#cw implied imperialism

[tittletattles]

dont you hate it when you turn your sibling into a fish

made this in one week on impulse cmon man the song.................

[instant-delusions]

.·:*¨༺𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔦

wind pillar || shinazugawa sanemi × f! reader

cw! - sanemi behavior, smut (public sex, degradation, unprotected sex)

requests : open

nsfw under the cut

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

green fields, red roofs, a little path leading into a forest. little girls wearing cream colored yukatas while walking hand in hand, chatting happily. those little scenes pass you by quickly, as you sat next to shinazugawa sanemi on the infamous mugen train. it was quiet and empty, probably because of everything that happened here before.

ten minutes ago, sanemi and you boarded mugen train for a mission all the way in niigata prefecture. a snowy, mountainous region, which means excruciating work for your body. niigata - that's a long, three hour ride - obviously, you instantly claimed the window seat of your booth and with an exaggerated sigh, the pillar sat next to you, reading through some details of your mission. and since then, it's been unbearably quiet.

you met sanemi six months ago - mitsuri dragged you along to one of the hashiras drinking parties. obviously, she noticed you eyeing the wind hashira with a blush and instantly pulled you into the women's bathroom. "sanemi?" she sqeaked with a quick twirl, it's no use denying, so you nodded with a bashful smile. quickly, she filled you into his relationship status and gave you a brief overview of his character, "he's a challenge, (y/n). you're gonna love it, though, I know your type, he's that... times a million." with a new-found confidence, (after two peptalks from your friend), you downed another sake shot and made your way over to sanemi, who stood outside, smoking a kiseru.

"that's impressive" you commented, after he puffed out the smoke in a circle. watching it disintegrate into the night, he spoke "it's nothing. my dad, that wretched bastard, could do jellyfishes." turning to look at you, he gave you a lopsided grin. "don't have a good relationship with your dad?" you asked. that question painted the rest of the night, both of you drunkenly talking about your parents for hours, refusing to leave the inn.

the train stopped at the first station of your trip, thirty minutes have passed. you watched as the only other person in your wagon left and nobody else entered. "so it's just us two, huh?" you said, looking at sanemi with a slight twinkle in your eyes. he looked back, watching you blink seductively, and sighed, "what the fuck are you implying, (y/n)?". leaning back, he studied you, waiting for one of your annoying replies. "I'm just saying..." you started, voice barely above a whisper, trailing a vein on his muscular arm, "nobody else is here." you purred into his ear. quickly, you pulled away and turned your attention back to the scenery outside, "not like your would do it here" you added, waiting for him to snap. sighing, he shuffled closer to you, grabbing your waist, "you really think I won't fuck you on this train, bitch? I'd have you bouncing on my cock at the imperial palace, I don't give a shit." sanemi lifted you onto his lap, so you could feel his hardening cock pulsing beneath you, "bet you'd like that, whore, hm?" he pressed, you kept your lips shut, just slightly grinding against his dick with soft rolls of your hips. impatient, he grabbed your face, lowering you dangerously close to his lips, "I asked you a fucking question." you could feel the air of his words blowing against your mouth. "yes" you said, immediately pressing your lips against his. nibbling on his lower lip, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing him closer to you. slowly, he pressed his tongue through your lips, intertwining it with yours, as he moved his hands from your thighs to flip your skirt over, revealing your soaked underwear. "fuck" he rasped, you could feel his dick twitching through his pants.

as you busied yourself undoing his belt, sanemi peeked outside. fortunately, he couldn't see the next station, but decided to hurry anyway. "quick", he whispered hotly against your ear as you freed his fat, pulsing cock. you spit into your hand and began to jerk his girth, watching pre drip down, as he pushed your panties to the side, burying two of his fingers inside your wet pussy. instantly, he pressed his other hand over your mouth to muffle your moans and pulled his fingers, coated in your juices, out. "sit down, pretty girl." sanemi insisted and you wasted no time, navigating his cock to your pussy. feeling his head against your entrance, you sank down, biting one of his fingers to muffle your shout. although you're soaked, the stretch burned ; he filled you to the brim and you were sure he'd penetrate your cervix before your ass even met his balls. impatiently, sanemi pressed his hips up, to bury himself completely in the ecstacy that is your pussy. he wasted no time and started thrusting quickly, the noise echoed obscenely against the walls of the train, mixing with the rattling against rails. quickly, he found your clit, rubbing it in circles, while watching your tits bounce at his brutal pace. your juices dripped down his balls, onto the seat, while you drooled against his hand. as your pussy clenched and pulsed against his dick, your thighs started to tremble and your back arched deliciously, you felt like you were falling down, before an unearthly orgasm hit you. feeling the way your pussy spasmed, sanemi rasped curses under his breath and with a few, messy, thrusts, he spilled his warm, sticky cum deep inside you.

"tickets, please!" the conducter shouted as he entered your wagon. both of your hair was messy and you opened the window to get rid of the smell, although the wind was icy. you're so glad you packed double the amount of panties you usually would.

-

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ : giyuu x reader smut ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ

[beloved-nyx]

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ SYNOPSIS - What more could a king want than you?

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ PAIRING - Yandere!Emperor x GN!Reader

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ FORMAT - Oneshot

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ CW - YANDERE CONTENT, Alexi is fucking depraved, the wine is really sus, mentions of blood, illegal use of blood (?), implied noncon if you squint, implications of SA on reader (not graphic, just mentions), DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊ AUTHORS NOTE - bleh this is my first time writing Yandere sooooo but um hehe I hope this is good and um scary I guess I hope u get scaroused when reading this

You had never liked wine in the first place. 

It tasted sour, left a bitter taste in your mouth that made you want to puke. Maybe It was because you only had enough money to buy the cheap bottles, the ones that nobles would probably scoff at. It’s not like you could afford the luxuries they had anyway, or the time which they wasted by throwing extravagant banquets. 

But you started hating wine more when you stayed at the palace, the place you worked at. The Crown Prince was frivolous, throwing parties and balls every night, and the smell of debauchery was always present. You had no choice but serve the half-drunken nobles all night, wincing and scowling and sometimes even slapping wandering and unwelcome hands that came near you.

You hardly ever got sleep when you stayed at the palace, not when you had to partake in such parties, and definitely not when you could feel prying eyes following your every movement at the palace you begrudgingly called “home” even if it was nothing like that. 

You don’t know how you caught the Crown Prince's attention. You had made sure to look down, made sure not to break the rules, and absolutely made sure not to stand out. 

You knew what happened when poor servants had the affection of nobles.

Poor servants would get beheaded by jealous fiancés, maids would carry bastard children they never wanted, and the nobles would whisper and gossip and cause hell towards those weaker than them. 

“You look lost in thought, beloved.” 

A soft, silky voice that makes you want to claw your ears off startles you from your thoughts, and you look towards your left.

A man is seated at the front of a long banquet table, dressed in the finest clothes one could imagine. His long, black hair is messily done, and his dead, dark eyes stare into the cup he’s holding in his pale, lithe fingers. His lips, dabbed in red powder, are curled up in a smile as his eyes leave from his cup. 

“Am I boring you?” He sets his cup down, and you peer at the contents. Dark, crimson wine enters your sight and you quickly look away, instead looking down at the red, lush carpets. 

“Of course not, Your Imperial Majesty,” You hastily answer, your voice loud in the cold, empty room. The only light that seemed to illuminate the dark was the flimsy glow of the candles, a pathetic attempt at making this situation “romantic.” 

Ever since the Crown Prince, Alexander, became Emperor, your life had become a living hell in the making. He makes a contemplative “hmm,” before tapping his finger on the table. 

“Please, there's no need for such formalities.” He grins, and in that moment you want nothing better than to slap that grin off his face. “After all, we will be married soon. It’s quite uncomfortable having to hear my soon-to-be call me by such a…boring title.”

“And please, is the floor more interesting to look at than me?” You feel his cold hands lift your chin up, his eyes crinkling as he smiles again. “I missed looking at your face. Ever since I became Emperor, I hardly had the time to visit your chambers.” His fingers inch towards your cheek, before cupping your cheek. 

You try to refrain from scowling. 

“Alexander-”

“Alexi.” He corrects you, and you bite your tongue. 

You open your mouth before he shushes you, his eyes trained on your lips, before pulling away, instead opting to hold a knife instead as he expects the sharp blade. You gulp, and he smiles at your nervousness. 

“I…I think I lost my appetite, Alexi.” You try to refrain from stammering. You weren’t scared-you weren’t, you weren’t, you weren’t-

“But you haven’t even touched your food.” 

His black eyes regard you coldly, and you think dully that he must be having another moodswing. That happened often, at the strangest times too. But it also happened more when he was jealous, when he was sickeningly insecure of himself that he latched onto you to try and stave off those feelings of his. 

“C’mon, beloved. Why don’t you atleast have a sip of your wine?” He tilts his head, pushing a gold chalice in your hands. Your palms are clammy, and you think you're visibly sweating. You grab the chalice in your hands shakily, and he rewards you with a kiss on the cheek, even if it makes you feel disgusting and dirty inside. 

“My attendants told me you’ve been talking to some of those absolutely wretched servant friends of yours.” Alexi places down his knife, instead opting to take a drink of his wine as he hums thoughtfully and your blood runs cold. 

“You know that I’m easily jealous, my beloved.” The words roll off his tongue like poison, but he doesn’t look at you, instead swirling his cup around and examining the contents inside. 

