask Tom about his dating life. He managed to deflect and turn the question around to you, but you didn’t mind. Hopefully you sharing would one day help him open up to you.

“What was the last date you’ve been on?” He asked and you watched in slow motion when he licked the corner of his lip to catch a stray crumb. You had to dig your nails into your palm to stop yourself from squealing.

Then you thought hard about his question. “What qualifies as a date?” You asked cautiously.

“Someone who likes you takes you out, preferably somewhere you like, and you spend quality time together.”

“Well,” you turned it over in your head, “then I guess I’ve never been on a date before.” You quickly added, “I have had boyfriends before, we just did things they liked and anyway, it’s no big deal.”

It had been days, but he still seethed at the memory. He was not one for romance, but even he felt indignant that all that sunshine and sweetness was wasted on boys who didn’t know what they had. That evening, he added you to his timetable himself. He was going to set things right.

“Are you sure you’re not here to m*rder me and take full credit for our brilliant project?” You asked as you followed Tom Riddle deeper into the woods. You hugged your coat tightly as the evening chill swept around you. The crickets chirped and twigs snapped below your feet.

“Do you think I’d announce it if I was? Besides, there’s no one around so you’ll just have to trust me,” he replied.

“I thought we were becoming friends,” you remarked.

“Never assume things,” he said matter of fact.

You gripped your wand tightly and walked on. He was right. You followed a boy into the woods at night because you had a crush on him. You cursed inwardly and vowed to make better decisions in your next life.

We’re here!” he announced. There was a clearing ahead and before you could ask what it was, he pointed to the sky. “Should be about now,” he commented. The next moment, you watched as stars glittered and rained down the sky. It was a meteor shower. Your eyes brightened, reflecting the glowing lights that dove through the sky.

“You said you’ve never seen one before and it just so happens there’s one tonight and this is the perfect spot,” he explained before you could even ask. He then asked you to make a wish.

“Only if you make a wish with me,” you said, looping your arm around him. You figured it was the closest he’d allow a hug. Surprisingly, he stayed beside you, letting you lean into him.

“Isn’t it enough to just watch this with you? You like it, don’t you?”

The pieces clicked in your head. “You said and I quote ‘a date was when someone who likes you takes you out, preferably somewhere you like, and you spend quality time together.’ Mr. Tom Riddle, is this your way of telling me you like me? Is this,” you motioned at the stars and around you, “a date?”

“What did I tell you about assuming things?” He deflected and pointed at the stars again. “They won’t fall forever, you know. Are you going to use this magical lamp as your teapot?”

Perhaps it was the shooting stars or the cold evening air, or being alone with the boy you liked in the dark forest, that made you bold. 

“What if you’re the only one who can grant my wish?” You gave him your brightest smile and Tom could read all the words you’d never speak aloud in your eyes. He shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips and he brought them down to yours.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle and you wrapped your arms around him, letting your body melt against him. He pulled you in closer, his arms strong and confident as if you belonged to him. He placed tender kisses down your jaw, moving slowly to your neck, and as you gazed up, you watched the last of the stars fall down the sky. 

The cold bit down your skin as Tom stepped back and you immediately missed his warmth. “You like me!” You beamed.

“How are you so sure I’m not just after the biscuits?”

You wrapped your arms around him, enjoying the warmth again. “I’ll bake you all the biscuits you want. Doesn’t change the fact that you also like me, which works perfectly because I like you too. You’re never getting rid of me now.”

Tom returned the hug. Not that he wanted to get rid of you anyway.

✿ Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Tea Party

A/N: Tom secretly liking biscuits is so adorable. A subtle nod to our tea party!

[bookwormjust]

Auntie's Heart - Part 1

(Azriel x mate reader)

