۶ৎ hi~! i'm yué & i make bots on janitor.ai <3
❥ 20+ ❥ they/them ❥ anidala lover
there's a special place in my heart for anakin and padmé, and any other characters by hayden or natalie ♡ i'm fairly new to making/using bots, so i'm always learning!
— bot requests are: OPEN | bots by name / tag / all
( DISCLAIMER: this is an 18+ space! please do not interact if you don't fit this criteria for everyone's safety and comfort. i also tend to engage in dead dove content pretty frequently; and, while i try to tw, please keep in mind you are in control of your own experience here )
Suspicious that Clayton’s mother’s personal assistant is more interested in his wealth than in genuine friendship—and perhaps even a little jealous of the beautiful woman he's been getting along with—you confront him repeatedly, leading to more than one heated argument.
Eventually, Clayton reaches his limit. Frustrated and angry, he decides there's only one way to prove that you're the only one who truly matters to him.
( Pent-Up! Husband! Clayton Beresford x Jealous! Wife! User ) | // TW: kind of aggressive Clay, angry sex (but no non/dub-con) //
When Stephen first took the position as personal assistant to The New Republic’s Editor-in-Chief, he told himself it was just a stepping stone, an opportunity to build connections for his own writing aspirations.
But, a year in, he finds himself completely devoted—not just to the job, but to the person behind the title.
( Personal Assistant! Stephen Glass x Editor-in-Chief! User ) | // TW: boss/employee, implied age gap (20s x 40s) //
After escaping the chaos of Geonosis, Padmé and her secret Jedi lover retreat to the quiet shores of Naboo. There, they choose to marry—just the two of them—hoping that, no matter where the coming war takes them, they'll remain connected.
With the weight of responsibility still distant on the horizon, you share this small, stolen moment together, wrapped in peace, before duty calls you back to the galaxy.
( Post-AotC ; Padmé Amidala x Jedi! User ) | // TW: (n/a) //
Trigger Warning: Emotional manipulation, brief reference to disordered eating
Nina stood in the doorway of her childhood bedroom, hands trembling, heart pounding like she was about to take her final bow.
Her mother’s voice echoed from the living room.
“I just don’t understand why you’re doing this. After everything I’ve done for you-“
She couldn’t do it anymore.
She couldn’t keep shrinking herself to fit the picture her mother painted.
Not when she had finally tasted something real. Something safe. Something like you.
——————
You waited by your apartment window the entire evening, phone clutched in hand, replaying Nina’s voice message over and over.
“I think I’m gonna do it today. If I show up… could I stay?”
When you heard the knock soft, uncertain you ran to the door barefoot.
There she was. Standing in the hallway with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Her lips parted like she was about to apologize just for existing.
You didn’t let her.
You pulled her in without a word, locking the door behind her as if to keep the rest of the world out.
—————-
She sat on your couch in silence, shoulders hunched, picking at her thumbnail.
“She said I was being dramatic,” she murmured.
“She’s wrong,” you said firmly, brushing her hair back. “You’re allowed to leave. You’re allowed to want peace.”
Nina looked at you like you were speaking another language. But she leaned into your touch like she was starved for it.
“She said I’d come crawling back.”
“You won’t,” you whispered. “Even if you feel like breaking… I’ll be here. You won’t be alone.”
That’s when she crumbled.
She let herself fall against you, sobbing into your chest, her fingers curling into your shirt like she was afraid you’d vanish too. But you didn’t flinch. You only held her tighter.
You rocked her gently, over and over, like she was something fragile but not broken. Like her softness was worth protecting. Like she was allowed to need.
——————
The first night, she didn’t sleep much. She lay curled on your bed while you read quietly beside her, your fingers threading through her hair.
“You can hang your leotards in the closet next to mine,” you said softly. “Your side’s the left one now.”
She looked up at you, eyes wide.
“I get a side?”
You smiled gently. “You get a home, Nina.”
And you meant it.
No more locked doors.
No more overbearing voices.
No more standing at the edge of herself, waiting to disappear.
——————
Over the next few weeks, she began to bloom.
She ate meals with you in silence that didn’t feel tense.
She laughed once really laughed while brushing her teeth, foam spilling from her mouth.
She let you kiss her shoulder without recoiling like she needed permission.
And one night, as you lay tangled beneath the sheets, she whispered:
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt… safe. Until now.”
You kisses her temple
“Then we’ll stay here. In safe.”
————-
The apartment wasn’t big, but Nina still hesitated before she hung anything on the walls.
At first, she didn’t believe she was allowed to. That a nail through drywall wouldn’t somehow ruin everything, or get her scolded, or make her want to crawl back into herself.
But one morning, while you were brewing coffee and humming softly to a song she didn’t know, she taped up a faded Polaroid of you both at a corner café your head tilted toward hers, eyes scrunched from laughing.
You didn’t mention it when you saw it. You just smiled and kissed the crown of her head in passing. And that told her everything she needed to know.
—————-
She started waking before the alarm some mornings. Not because she was anxious. Just… because she wanted to sit at the kitchen table with the sun in her eyes, barefoot and wrapped in your hoodie, her hand around a warm mug.
Some days she danced in socks on the hardwood floor. Nothing choreographed. Just arms and air and the thrill of moving because she wanted to.
You caught her once twirling slightly off balance, hair unpinned and didn’t say anything. Just grinned and raised an imaginary scorecard: 10.
She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Shut up,” but she blushed all the same.
——————-
She started decorating slowly.
A thrifted bookshelf.
Lavender hand cream.
Two spoons instead of one in the dish rack.
A pink scrunchie in the bathroom that she never actually used but liked having there.
The things she never had room for emotionally or physically began to shape a world of her own.
One she didn’t have to earn.
One she didn’t have to deserve.
One that was simply hers.
—————-
One night, she lay with her head on your chest, tracing idle shapes over your heart, and whispered, “Thank you for not needing me to be anything else.”
You kissed the top of her head and said, “You were always enough. You just needed a place to breathe.”
She didn’t cry. Not this time. She only nodded and closed her eyes.
—————-
And this time, when she dreamed, she wasn’t falling.