“I-I’m sorry. I was just lonely-” 

He clicks his tongue, silencing your apologies with a wave of his hands. “To say that I’m disappointed is an understatement, my beloved. But I forgive you.” He grins, and gazes at your cup with a slight curl to his lip. “So just drink and be merry, my dear.”

Alexi looks at you intently as you gaze into the contents of your cup, the liquid reflecting your face as you gaze into it with a frown. Alexi places his head on his palm, watching you with some sort of sick glee that makes your stomach drop and makes your head spin. 

You take a sip and almost throw up.

It's thick and visceral, and the taste of iron floods your mouth and clogs your senses. You throw the cup away from you, the wine–no, the blood, seeping onto the red carpets. It doesn’t make much of a difference though, and you collapse on the ground as you try to cough up the blood that you had just drank. Alexi chuckles softly, and you can hear the faint sound of screeching as he gets up from his chair and makes his way over to you, kneeling down and making his pointed, iron-heeled boots stained red. 

“Oh, please don’t look at me with such a face, beloved.” Alexi blushes as you scowl at him, slapping away his hand as he tries and wipes off the blood still stained on your lips. He chuckles, black eyes filled with a sick sort of delight. 

“You know I get jealous easily, my beloved. I just wanted to drill it in that sweet head of yours who you really belong to.” He grins, and you want to puke. 

You never even liked wine in the first place.

[namazunomegami]

emperor!geto x imperial concubine!reader

a/n: I’ve spent way too much time to research about chinese imperial concubines, playing with Royal Chaos during my highschool years and I had a boring shift at work. This is the result. Probably out of character as hell but hey, I wrote this for my enjoyment.

This is part 1 of a lil historical AU drabble series. I’m already finished with Sukuna, Gojo is in the works, and I got some ideas for Choso and Toji but don't think too much about it, ideas are just ideas.

I was so close to write reader as gender neutral but reader owns a type of traditional chinese headgear used exclusively by noblewomen so... yeah, reader is afab if you squint (very hard).

Likes and reblogs are appreciated, mwah <3

wc: 1011, I initally wanted a few headcannons but I got a full ass drabble

cw: suggestive, false accusations, implied murder, mentions of whipping, choking (not the kinky kind), yandere behavior

credits: renmakia for the gorgeous fanart and my dear @notveryrussian for proofreading and just putting up with my massive jjk brainrot every day, luv ya darling <33

MDNI, if you do, I'm gonna catch you like I'm gonna catch Gege.

He’s a monarch who considers his mind a weapon and information as a whetstone despite being born in relative peace. Spending his leisure time reading Sun Ce, the scripts of Confucian and Taoist scholars, sharing afternoon teas and long walks around the gardens with Buddhist priests and conversing about reaching enlightenment. As if he desperately wanted to understand how the world he was meant to rule works. His mandate of heaven brought prosperity, a flourishing economy, a strong connection between allied realms, a good education system that produced more scholars than in any other time before.

Competing for his attention is not an easy task. You almost gave up, bracing yourself for a long and uneventful life where you can only admire him from afar. You sit in the shade of a willow tree with a board of xiangqi, your playmate having left you not so long ago and you were trying to figure out which tactics and strategies they should’ve used to defeat you. You’re so lost in your thoughts you can’t notice him standing there, in the presence of his guards. You kowtow to him, excusing yourself for daring to bother him, pleading for his patience while you pack your things and leave. He likes that your manners are spot on, and he rewards you with a command to stay, to play with him, since xiangqi is a game between two people. And based on the positions of the pieces on the board you’re an experienced player.

Of course, he defeats you with ease, but he’s grateful you showed him everything you’ve got and didn’t let him win. He tells you that his victory lies in applying the teachings of Sun Ce to his playstyle. Your eyes light up and you beg him to elaborate further, maybe he can help you improve your tactics in the next game. He’s such a well-read man, so hungry for knowledge, so desperate to understand people. You’re sure he wants to figure out your thoughts too, what you think about the world, what values dominate your heart. And the secret to win him over is to shower him with all the details and even politely disagree with some of his beliefs and explain your point of view. That’s what gets him going, knowing your place in the hierarchy but not being afraid to stand your ground. Mindless obedience, at this point, bores him. That’s probably the reason why he slowly starts to favor you, your conversations refresh him, inside and outside of his bedchambers.

You may think that earning your place in his heart is a lengthy and hard process, but when he becomes sure that your infatuation comes from an honest place, he generously rewards your efforts. He showers you with gifts, each more thoughtful than the other. He sends you scripts from his personal library about topics that interest you, fulus he received from his priests to protect you and your chambers, phoenix crowns so elaborately adorned with pearls, sapphires, small dragons, and phoenixes made from solid gold. Gowns embroidered with clouds, cranes dancing around them, gifting you a small piece of the sky itself he descended from. He elevates your rank quickly so you can accompany him during events. Letting the whole court look at you, wrapped in everything he gave you, standing so close you can see him stealing glances at you from under the twelve tasseled crown. He rewards your family with money, grain, rice, political power. If he lifts you up, he does the same with everyone important to you.

But Geto’s court is highly competitive. It’s certainly not easy to be his favorite. You can literally smell the stench of jealousy eminating from the other consorts. Their gaze pierces your skin deeply when the eunuchs drag you around the Palace of Heavenly Grace with a brocade blanket hugging your naked figure. They must endure the sight every other night and they have no idea that the son of heaven is ready to serve you and do as you please behind closed doors and not the other way around, as tradition dictates.

Though he can comfort you, outside of his chambers you fear for your life. You needed a food taster now and never dared to walk the gardens without at least four guards in your proximity. You begin to doubt the trust between you and those you’ve befriended, because they can only blame you for his negligence towards them.

And then, the first accusation about you begins circulating around the palace. Some concubines claimed that you were guilty of witchcraft. So many of them are against you, with so much made-up proof you cannot do more than spend the night crying, believing that at dawn, guards will come for you and throw you into a well. You have no idea where Geto is or how you could beg him for protection.

The next day, strangely, a new set of officials deem you innocent. What boggles you even more is that he comes to your residence instead of having you delivered to him. Even his scent is not like it usually is, there’s something metallic, salty, and musky mixed in with the incense smoke.

That night he cradles you, shushing you, promising to keep you safe at all costs. Keeping it a secret how brutally he disposed of the rumor mongers, how he had some of his officials whipped bloody for not believing your testimony or about the thinly veiled threats that he’ll make anyone’s life a living nightmare if anything happened to you. Your heart skips a beat and simultaneously sinks deep in your chest when those of higher rank than you lower their head, trying their best to not look at you as they pass you by. With dark marks staining the skin below the neckline of their gowns, not even the empress consort being an exception.

It's not easy to be his favorite. It’ll never be easy.

But he’s a god, the son of heaven, and heaven will forgive him and so will you.

[morerandombullshit]

Deserve (Vergil x f!Reader)

Rating: 18+ (MDNI but not like that stopped you guys anyway)

Pairing: Vergil x f!Reader

Summary: You finally left your abusive ex for good over him cheating on you, but it's still weighing on you. Vergil finds out and decides to comfort you in the only way he really knows how to comfort another person.

CW: Cheating, implied abuse, slightly angsty, bit of hurt/comfort, comfort sex (kinda??), unprotected sex (DO NOT TRY AT HOME) oral (f!rieceiving), face-sitting, consent, begging (only if you squint), creampies, slight dom/sub dynamics (or it's not slight idrk), dom Vergil/sub Reader, praise, degradation (just a little sprinkling only if you squint i promise), slight edging (ok maybe not so slight aha), clothes-ripping, semi-monster sex, aftercare pet names used: darling, sweetheart, pretty girl, perfect girl, good girl, my love, mine

Word count: 4573 (i totally didn't get too into this fic, no i didn't)

Note: I don't even fucking know how I came up with this idea (guess I was scrolling through too much DMC Boys x Reader smut and shit but oh well I have zero regrets), but in my notebook it's literally 18 and a quarter pages long and I was up until 2am finishing it off because I couldn't sleep and then I tried to show my best friend my writing at some point but he couldn't read my handwriting and shit (2am writing ftw, I guess)—

Anyways, enjoy this...explosion of smut, because I'm kinda on a little bit of a fluff writing kick/writer's block thing rn and idk when I'm gonna write more soooooo

Also Cameron Grey's I Want It All is basically the vibe for this oneshot, I recommend listening to it on repeat as you read— 

Sitting on the couch at Devil May Cry, you force yourself to focus on the magazine print in front of you. It's after hours and everyone's gone home—except for you and Dante's twin, Vergil. 

Vergil's cold and intimidating presence makes you feel like a storm is approaching every time he's around. But that body, though...shit. Strong jawline, short and slicked back silvery-white hair, ice blue eyes, cherry lips, toned body, ass like it was sculpted by a fucking ethereal being...Something lights like fire low in the pit of your stomach, and you shift a bit on the couch, still trying to focus on the magazine. Footsteps sound from across the room, and as the familiar scent of storms, fresh-cut grass and sage permeates your senses, that warmth between your thighs transmutes to a light throbbing.

Vergil steps into the room and you drop your eyes to the magazine, deciding it better to ignore that feeling right now. It's always happened whenever he's around—even when you were dating your abusive ex, but you push that thought away and continue hyperfocusing on the page in front of you. You toss your feet up onto an arm of the couch, leaning your head and putting the magazine at a tilted angle in the air.

"Y/N."