The grand ballroom of the Night Court was alive with music, the soft hum of conversation, and the glitter of starlight filtering through the open skylights above. Nobles in elegant attire mingled across the expansive space, exchanging pleasantries and laughter, while Feyre and Rhysand gracefully moved among their guests, the perfect picture of High Lord and High Lady. You, however, had been given a different and far more enjoyable task for the evening: keeping an eye on Nyx. At just four years old, Nyx was the light of the Inner Circle, and you were his self-proclaimed favorite aunt. He adored you, following you around with boundless energy and trust. Tonight was no different. With his parents occupied, the little Illyrian boy stuck by your side, his tiny wings twitching with excitement as he explored the buffet table with wide eyes and an insatiable curiosity. You watched with a fond smile as Nyx grabbed a piece of food that looked particularly interesting—a delicate pastry stuffed with some kind of savory filling. He eagerly took a bite, but the moment it hit his tongue, his expression crumpled into one of pure, unfiltered disgust. “Blegh,” he whimpered, his small hand covering his mouth as his eyes darted around, looking for somewhere—*anywhere*—to dispose of it. But the room was full of nobles, and there wasn’t a napkin or trash bin in sight. His panic grew, and he turned to you, his big, tear-filled eyes silently pleading for help. Without hesitation, you knelt down to his level, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to reassure him. “It’s okay, Nyx. Come here.” You quickly glanced around, making sure no one was paying attention. Then, holding out your hand, you said softly, “Spit it out, sweetheart. Right here. I don’t mind.” His little brows furrowed in confusion, but he trusted you completely. Tentatively, he leaned forward and spat the offending food into your hand, relief washing over his face as he no longer had to struggle with it. You gave him a warm smile, brushing a soft kiss against his head. “See? All better. You’re fine, little star.” Nyx grinned, his wings fluttering slightly as he relaxed. “Thanks, Auntie,” he mumbled, his voice small but full of gratitude. Still holding the chewed-up pastry in your hand, you turned to Azriel, who had been quietly watching from nearby, his golden eyes soft as they lingered on you and Nyx. “Can you hold him for a moment?” you asked, handing the boy over. Azriel scooped Nyx into his arms effortlessly, the little boy nestling against him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Your mate’s shadows curled protectively around them both, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “I’ll be right back,” you said, heading toward the nearest trash bin to discreetly dispose of the soggy food before washing your hands. When you returned, Nyx was happily perched on Azriel’s arm, telling him an animated story about his favorite Illyrian training toy. Azriel’s expression was one of quiet amusement, his lips twitching with a rare smile as he listened intently. As you approached, Azriel glanced up at you, his gaze warm and filled with admiration. “You’re a natural,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. You shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s not hard when you love them.” Nyx reached for you again, and you couldn’t resist taking him back into your arms, holding him close as his tiny hands wrapped around your neck. Feyre and Rhysand might have been the rulers of the Night Court, but tonight, you felt like you held its most precious treasure in your arms.

[terry-perry]

Hey, I see you're looking for Alastor request to write him better.

Could I get Alastor x F! Reader where they're constantly flirting with each other until someone shouts just kiss already which takes Alastor off guard enough for the reader to sweep in and kiss him, then as he kisses back she gets dragged off to is room. The rest from there is up to you :)

Inspired by the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald

"Do you think I ought to bob my hair, Alastor?" Y/N asked the distinguished demon by her side as they shared a few drinks at the hotel's bar. Husk busied himself by wiping some glasses, refraining from rolling his eyes as the pair continued with this back-and-forth.

"I'd look rather darling with such a hairstyle, don't you think?"

"An absolute dream, my dear," Alastor responded, regarding her more intently than usual.

He wasn't sure what it was, but something about her was especially vivacious that night. Perhaps it was the way she seemed to make a bit of effort to be on his level for the dinner-dance the hotel was hosting to celebrate its grand re-opening. Like with many of the antics that go on in the place, Alastor stood passively by, subtly scaring those who came close to him.

Then he spotted her.

He liked how becoming the dark red dress she wore was and how It set off her unnaturally shadowy eyes. Let's not forget about the way her hair glistened so! It was almost like the stars were woven into it.

"You know, back when I was alive, having such a hairstyle would be considered immoral, sinful," Alastor remarked, shamelessly reaching out to twirl a few strands of her hair around his sharp nails. "It was a sure and easy way to attract certain attention."

She took in the way his eyes floated towards hers, but not before making their way up slowly from her legs. Had he been anyone else, she would've disregarded his remark with a brutal slap (perhaps with something worse if she were in the mood). But this was the Radio Demon she was speaking with.

She knew she had him right where she wanted him the moment she stepped in. If her attire hadn't drawn him in, then it was definitely all the attention she gathered from the other party guests who would offer to dance with her. Each one that would head her way with enthusiastic determination would have Alastor's eye twitch before he finally decided it was his turn to cut in.

After that, she was his and no one else's. After all no one would dare be stupid enough to steal the Radio Demon's dance partner.

"Well, it's a good thing we're in Hell then," Y/N said, going as far as laying a hand on the normally touch-aversed Alastor's knee. In this case, however, a glow settled almost imperceptibly over him.

Their eyes met completely, and they stopped talking entirely as they stared at each other. It wasn't until an irritated voice intruded on their space and made the glow fade away.

"For fuck's sake, will you two just get it on already?!" Angel Dust screeched from the Y/N's other side. "This was amusing for a while, but you've been dancing around each other all night. The party ended hours ago, and you still haven't even kissed yet."

An awkward silence followed this. Alastor looked at Angel, eye twitching once more. He wouldn't understand that a classy lady like Y/N deserved to be wooed properly. She's, no doubt, heard every practiced line known in this side of the Pentagram. And she certainly wouldn't react well to such bold actions like hot kisses and heavy petting.

Alastor opened his mouth to explain as much when Y/N grabbed a hold of his face and placed a big kiss on his lips. He would've been more shocked had it not felt like such blissful oblivion. It was better than any glass of rye he had ever drank. He kept a stronghold of her, his claws piercing the small of her back while his other hand took hold of her hair.

They eventually released one another, going back to looking at each other.

"Forgive me," she managed to say between heavy breaths. She kept her bold smile on as well as a tight grip on his lapel. "You've got an awfully kissable mouth."

And with that, the glow returned along with a desire to finish this upstairs.

"About fucking time," Husk uttered, watching with Angel the way Alastor dragged a giddy Y/N to his room.