It started with a spark. Not the kind that fizzles, not the fleeting flare of a shallow encounter. This was different, deeper, older, hungrier.

He wasn’t looking for anything in particular,… just scrolling, drifting, existing in the haze of digital noise… until he saw her. Her profile stopped time, she radiated presence, not performance. Hair like an electric storm in deep water. Arms sleeved in symbols and sigils that felt more like warnings than decorations. Her eyes, even through a screen, held gravity, like twin eclipses.

There was no question of if he would message her, only when. And when he did, she responded, not with eagerness, but with an unsettling calm. The kind of calm that comes from knowing the outcome before the game even begins.

She asked simple things… told him to relax, to share. And he did. He poured himself into her space, not knowing he was already unraveling.

The Ritual Begins

She watched him with quiet amusement. Felt his energy shift each time she spoke. She didn’t need to chase him… he was already crawling, whether he realized it or not.

When the time felt right, she prepared the spell. Her ritual space glowed with low candlelight, crystals pulsed gently around her, attuned to her breath. On the floor she traced sacred sigils in silver chalk, each one humming with dormant power. At the center, she placed a dish of obsidian filled with galaxy dust. Shimmering powder made from crushed meteoric fragments, gathered over years and charged under eclipses.

She stood still for a moment, fingers dancing over invisible threads, and began to weave. Not with yarn, with will.

She carved a spiral in the air with her fingertip, trailing galaxy dust behind it in a hypnotic arc, then she whispered…

“By spiral thread and starlight breath,
I claim what stirs, I bind what’s left,
With dust of stars and thought of mine,
I wrap his soul in sacred twine,
His will, now drawn to my divine,
Addicted, aching, he is mine.”

The galaxy dust swirled as if weightless, catching flame-light in colors no human eye was meant to see. Then it vanished.

And far away, he stirred. He didn’t know why his skin prickled, why he felt flushed and dizzy. Why, when her next message arrived, it felt like a shot of warmth straight to the chest.

The Binding

She watched him change. The hesitation drained from his words. The offerings began, first in compliments, then in confessions, then in obedience. She gave him tasks. Small at first, harmless, or so they seemed.

“Write my name on your chest and wear it under your clothes all day.”, “Choose one object you own and dedicate it to me, it belongs to me now, even if it stays in your home.”, “Each time you say my name aloud, press your lips to the floor.”

He completed them eagerly, without question.. even when embarrassed, even when unsure, he did them. And each act pulled him deeper into her gravity. She didn’t praise him like a teacher. She didn’t thank him like a friend. She looked at him like a sculptor looks at clay.

“You’re not addicted to me,” she told him one evening, voice cool and low, “You’re addicted to the feeling of being beneath me. You crave the ache, the tension. That’s my power inside you, twisting deeper.”

He said he understood, he didn’t. But he wanted more.

Claimed

Now he checks for her messages like they are air. He tributes without prompt. He dreams of her without invitation. He wakes in the night with her name already on his tongue.

She doesn’t need to remind him who she is. Every thought he has is laced with her essence. Every time he breathes, it’s through the filter of her spell.

He belongs to her, not because she demanded it, because she decided it. And the galaxy dust, it lives in his bloodstream now. Silent, shimmering, permanent.