You sit up a bit, dropping the magazine. Vergil's always had a cold and imperious vibe around everyone, so you have to admit you're surprised he bothers to know your name. "Shit, didn't notice you." you reply, lying and hoping he doesn't know you are. "What is it?"

He walks a bit closer to you, grabbing a chair—his usual plastic one (he has threatened murder if someone else so much breathes on it before, now that you think about it)—and sitting in it, setting the Yamato against one of its armrests and letting it lean against the white plastic. "What're you doing here so late? I'd have thought you'd be at home right now."

At the mention of home, your stomach churns with nausea—the week before, you'd moved your stuff out of the apartment you had shared with your ex, and you're still trying to find a new place to live. Dante—after you begrudgingly told him why you were looking for a new place to live—said you could stay in Devil May Cry for as long as you need. 

Vergil doesn't know, though. But something in you wants to tell him, so you take a breath in and say, "I'm...between homes right now. Dante said I could stay here for as long as I need, and it's a better option than the streets."

"Would you mind if I asked why you're between homes at the moment?" he asks you, and you hear his voice sound less...cold for a moment. "Uh...my abusive ex cheated and I was sharing an apartment with him. Couldn't stand to live there after all the shit he pulled."

Your eyes have been trained to your boots the whole time but you look up, but you look up at Vergil and see the ice blue eyes blazing—a surefire sign he might go Devil Trigger. And for some reason, that makes the throbbing between your thighs more apparent, and harder to ignore. You shift your weight on the couch, trying to do it subtly enough that he doesn't notice—but knowing how shitty your luck is, he does. Vergil raises an eyebrow at you, and you regret all your fucking life decisions. "Something wrong?" he asks.

Oh, nothing. Just the fact that you're somehow turning me the fuck on, you think to yourself before clearing your throat and replying with, "No."

"You're always clearing your throat before you speak a lie." he says, and your brow furrows. His voice imperceptibly softens at the next thing he says. "It's...cute, in a way."

You cough a bit, startled by his sudden statement. "What?"

"It is." Vergil leans forward in his chair, a little closer to the couch you're sitting on. "But I have to wonder...what is wrong?"

You shrug, resisting the urge to clear your throat again. "Wanted to shift my position on the couch—it was getting uncomfortable sitting in one position for that long."

"Hm." he replies, his ice blue eyes boring into yours, making that already noticeable throb between your thighs even more unbearable to hide. A taut tension blankets over the two of you, and your tongue swipes out to lick your lips. Vergil's eyes drop to your lips instantly, and that taut tension becomes even more taut, if that's possible.

You drop your gaze to the ground, but your eyes snag on a growing bulge tightening the black leather of his pants, which causes your mouth to go bone dry, causing you to lick your lips again. As quickly as you had noticed his cock growing harder through his pants, you drop your gaze to its intended destination—the floor—and try to forget you ever saw it. 

That taut tension between you and Vergil continues, neither of you talking. His gaze locked on your lips, yours locked on the ground—though seeing how his cock had strained against his pants is at the forefront of your mind, and that throbbing between your thighs becomes mildly painful. It's an effort not to wince, an effort to not press your hands so tightly together you might break a few bones. 

"Y/N." Vergil says, his voice a little lower and rougher than before, his breath hitting your ear. When the hell did he move?,  you wonder to yourself before realizing, Oh, wait. He's half-demon. 

"Yeah." you mutter as a form of response, since your mind's more focused on how close he is to you right now—the distance between your bodies only inches apart, which makes that throbbing between your thighs even worse. "Tell me what's wrong," he murmurs, his breath still hitting your ear as he uses one hand to tilt your chin up towards his face. "And tell me how to make it better."

Other than the fact that you're so turned on you almost can't see straight, something you'd never tell him even if your life depended on it, there's an...emptiness. Having dated your abusive ex for so long before you ended it because you'd found him with his face between the thighs of some girl you didn't recognize has left a bigger toll on you for the past week, more than you care to admit. "I was living with my abusive ex. A week ago, I caught him eating some other girl out, and I decided I wasn't taking the abuse anymore, so..."

Vergil's eyes flash slightly, and for a moment, you think he's going to go Devil Trigger, but he doesn't—only that kernel of demonic power lies in his eyes, a show of his rage. "I will fucking hunt him down and end him. Slowly," he says, voice taking on a slight and low snarling quality in his anger. And you don't know if you've ever heard him curse before, but the throbbing between your thighs intensifies when you hear it. "Did he hurt you?"

It takes you a moment to respond to that, unsure of how to do it for fear of what he's going to do, but you reply with, "Yes."

"He never fucking deserved you." he says matter of factly, his voice still taking on that slight, low snarling quality. "You're better off without him."

"I know." you sigh. "But abusers tend to manipulate their victims. And I hate how I agreed to move in with him a month into our relationship. Should've realized it was of him—"

Your words get cut off when Vergil straight up puts his mouth on yours. The kiss isn't exactly gentle, but there's a comforting quality to it behind all the pure want he's kissing you with. It takes you a second to kiss back, but once you do, you're lost in it. God, the feeling of Vergil's mouth pressing against your has been chasing your dreams for so long now, maybe even you first met him or your first day at Devil May Cry—your mind and body keep wanting more more more as that throbbing between your thighs starts to ache, causing you to let out an unbidden whine into his mouth. 

He pulls away again, and you almost whine again, hating the loss of contact as you resist the urge to rub your thighs together. His breath and yours are mingling, both of you panting slightly. "You have no fucking idea how I've wanted to do that." Vergil murmurs, voice rougher than usual. "No fucking idea of the things I want to do to you."

A breathless sound is your only reply, and the hand that isn't gripping your chin falls to your hip, and your back arches slightly as he kneads your skin through your shirt, "Let me touch you," he mumbles, burying his face into your neck and brushing his nose against your skin. "Just—let me touch you. Please." 

You're silent for a moment, and Vergil pulls back a tiny bit, making you realize he's letting you decide—letting you decide whether you want to go further or stop and forget this ever happened. He'll keep going only with a confirmation that you want this, and only if it's a yes you're sure about—he doesn't want you to be pressured. You swallow, and you see his eyes flick to the hollow of your throat, tracking the movement. "Okay." you say, pressing a hand to his chest, right above his heart. 

No sooner than the word leaves you, Vergil has his mouth right on the side of your neck, his hand dropping from your chin and going to your other hip—both hands kneading through your shirt now. You tilt your head back, a silent plea for him to keep going. A sound emerges from low in his throat—some kind of growl?—and he skims his mouth along your skin to the hollow of your throat, causing a chill of pleasure to go down your spine.

Vergil's mouth presses against the hollow of your throat, his hands still kneading your hips through your shirt, and your back arches into him, his hips settling between your thighs once you do—causing an unbidden whimper to leave your mouth. The feel of his cock, even with the barriers of his pants and yours, makes you see fucking stars. His tongue laves along the hollow of your throat, and you whimper louder this time, your senses narrowed to his tongue moving over your skin. Your head falls back even more, baring pretty much all your neck to him. 

"You taste so much better than I ever fucking dreamed you would." Vergil murmurs onto your skin, pulling on it with his teeth. You moan now, your hips uncontrollably grinding against his—eliciting a soft groan from him, and that sound only adds to the throbbing between your thighs and the desire sparking in your blood. He dips his head a bit, nibbling on more skin of your neck, and every singular throb between your thighs feels like fucking torture. Your hands are aching to touch him, aching to feel his bare skin, his mouth, his fingers, his cock...

You tentatively put your hands on Vergil's shoulders, kind of digging your nails in when he drags his teeth on your skin. His hands hook into the bottom hem of your shirt, and your breath hitches. "Can I take this off?" he murmurs against your neck, and you nod. But his hands don't move, leaving you to rub your thighs together in a need for friction and some impatience. "I need to hear you say it, darling. I need you to use your words, okay?"

You take a fractured breath in, forming  some words as you fight through the lust fogging your mind right now. "Fuck yes. Please, Vergil. Please." you mumble, so wet you might soak through your pants altogether. "Thank fuck..." he murmurs, moving one hand up to the neckline of your shirt before tugging and ripping the cotton and polyester fabric clean down the middle.

You gasp at the cool air hitting your upper half—now, your bra's the only barrier. Vergil pulls away from your neck, his eyes glazing over as he looks at your bare skin. "So fucking beautiful..." he says as his hands land back onto your hips, kneading your skin. You whine, so turned on it's hard to think of anything else. He dips his head down, teeth grazing one of the edges of your bra. 

Your hands go from digging your nails into his shoulders to tangling in his short and slicked back silvery-white hair—it's so fucking soft, and it's thicker than it looks. A low growl rumbles from deep in his throat, and his hands continue to knead into your hips, but hands feel more like claws now. "Please tell me I can keep going." His teeth still graze the edge of your bra. 

"Don't—don't stop." 

Vergil's head moves a bit to the middle of your bra, and you could've sworn his canines are now fangs as he rips your bra in two with just his teeth. Your breath stutters as your upper half is fully exposed now, the throbbing between your thighs becoming so painful that you whimper a bit. His hands leave your hips and rise to cup your now bare breasts, your breath almost stopping altogether when you see the reverence in his eyes and his body language. You feel like a fucking goddess under his scrutiny, and when his hands creep up a bit, those almost-claws drawing circles on your skin, making you into the touch as lightning bolts of pleasure spread from where he's touching you.

Your hips rolls of their own accord again, a fractured moan slipping from your mouth as you feel his cock growing harder against you. You can't think, can't form words, because of the overwhelming pressure going through you right now. Vergil groans as you do that, his head dipping and his tongue teasingly tracing one of your nipples. And fuck, that feeling...You cry out this time, breath so shallow you off-handedly wonder how the fuck you're getting oxygen. 

One of his hands goes from cupping your breast to hooking into the hem of your pants, but you don't focus on that as he flicks his tongue over your nipple again, taking it into his mouth, teeth grazing the slightest bit—

You cry out again, this time mixed in with a moan, and your hips buck into him, whimpering at the way he feels against you, even if there is the barrier of clothes. "That's it, pretty girl." Vergil murmurs against your breast. "It's me who makes you feel like this." 

A moan is your only reply. He moves a bit, straddling you slightly, every thought eddying from your mind as he rolls his hips against yours, but unlike when you had done it, it's purposeful. 

He's teasing.

Vergil raises his head to whisper into your ear, his lips grazing the shell of it and triggering a needy shudder that wracks your body. "If I were to rip these pants off of you right now, how wet would I find you, sweetheart?"

Fucking soaking. 

You can barely decipher his words through your lust-fogged haze, and every part  of you is screaming, more, more, more, but you manage to choke out, "Play later."

Your voice is breathless, the need in it so abundantly clear, but you're too lost in the pleasure to notice or even care. Vergil dips his head and kisses the skin beneath your ear, causing another needy shudder. A promise and an unleashing. "I will, perfect girl. I will. But we have a couple other things to take care of, do we not?"

Right. He still has all his clothes on. Slipping your hands from his hair, you put them on either side of his dark gray trench coat with bright turquoise coloring. "Can I take this off?" you ask, surprised at how you can function right now. A nod from Vergil. "Please."

You make quick work of his coat, fabric sighing as it drops to the floor, revealing arms that you never were so fucking toned. Amazed, you run your hands down his arms, the smooth skin and taut muscle feeling so good to touch. You hear his breath hitch and you smirk to yourself. "Y/N." he murmurs, and you know what he means—stop gawking and get to the point before he spontaneously combusts. Taking a breath in, you reply with a quiet "Okay" before unzipping the high neck of his armored black and dark slate gray tank top, revealing his bare chest to you. Just as his coat had, it falls to the floor behind him, the metal making a faint clinking sound. 

But you're too focused on greedily inventorying the fucking masterpiece that is Vergil's chest. Abs that look like they've been hewn from stone in a mountain's cliff face, pecs that aren't too big but are still hot as hell...your gaze snags on a thin dusting of white hair that disappears beneath his pants and a very defined V-line that flows beneath his pants like his happy trail does.

The only thing that leaves your mouth is a breathless "Fuck". You reach for the top of his pants, but his hand lightly catches your wrist—those almost-claws tickling your skin. "I want to taste you first." he says, his voice that low, lush growl that makes that throbbing between your thighs even more unbearable. "I want to feel you come on my fingers and tongue."

You swallow as Vergil's other hand—the one hooked into the waistband of your pants—moves down, utilizing those almost-claws and shredding the fabric straight down the middle, like he did with your shirt. His hand lightly brushes the fabric of your panties now, nearly making your heart stop. 

"Turn around and spread your legs," he says quietly, his voice still having that growly quality—but also pure dominance. "And hold onto the back of the couch. You'll need it."

Sparks of more arousal rise in your blood as you hasten to do what Vergil tells you, and a satisfied hum from behind you has you knowing you did it right. "Good girl." he says, his hand hooking into the edge of your panties. Your breathing stutters at the praise, and you're sure he smirked at that reaction from you, even if you can't see his face. He doesn't move for a moment before asking, "Do you still want this? Because I don't think I'll be able to stop after—though I'll try my damndest to."

You ponder on it for a moment, the throbbing between your thighs growing as you do, before you reply with a simple, "Yes."

A low growl rumbles in Vergil's throat before you pulls on your panties hard enough to rip them off your frame, and your breath sharpens for a moment. "So fucking beautiful..." he murmurs, nudging your legs just a bit wider with his knee before sliding a finger inside your dripping pussy. Your hands tighten on the back of the couch, your knuckles going white as you bite on your tongue to keep from screaming in pleasure. 

Vergil adds a second finger, and your pussy walls clench around him, spasming at the pleasure of being filled as he picks up a pace, starting a sort of rhythm—pumping his fingers in and out, said fingers being knuckle-deep in you. You moan, hips rocking against his hand—

"That's it." he murmurs, his voice still having that low and growly tone to it. "Ride my hand, pretty girl."

And you do, your soft moans permeating the silence broken only by the squelching of his fingers pumping in and out. After an indeterminable amount of time, Vergil's fingers slip out of you, making an obscene sound between squelching and popping—but also eliciting a whine from you. You were so close, and he had to go and do that.

But that feeling of intense, world-shattering pleasure returns when he laps at you, tongue giving you short, teasing licks all the way up to your swollen clit. And when his mouth finds that sweet, sensitive bud between your legs, and sucks on it, your hands are gripping the back of the couch so hard that you might break a couple bones. You let out an involuntary scream, and Vergil's hand gently clamps over your mouth to muffle it. 

Then his fingers go back to where they were before, his tongue swirling in a figure eight as he sucks on your overly sensitive clit, and you're so, so fucking close—

But Vergil takes your clit out of his mouth for a moment, making you squirm. "I want you to do something for me," he says, voice hoarse, still having that dominating quality to it. "Sit on my face, darling." 

"W—What?" you stutter. While you'd be glad to do what he tells you, you've never...done what he's asking you to do. The hand Vergil had gently clamped over your mouth to muffle your scream drops to your jaw as he says, "Sit on my face, perfect girl. You can't do anything wrong."

You swallow, but his reassurance has you doing as he tells you to do, feeling a little out of your comfort zone, but doing it nonetheless. When Vergil taks your clit back into his mouth and his fingers fill you again, your hands ache and you moan your loudest so far—this position hits far deeper spots than the previous one did, even if it had hit pretty deep. 

A few more passes of his tongue and pumping of his fingers has your back arching, grinding against his face as you come, his name on your lips. Vergil laps up every last drop of your orgasm before releasing your clit with a groan and saying, "Your taste is going to drive me fucking insane." 

Too winded to even speak, your hands bracing the back of the couch are your only support. Vergil's hands lift your hips slightly—a way of supporting you, you realize—and he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh before murmuring against your skin, "You did so fucking good, sweetheart."

Your breath skips at the praise, and when your post-orgasmic bliss subsides, you mumble an incoherent reply. You hear a hum of contemplation from him and his hands knead your hips as he silently thinks something over. "Turn around and spread your legs again for me." he says. You obey almost instantly—which should be embarrassing, but you're too turned on to care—and you hear a snarl of approval behind you. Buttons being unbuttoned and zipper being undone sounds from behind you, followed by the whisper of leather dropping and boots clacking onto the floor. 

You're instantly wet and throbbing again after thinking about what's going to happen, your juices slicking down your thighs. You feel Vergil's hand grip your ass and squeeze it slightly as he asks, "Ready?"

A nearly incoherent "Please" slips from your mouth, and once it does, his cock slides inside you, all the way to the base. He's bigger—and wider—than you thought he'd be, and he stills, giving you a moment to adjust to him. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.

Now, this isn't your first time having sex, but you haven't done it for a while, and this is Vergil we're talking about here, for fuck's sake. You feel his lips graze along your spine as he murmurs, "You're so fucking tight." 

After that comment, he pulls out near to the tip and slides back into the base, which is really easy considering how soaked you are, making a moan leave your mouth. "Mine," he grunts, sounding like he's close to DTing. "My beautiful whore, taking my cock so well."

The praise mixed with degradation should sting, but instead it stokes the flames of your need, and you moan again. "You like this, pretty girl?" Vergil asks as he kisses your spine again, thrusting in and out. "You like when I pound into your sweet little cunt with my cock?"

Another moan, louder this time, is your only reply—more, more, more, until he pumps you full of his cum—

For a few blissful moments, there's only him and his rough thrusts before he stops. Your brow furrows a bit. "Why'd you stop?"

Vergil doesn't say anything, he just grabs your hips and positions the both of you so that he's on his back and you're straddling him, his cock inches away from your entrance. You can see his face now, and has a bit of a self-confident smirk on his mouth. Even if you don't have sex much, you can tell what that means. You sink onto his cock—it's deeper this time, and your moan occurs at the same time as his groan. 

His hands knead into your hips as you brace your hands on his muscled chest, moving up and down in a rough rhythm, moaning whenever his cock deeply hits in a sweet spot. You keep going, lost in the pleasure, riding Vergil into oblivion until he lifts his hips and his cock hits a spot that makes you come and sees stars at the same time—you let out a sound between a moan and a scream at the sensation. His orgasm comes right up on the heels of yours, and he lets out a long, low groan as he cums deep inside you, and your inner walls clench, milking it out.

When he pulls out, there's a small whine from you, but you can feel his cum dripping from your pussy, along with the juices from your own orgasm. You sit there on top of him, still dazed from post-orgasmic bliss, taking in air. You off-handedly wonder where your clothes are before remembering Vergil quite literally ripping them off of you earlier. 

He seems to have seen something in your face, because he raises his head and kisses the tip of your nose. "You okay?" he asks you, and his checking in brings a small smile to your face. "Yeah...just wondering what I'm gonna do since you ripped all my clothes right off."

Vergil winces a bit. "Sorry, I just...I wanted you so bad that I wasn't thinking straight. I still want you."

"I know," you murmur drowsily. "I do too."

You get off him and let him put his clothes back on, for some reason expecting him to leave you here naked since he'd gotten what he wanted from you. Fabric is draped around your shoulders, and you see Vergil kneel in front of you, fully dressed now, doing seemingly hidden buttons to protect your dignity. He further surprises you by picking you up bridal style as if you weigh nothing. He then presses his mouth to yours—an offer you immediately accept by kissing back—before he pulls away just enough for his mouth to graze yours as he talks. "I'd do anything for you. Kill, steal, lie, cheat...you name it, I'll do it, because you deserve the fucking world, my love."

You smile and reply with, "Same goes for you."

Vergil laughs softly and kisses you again before grabbing the Yamato—mostly forgotten in your guys' frenzy—and holds it one hand as he bridal carries you to his room.

[kirk-spock-fics]

hello! I'm looking for a fic that I read but have since been unable to find. It's sort of an arranged marriage fic. Spock needs to marry Jim to stay on board the enterprise for some reason, but the thing I remember most is Spock taking his marital duties very seriously and he would give Jim a flower each day (or often). I would really appreciate any help in finding this fic, it's so good! Thanks!

Hello!

The only fic I could find that matched your description of Spock bringing Jim flowers often is

Vulcan's Most Eligible Bachelor by museaway

mature aos, kirk/spock, kirk/spock prime victorian vulcans, courtship, language of flowers, love letters, marriage proposals words: 30,146 'Jim wasn't the one who saved Vulcan, but he's the one on a transport right now for a month-long stay as an honored guest. What he doesn't realize is they're all going to try and court him…including his first officer.'

It's not quite an arranged marriage or fake marriage fic but it's the closest I could find that included the part about flowers.

If anyone knows which fic this is, please share it in the comments or in an ask/submission!

Here are some other fics where Jim and Spock have to fake a marriage/relationship so they can stay together on the Enterprise:

My Love Is Bigger Than Your Love by gunstreet

explicit tos, kirk/spock fake marriage, marriage of convenience, jealous kirk, love confessions, first kiss, slash words: 29,065 'When Spock's mother sends him a message with a list of suitors he must choose from in short order lest he be barred from returning to his homeworld, his only alternative is to bring his own chosen spouse to Vulcan for his parents to meet for themselves. Spock not actually having a spouse is hardly a problem in Jim's mind. However, his brilliant plan has the potential to backfire in ways Jim could easily have predicted… and ways he could not have.'

Verisimilitude by CateAdams

explicit CW: graphic depictions of violence tos, mirror!kirk/mirror!spock, mirror universe marriage of convenience, action/adventure, romance, slash words: 15,527 'A new directive from the Imperial Fleet requires all officers of command rank to enter into legal marriage. On the ISS Enterprise, the order’s purpose is obvious: to allow political operatives to gain influence within the lucrative exploits of the flagship and divert more profits and power to the Admiralty. As the deadline approaches, the captain and first officer of the Enterprise devise an unlikely solution that forces a deeply personal reckoning.'

a sequence that you never learned by annataylor

explicit TW: implied childhood sexual abuse aos, kirk/spock kid fic, fake marriage, getting together, first time words: 64,624 'When Jim gets it in his head to adopt an eight year old Vulcan, Spock presents a logical solution to the issue of Jim's humanity: marriage to a Vulcan citizen.'

the warp and weft of your being by tardigradeschool

teen CW: past implied abuse aos, kirk/spock fake marriage, sharing a bed, hurt/comfort, crew as family, mutual pining words: 7,701 'When getting legally married to Spock is the only way to keep him on the ship, Jim is more than willing to do so. (In fact, upon reflection, it turns out that there are very few things he wouldn't do for Spock.)'

You Could Call It Love by lurikko

mature tos, kirk/spock, post-canon getting together, fake/pretend marriage, slow burn, unresolved sexual tension words: 45,791 'If marrying Spock is what it’s going to take to get them both back on Enterprise for another five-year mission, then Jim Kirk damn well is going to marry Spock.'

Nature of the Bond by jadztone

explicit tos movies, kirk/spock fake/pretend relationship, temporary amnesia, misunderstandings, mutual pining, sharing a bed, friends to lovers, old married spirk, pon farr, slash words: 32,429 'Just before they are to head back to Earth after the fal-tor-pan, Spock detects that he has a bond with Jim. Still having gaps in his memory, he attempts to analyze the nature of the bond. Spock concludes that he and Jim are bondmates, and says as much in front of Starfleet brass. Jim is shocked, but goes along with it out of fear that Starfleet would declare Spock unfit for duty. After telling Spock the truth, they agree to continue letting Starfleet believe that their bond is romantic in nature, while both privately wish that it was.'

[thescarletwitchsapprentice]

Imagine: You have been taken captive by a powerful Sith Master, but she’s a little.....different. (Yandere!Sith Master!Wanda Maximoff x Jedi-in-training!Princess!Reader)

*Not my GIF.

(CW: Taken for ransom, mentions of betrayal, some sexism, implied mind control, mentions of death)

Author’s Note: Happy Star Wars Day! It’s been ages since I’ve seen Star Wars, but I wanted to write something for May the 4th. Star Wars nerds, please don’t come for me.

moya doroga printzes: my darling princess

Your face is stone-cold as the stormtroopers bring you to the throne room. Your teammates had thrown you, the princess, under the bus for this mission for what? 

“I should’ve seen it coming,” you think to yourself. “All of their talk....”

“Princesses aren’t supposed to fight.”

“She’s just gonna distract us.”

“She should stay in the starship’s throne room.”

You always tell yourself they’re just envious that you’re able to fight and rule, but you’re not supposed to fight. Lo and behold, you’re the embodiment of the rebellious princess trope, something you tend to joke to yourself about. But why would they push you under the bus like this? Leave you behind like this? Of course you have a lightsaber hidden in your belt, something these stormtroopers neglected to check, so if you need to fight, you at least have something. And yet, it still upsets you that you’ve been left behind.

“Keep moving, please. The lady doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

You scowl at the stormtrooper who jolts you out of your thoughts as the doors open. Your feet come into contact with a scarlet carpet leading up to the thrones, one of which is unoccupied. 

“My lady, we have taken Princess (y/n) captive.”

“Let me see her.”

You hear a slight accent coming from her helmet as the stormtroopers in front of you kneel before her; Darth Scarlet, ruler of the Imperial Forces, and a thorn in your starship kingdom’s side for ages. Her outfit is various dark shades of red and black and regal to behold. Rubies adoring the edges of her cape make it more than just a costume to anyone who lays eyes upon it. Her helmet has been fused with a tiara of sorts, elegantly designed and yet still practical. 

The two of you make eye contact, (at least you think it’s eye contact, it’s kinda difficult to tell through the mask she wears) and she seems to fixate on you for some time before continuing.

“So....you’ve come to give up your starship kingdom?”

“Hardly,” you hiss at her. “I’m here for the power core your minions took from it. You said you’d give the price for getting it back when someone from the kingdom met with you.”

“And you came along.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice. These are my people.”

“And yet you took it upon yourself to see me personally.”

Despite your anger, you swallow down your response; you don’t want to admit your teammates deserting you.

“Let’s just cut to the chase, Darth Scarlet,” you tell her as you discreetly reach for your lightsaber. “Or am I going to have to make you tell me the price to save my people?”

She seems to be confused.

“Save them?”

“Don’t pretend to be such a fool! You know that it controls the kingdom’s oxygen supply. People are dying there as we speak!”

You pull it out and turn it on, the blue light radiating against the stormtroopers’ armors.

“And I’m ready to risk my neck to save them!”

You lunge over the stormtroopers to maul Darth Scarlet, but she raises a gloved hand and you find yourself being levitated towards her. In shock, you drop the lightsaber.

“Then I know it would be best to agree to the price to get it back, for us both.”

“Wha...what do you....?” you begin, trying to hide your fear as you hover in front of her.

“The price....” She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. “Is your hand.”

“Left or right?” you ask with no hesitation.

“In marriage.”

You’re stunned as the box floats up towards you.

“In marriage?! Wait....you didn’t take the core for the ship?!”

“By comparison, I couldn’t care less about some kingdom on a starship....it’s you I want more than anything, (y/n).”

Using her powers, she opens up the box to reveal a lovely silver ring with a ruby in the middle.

“I’ve wanted you ever since I first laid eyes on you; you’re the reason I am where I am today. And your love and devotion to your people only makes me want you even more.”

“You’re.....you’re insane!” you stammer. “I thought all the Sith wanted were just power and control.”

“Well then.” Suddenly she presses a button on the side of her head and the front of her mask opens up to reveal a gorgeous woman’s face with two beautiful green eyes. 

“Perhaps I can show you the falsehoods that lie in what they say about the Sith.” Her voice is gentle, completely out-of-the-blue for a Sith Master. “Join me, (y/n). We can bring harmony to the universe together. And I will treat you the very best that you ever have been, moya doroga printzes.”

You gulp.

“And....you’ll give the core back if I agree to marry you?” you ask.

“I swear it so on my love for you. I will even assure its quality to keep them from dying.”

The faces of everyone in that kingdom flash through your mind; all of those people dying slow and painful deaths.....no, you can’t let that happen. You know what you have to do.

Sighing, you bow your head.

“I....I’ll marry you then.”

She gives an elated smile. You feel yourself levitating closer until you feel yourself in her embrace.

“You’ve just made me the happiest woman in the universe, (y/n),” she whispers to you with.....are those actual tears in her eyes?!

Putting her mask back on, she looks up at the stormtroopers.

“Get the core and return it to her kingdom. Assure it’s working properly before you do. Let them know of the news.”

“Yes, my lady,” they reply and a few of them run off.

Holding you bridal style, she stands up and takes you to a fancy bedroom. A pit forms in your stomach as she sets you down on the bed. A short time later, she returns in an elegant nightgown and without her mask. She lays down opposite of you and stares in complete adoration.

“I’ve waited so long for you to be mine,” she sighs. “So very long....and now all of that waiting has paid off....”

She takes ahold of your hands and rubs the backs with her thumbs. It’s a soothing gesture and you begin to relax. After all of the fighting, and after being thrown under the bus by your “teammates,” this is a nice change of pace. Maybe things aren’t so terrible. The two of you talk for a bit and you learn that her name is Wanda Maximoff. Slowly you begin to feel a bit more chill around her. And you begin to think 

“Huh. Maybe this won’t be so bad. I mean, she seems to genuinely care about me and love me. Maybe this will be the start of something amazing...”

“Of course, you’re going to have to stop fighting, at the very least on the front lines.”

Jolted out of your thoughts, your eyes widen when you hear this.

“Wh...what?!”

Suddenly Wanda’s grip on you tightens.

“I’m sorry.....but I can’t lose you,” she says. “I’ve lost too much and too many....I refuse to lose anyone else. Letting you on the frontlines would be a death sentence.....”

She brings you in closer until you’re wrapped in a tight embrace.

“I....I know how to defend myself,” you protest.

“I’m sorry, my dearest (y/n)....but I can’t risk it. I promised myself that when you became mine, I’d keep you safe no matter what...I won’t let anyone or anything take you from me, not even battle....not even death.....”

“This....this is insane!” you exclaim as you struggle, trying to escape her.

But her embrace is firm and protective.

“Shhh.....” She begins to pet your head and you feel a tingle in your spine. “It’s okay.....”

Suddenly you feel something enter your ear. You see a small flare of scarlet before you begin to feel tired. As you collapse in her embrace, Wanda whispers into your ear.

“Not even death, my darling princess...”

Back in the throne room, your lightsaber color slowly begins to turn violet and soon scarlet.

“Not even death....”

[sweetrevxnge]

Like Phantoms, Forever

Chapter Fifteen | In The Face of Evil

Pairing: Ben Solo x Reader

Summary: Your destiny had never been clear to you, only becoming so when it led you to leaving behind the life you knew to train with the galaxy's sole Jedi Master, Luke Skywalker. His Jedi Academy became your new home, bringing with it the promise of someday becoming a Jedi Knight. While navigating the ways of the Force, an inexplicable connection forms between you and a fellow student—the heir to the legendary Skywalker bloodline, Ben Solo. Together, the two of you must face your destinies and forge the path to your true selves.

What to expect: fluff, violence, sexual content, general angst, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

Additional info: this story is set in 28 ABY, six years prior to the events of TFA

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Masterlist

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 5.9k

Chapter-specific CW: description of injury, violence, blood, abduction, implied domestic abuse, death

A/N: this. chapter. was. a. BEAST, but I'm so proud of it. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (even tho it had me questioning my sanity at times). also, in true george lucas fashion, I went back to ch. 1 and changed some of the details about Ben's introduction, but it was nothing major. anyways... cellphones on silent and shut your fckn mouths, the show is about to begin.

───────── ⋆ ☆ ⋆ ─────────

If you had any weaker of a stomach, you would have vomited all over the Admiral’s polished black boots. But, in a stroke of luck, or perhaps due to the sheer emptiness of your stomach, you didn’t.

You were delirious, you decided. After everything you had gone through in the past day, you were hallucinating a false reality. But as you tried to blink away the image in front of you, it remained solid, too detailed to be an illusion. 

Dressed in a high-collared, gray uniform stood your father, a shadow of the man you had known your entire life. The man who had raised you alongside your mother, the man you should have known everything about. He had always kept his past close to his chest, as well as his family at an arm’s length, omitting the details of his early life when the topic would arise. To someone who didn’t know anything different, he shared everything that a loving parent should share with their child. Come to find out, that had not been the case.

Although you struggled to comprehend what was happening, you immediately thought of his business. Distributing crops to buyers in all corners of the galaxy was the perfect cover, in a way. A former Imperial captain disguised as a simple, Dantooinian farmer who made frequent business trips off-world, owing no explanation to his wife and child. 

At the realization, you thought of her. Your mother. What did she know of this? Did she even know? The meek woman you knew would never willfully marry an Imperial loyalist—let alone be involved with such an organization. You could hardly stomach the idea of her being aware of this deception.

A million questions crossed your mind in the span of a single second, none of which could be easily answered. Regardless, the likelihood of you surviving to even be able to ask her such questions was becoming more slim with every second that passed.

“Captain, I usually trust your judgment without a hint of doubt, but was this really the best option available to us?” Admiral Sloane asked your father, her skepticism evident in her tone. “Why not the Skywalker boy?”

Though indirect, the mere mention of Ben made acid rise in your throat. In your chemically-included sleep, what had become of him? Of all of your classmates, for that matter. All you could hope for was that he was sleeping soundly in his bed, unharmed and untroubled by his usual insomnia. It was all you could ever wish for him.

“It couldn’t have been him. He’s far too indoctrinated in the Jedi’s teachings to be compliant,” your father answered as he slowly moved forward.

Relief washed over you like a crashing wave, melting away your fear. Ben was safe—for now, at least.

“The same could have been said for Lord Vader, sir,” the Admiral argued, raising a dark eyebrow at him.

Despite never living under his reign, Darth Vader’s power still radiated through his name, carrying an indescribable weight. The air felt heavier at the mention of it, like a curse falling over you.

“I suppose you’re right, Admiral,” he said with a sigh. “Perhaps we can extract him later.”

An icy chill ran down your spine at the implication. With the location of the Academy now uncovered, there was no telling what lengths the First Order would go to to eliminate their opposition. 

Your father stalked towards you, his presence suffocating in the massive room. Everything about him was familiar, yet completely different—more refined. The scrape of his boots, a sound that once echoed throughout your home in the early hours of the morning, was now akin to the sound of nails raking over a blackboard. His poised shoulders and lifted chin, once the stature of a proud businessman who provided for his family, was now reminiscent of a soldier’s posture.

As his footfall came to a stop beside the Admiral, his narrowed eyes pierced yours, the eyes you had inherited from him.

You dropped your gaze to the slate floor, unable to bear the sight of him any longer. Besides, the floor wouldn’t betray you, given its composition of a material far more durable than your father’s morals.

“It’s good to see you, my dear,” he said, the sound of his voice grating to your ears.

You said nothing, your erratic breath the only response you were willing to offer. Your eyes stung as traitorous tears began to fill them, blurring the edges of your vision.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” He snatched your jaw between his fingers, pulling your head up to meet his unavoidable gaze. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“Happy?” you said, the muscles in your face straining against his grip. “You expect me to be happy to see you after what you’ve put me through?”

“You wound me, daughter. You are, after all, our guest,” he sneered.

“I’m honored.”

He stared at you for a long moment before directing his attention to the stout man still standing behind you. “General, I do hope that she was not too much trouble for your men to extract.”

“Not at all, Cap. The lecepanine darts you gave us worked like a charm.”

To your surprise, Brendol Hux was not the person who answered your father’s question, but rather the last figure concealed by the shadows.

Every set of eyes in the room locked onto the man as he moved towards the group, stepping into the low light. His face was shrouded by a mask, one with a dull charcoal hue and a collection of glowing, red lines etched into the center of the plate. Draped over his shoulders was a long, black cowl, the tattered fabric trailing behind him like a shadow as he approached the center of the room.

The most surprising aspect of his appearance wasn’t the helmet, or even the threadbare clothing, it was the lack of it. His chest was bare, the carved muscles covered with dark scar tissue from his neck to the waistband of his tactical pants.

“What the fuck?” you whispered, somehow more confused now than upon seeing your own father in an Imperial uniform.

Nearly simultaneous with your remark, the restraints on your wrists buzzed with a current of electricity. Fucking bastard. You shot the General a venomous glare, receiving only a pleased grin from him in return, his thumb still hovering over the remote as a warning.

“Where are your manners?” your father scolded you, quickly releasing your face to slap you across it. “I thought your mother and I had taught you better than this.”

At the mention of your mother, your heart sank. The thought of what evil she might have endured during her marriage, how your father may have treated her behind closed doors. A violent rage grew within your chest at the mere idea of him hurting her.

“My apologies, Sir Ren. My daughter has always had a tendency to speak out of turn, but I assure you, she means no offense.”

“I can speak for myself–”

You were interrupted by another surge of energy shooting through your cuffs.

“None taken. And please, just call me Ren,” the masked man said to your father before turning his shielded gaze to you. “Sorry that this had to be the way we met, kid. But sometimes, you just gotta work with what life gives you.” Despite being modulated, you could tell that his voice was rough—almost leathery—as he spoke to you. Each syllable sent an unpleasant chill throughout your bones.

“And somehow, this is still the most pleasant way we could have met,” you spat.

Ren laughed behind his mask, the sound rattling through the vocoder. Time seemed to slow as his thumbs grazed along the underside of his jaw, unlatching his helmet and lifting it off of his head.

Thick, white hair fell from the helmet, framing his tan face, a stark contrast to his dark brows. He was youthful, more so than everyone else in the room, but easily a decade your senior. His icy blue eyes scanned your form, his gaze lingering on your chest before finally pulling away. 

Pig.

“I like her. She’ll fit in just fine with my men.” Though he was looking at you, his statement passed through you like a ghost, directed at the uniformed men behind him.

“I doubt that,” you said, taking a step closer to him, as if you could even appear threatening right now if you tried.

“Gods, when will you learn to just shut up?” General Hux cut in, smacking you at the nape of your neck with the back of his hand. “You will treat your new Master with respect, or you will suffer dire consequences.”

“What, you’ll kill me?” you snapped. “Your bark is louder than your bite—all of you. If you wanted me dead, you would’ve done so already.” Your response was bold, probably too bold for a girl in restraints who was entirely surrounded by capable beings, but you didn’t care. You weren’t going to give in to their manipulation.

“Death isn’t the only consequence in this world, child,” your father said coldly.

His threat was enough to humble you, but you didn’t cower, slipping in one last jab before quieting yourself. “It’s the only consequence I want.”

“Enough.” Hux was firm as he spoke, stepping between the three of you in an attempt to redirect the conversation. “Ren, I expect a reconnaissance report from you by the end of the day. And Captain, will you do me a favor and put her back in her hold? I must see to it that her next dose is prepared.”

Dose? Your mind raced at the mention of the word. The context made it sound like they were already dosing you with something, causing panic to rise in your chest.

“Dose of what?” you blurted, hardly considering the repercussions of asking such a question.

Hux turned to look at you and as he did, you prepared for another strike across the face, but surprisingly, it never came. The only thing you felt was the bruising grip of your father’s hand around your upper arm as he steered you away from the group.

“Save your breath,” your father said, pushing you towards the dark corridor.

You met him with as much resistance as you could, trying to sow roots into the stone beneath you, but failed. The faces of Admiral Sloane, General Hux, and Sir Ren grew distant behind you as you were forced back into your cage.

The silence between you and your father was unsettling, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to make light conversation with him. What was there to talk about? The intricacies of the cracks running along the walls? Really, there was only one thing you wanted to speak to him about.

Once you breached the threshold of the cell, you found the courage to break the silence.

“Are you going to leave me here?”

You turned to face him, avoiding his gaze by counting the square tiles pinned to his uniform instead. There were six.

“No,” he replied, shoving you forward into the confines of your cell.

You stumbled over your own feet, landing just inches away from where you had initially awakened. Somehow, that felt like a lifetime ago. It was as if time passed differently in this fortress. An hour or a decade could have passed in your absence and you wouldn’t have known the difference.

He crouched in front of you, grabbing the bar that connected your cuffs in one hand as his other retrieved a remote from his breast pocket.

For a fleeting moment, the naive part of your soul foolishly hoped that he would release you, that he would courageously guide you through the maze and send you off in an escape pod to somewhere far away from here, to somewhere safe. But as he reattached the heavy chains to your wrists, the spark of your hope dwindled into a pile of smoldering ash.

You resisted the urge to curse him, to call him a horrible father and dishonorable man, but the ache in your bones and the exhaustion that clouded your thoughts were becoming impossible to ignore.

You tilted your head back against the wall and allowed your heavy eyes to close, the brief moment of rest so sweet and liberating.

You weren’t sure how much time passed while you sat there, eyes closed, and truthfully, you didn’t care. You were content there, drifting in a place between sleep and consciousness. That was until the squeak of boots treading across the wet floor filled the room. You forced your eyes open, finding that your father was still standing in your cell, watching over you like a sentry. He was adjacent to you, his back pressed against the wall as he stared down at you. 

“I see that you’ve been demoted to babysitter,” you said dryly.

“I believe ‘guardian’ is a more appropriate title,” he replied, seemingly unbothered by your jab. 

You scoffed. “Personally, I think ‘captor’ is the most fitting, but whatever helps you sleep at night, Pops.”

This time, your insult reached him. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath, letting it out shakily as he spoke. “From now on, you will address me as Captain.”

“Whatever you say, Captain,” you said, biting back the smile that tugged at your lips. You couldn’t help but feel proud to have finally managed to get under his skin.

As the air fell silent, the questions stirring in your mind became louder. If you were going to be trapped in a cage with him as your guard, you might as well make the best of it.

“How did you do it?” you asked quietly.

“Do what?”

You lifted your chained hands, motioning around you as best you could. “This.”

“That’s a broad question,” he said flatly.

“I feel like I’ve more than earned some answers.”

He drew in another breath, holding the air in his chest for a long moment before responding. “Fine.”

Every question was important, and every would be answered, but where to start? You settled on starting at the same place that the First Order did. 

“How did you find me?”

The question hung in the air. What if he changed his mind? What if you’ve just dug yourself into a deeper hole?

Finally, he said, “The First Order’s technology is cutting edge, but ultimately unnecessary in our pursuit. The lead landed on our doorstep.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean?”

“A few months ago, our scanners detected an anomaly leaving the planet’s atmosphere: a decommissioned X-Wing. After running a painstakingly long decloaking sequence, we discovered that the ship exiting our airspace belonged to none other than Luke Skywalker.”

“No,” you whispered. “That can’t be true.”

“I can show you the report, if you’d like.”

You stayed silent, processing what he was telling you. Admittedly, you were hesitant to trust your father, but you couldn’t deny your curiosity.

“Why was he here?”

“How am I supposed to know? We were not operating here on Zeffo at the time. He was gone long before we could investigate,” he said, pursing his lips in a tight line.

“Wait—Zeffo? As in, the lost Jedi civilization, Zeffo?” you asked, your eyes widening. The reveal of your location felt like a lifeline being thrown to you, but with nothing to communicate with, the information was trivial.

“Yes. I suspect that was why Skywalker was here in the first place.”

“But Master Skywalker says that he hasn’t left the Academy in over a year. It couldn’t have been him.” You were thinking out loud at this point, but you didn’t care. You needed to make sense of what he was telling you.

“Then you must be deceived,” he said. “His ship was here, regardless of what he may have told you.”

You struggled to believe him, sifting through every other possibility in your mind. Master Skywalker has been present at the Academy the entire time you’ve been there. And his ship, it hasn’t left the shipyard in months, not since—

“Ben,” you whispered. A glowing warmth radiated in your chest as you said his name.

That had to be it. When you met Ben, he had just returned from a Jedi artifact search in Master Skywalker’s X-Wing, rather than the Grimtaash. You wondered now if the choice for him and Lor San Tekka to fly smaller, separate ships had been deliberate.

“What did you say?” your father asked, his hearing evidently still as sharp as it had been when you were a child.

“N-Nothing—I didn’t say anything,” you stammered, clearing your throat. “What happened after that, after you discovered his ship?”

He watched you with suspicious eyes, but continued. “With a great deal of effort on our part, and the help of the Imperial archives, we were able to splice the ship’s navigational system remotely and extract the destination log from its data. It was there that we found the coordinates to an unknown location in the Outer Rim.”

You couldn’t tell if you were angry or saddened to learn that all of this stemmed from Ben’s artifact trip in his uncle’s X-Wing. Though, the blame wasn’t entirely his. After all, he had made the journey under the supervision of Master Skywalker and Lor San Tekka.

“I just don’t understand. Why only capture me? Why not destroy the entire temple when you had the chance?” As grim as the question was, you needed an answer to it.

“After some debate, it was decided that we would only extract one student as a candidate for our initiative, and after hearing word of my beloved wife suddenly shipping our daughter away to parts unknown, I proposed that we choose you.”

“But you didn’t even know that I was at the Academy. Mom made arrangements before you returned from your business trip—whatever it may have been for.”

“Truthfully, we were testing a hypothesis. I suspected that you had been sent to Luke Skywalker’s Academy, so, General Hux and I created a plan to infiltrate the grounds.”

Your heart pounded harder against your ribs with every word that left his mouth. Every step of this nightmare had been delicately crafted with malicious intent, and you weren’t sure which part of it was worse—the physical suffering, or the psychological torment of knowing that each day you spent the Academy, you were being hunted.

“It was simple, really. With the aid of an experimental formula created decades ago by Imperial scientists, as well as a contracted team of mercenaries, we were able to test our hypothesis.”

The drug mentioned earlier immediately came to your mind, the one the man named Ren had used to incapacitate you. What did he call it? Lelpanocine? No, that wasn’t right.

“The lel…lelpano—” you started to say before your father interrupted you.

“Lecepanine. No, not that. This task required something more complex than a paralytic alone. Diazexacin was created with the purpose of severing one’s connection to the Force. According to the reports, creating it was a tedious process, but the end result is highly effective. And, to our benefit, quite versatile.”

Why was he telling you so much? It felt too convenient for him to plainly reveal the First Order’s master plan to abduct you, but then again, you were already their helpless captive. What did they have to lose by divulging this information to you?

“Versatile how?” you asked, snapping yourself back into the conversation.

“It can be absorbed through a variety of routes, including the digestive tract,” he answered, a smug expression plastered across his face.

Your father’s words rolled around your head. His mention of the digestive tract illuminated a detail that you had overlooked in the chaos of everything. The day you were abducted, every student you spoke to at the Academy reported feeling off, or otherwise disconnected from the Force. But why? That had been the question you posed to Ben, Tai, and Hennix, who had all brushed off your concerns. In retrospect, you were right to question it, but it was too late now. Now, you needed to find the common denominator, the thing that everyone had to have shared that day.

Just then, the realization hit you, slamming into you like a fiery meteor colliding with a planet. The food. The First Order had found a way to spike the Academy's food supply.

“You drugged the food…” you said, nauseated at the thought.

“Very good, my child. But not all of the food,” he corrected. “Only a select amount of produce was able to retain the diazexacin after the cooking process. Carrots and potatoes were all that we were able to manage.”

The memory of that morning’s breakfast came back to you: diced potatoes and eggs. And that evening, the hearty tiingilar that had warmed your heart and belly. How naive you had been while eating it, trying your best to enjoy the stew as Tai and Hennix poked fun at you. The First Order’s strategy in this matter alone proved them to be a worthy threat to peace across the galaxy.

You rubbed the bandage taped to your neck in thought, digesting the wealth of information being given to you. “Well, congratulations. Your hypothesis was right. Next time, maybe consider peaceful negotiations before shooting a blow dart into my neck and dragging me out of my home. Perhaps I would’ve gone with you willingly.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Is that so?”

“Stars, no. Not in a million light years. But you never know,” you said with a small shrug. A bit of humor eased your discomfort, even if it was just slightly.

Across the room, you saw the corner of your father’s mouth twitch upwards before falling back into a hard line.

Silence filled the space as you closed your eyes again, letting out a long yawn as you did. If it weren’t for the sharp ridges of stone probing you like a human pin cushion, you would almost be able to fall asleep. 

“Dad,” you said weakly, fighting off the weight of sleep that threatened to take you. “I’d like to sleep, but I can’t get comfortable.”

“And what would you have me do about that?” he replied curtly.

“I don’t know. Tell me a bedtime story, or something.”

The request hung in the air for a long moment, as if he were carefully deciding his answer.

“I suppose I could do that. What kind of story would you like to hear?”

There was no cadence in his question, not like you remembered from your childhood. It was as if he had been replaced by a stranger—a staunch, heartless stranger whose lack of compassion rivaled even the most vile beings in the galaxy.

“I’d like to hear the one about the Imperial officer, the one who fooled the world posing as an ordinary farmer for the better part of his daughter’s life.”

His throat knocked as he considered, his lips tight. “Fine.”

At that, you pried your eyes open, looking at him expectantly. 

“Where do I even begin…” he said, lowering his voice. “When I was a young man, I enlisted in the Imperial army, with every intention of someday becoming a Commander. As it were, fate had other plans for me.”

“Before I could attain my goal, the Empire collapsed. I was left to fend for myself, searching the galaxy for a job that wouldn’t look too far into my history. That’s when I met your mother.”

“Neither of you ever did tell me how the two of you met,” you said quietly, the warmth in your cheeks vanishing at the idea of your mother somehow being connected to the Empire.

“No, we didn’t. You wouldn’t have believed us if we had,” he said with a chuckle, the first indication of emotion you had seen from him all day. “We met in a bar in the lower levels of Coruscant. I was a different man back then, placing large bets with credits I didn’t have and drinking away what little winnings I made.”

It was hard to imagine him like that, young and stupid, tossing credits down on a dirty, felt-lined tabletop in some seedy bar tucked away on Coruscant. The image almost made you smile.

“I remember it vividly. It was a particularly busy night, the heavy rain was driving everyone inside. I was already down five thousand credits, with only two in my pockets when I saw her. Your mother stood out from the crowd like a star in an empty sky. She couldn’t help it, of course. Despite her casual attire, she was stunning, and in my drunken stupor, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to ruin my life in a new and exciting way.”

You tried to picture the scene, imagining what she was wearing, how she had styled her hair. It was calming to hear about her, to piece together the image of the woman she was in her youth. 

Your father sucked in a short breath before continuing. “I was so drunk, in fact, that it did not even occur to me that the woman I had spent the evening buying drinks for was, in fact, a Rebel spy.”

The image you had painted in your mind crumbled at his words. “Mom was…a Rebel?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. How else do you think she knew about Skywalker’s precious Academy?”

The question simmered in your mind as you processed it. In the wake of the discovery of your Force sensitivity, you hadn’t stopped to consider how your mother knew about the existence of the Academy to begin with, being more concerned with getting there than asking such questions.

“If what you say is true and she really was a Rebel, then she would have never married you. Especially not with the knowledge that you were still loyal to the Empire,” you said, your voice raised slightly.

He took a step forward, careful to keep the distance between you wide. “Oh, but she did know. It was not by chance that we met in that bar, not at all. She had been watching me for weeks, learning my routine, just waiting for the right opportunity to strike. You see, your dear mother was operating under the orders of Chancellor Mothma, who had created a task force to exterminate all remaining Imperial officials in the galaxy. Evidently, I had pissed off the wrong person and they tattled on me to the New Republic. It was just my luck that your mother was the agent they had sent to investigate.”

“I…I don’t believe you.”

At that, he let out a low laugh. “You don’t have to. Our vows were proof enough that love conquers all, or rather, did conquer all.”

“What do you mean?” you asked wearily.

Ignoring your question, he continued. “For a long time, there was talk amongst my buyers, talk of a rising power in the shadow of the New Republic. I never gave it much merit, but after a while, the rumors became too much to ignore any longer. I knew I needed to do something, to help restore the Empire to its former glory.”

Spoken like a true sympathizer, you thought.

“I suppose your mother did the same, keeping her connections in the Rebellion just as close as I had kept mine in the Empire.”

There was a tonal shift in his statement, one that left you feeling uneasy. He was choosing his words more carefully now, holding you at a distance once more.

“Where is she now?” you asked, hiding the anxiety that was creeping in.

He averted his gaze at the question, which only made you more desperate for an answer.

“Please, tell me,” you pleaded, swallowing what little remained of your pride.

Reluctantly, he answered, “Somewhere safe.”

It was not the answer you had expected, but still not specific enough to ease your concerns.

“Where is she?” you demanded.

“I cannot speak to where she is at this exact moment,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “But I will say, shooting her was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”

In an instant, the world around you shifted. It was no longer gravity that held you in place, but rather a different weight, one that crushed your bones and stilled your breath. You were sinking, plummeting backwards through frigid water as it filled your lungs, the reality at the surface becoming more distorted the further you fell.

“What…” The word left your lips slowly, tumbling through the dead space between you and your father.

Before he could respond, you felt it. A heavy swirl of energy surrounded you, filling your senses as it embraced you like an old friend. It was radiant and welcoming, but equally as dark and demanding, moving through you as if you were a vessel of its will.

“Don’t be mistaken, I did not take any pleasure in doing it. Truthfully, it was like putting down a sick dog, releasing it from its misery��” 

Your father’s voice faded into oblivion as your ears rang, the only sound reaching you being your ragged breath as the Force ripped through you.

Bolts and fasteners bounced across the ground as you pulled against the chains that anchored you, ripping them free from their base. The squeal of metal scraping stone filled the room as you took a step forward. You lifted your hands, sending warm blood running down your arms, cascading down your skin like a crimson rain. Hot, burning pain spread through your body, but you were unbothered. The sensation only focused your anger, channeling it like molten glass being poured along an iron cast, creating something violent and destructive.

“What are you—General! Somebody, please, get in here, NOW–”

Your father’s cry for help was interrupted by a strangled cough as the Force seized his throat, lifting him into the air until he was hovering, flailing his legs wildly. The only thing that could be heard over the sound of him suffocating was his leather boots dragging across the ground as you summoned him to your hand, gripping his windpipe tight when he finally reached you.

For the first time in your life, you saw fear in your father’s eyes. The sight of it fed the dark spirit in your soul, fanning the flames of its rage.

As if he realized this, he squeezed his eyes shut, baring his clenched teeth as he worked to pry your fingers from his neck.

“Look at me,” you said, your low voice almost unrecognizable to your ears. “I want you to look at me when I kill you.”

Against his volition, his eyes flew open, the whites of them now littered with broken vessels as the color slowly drained from his skin. He clawed at your hand, successfully peeling back a few fingers before the lack of oxygen took its toll, rendering his attempts to free himself futile.

“You…w-will always b-be…” he croaked, gulping down what little air he could manage. “Scum.”

His limp body fell to the ground with no resistance, and as it did, the fog lifted. As quickly as it had appeared, the energy surrounding you vanished, leaving you hollow and cold in its wake.

All you could do was stare into the vacant eyes of the man who had murdered your mother, his warm corpse mangled on the floor. No blood pooled around him, and every limb was accounted for and intact. He was nothing more than an empty shell now.

The urge to vomit was intense as you turned on your heels, searching for the exit. Acid burned your throat as General Hux came rushing through the doorway, clutching a cloudy syringe in his hand. 

His pale eyes widened as they fell on you, an image drawn from nightmares. You stood in the center of the room, dark, thick blood coating your arms and running down the broken chains like fresh paint, small drops landing on the corpse lying beneath you.

“What have you done?” he asked quietly.

You whipped your head around to face him. In a rush of adrenaline, you shot your hand out towards him in a desperate attempt to wield the dark energy from moments ago. But it had abandoned you.

The syringe in the General’s hand flashed under the waning sunlight as he barreled towards you. The diazexacin.

You scrambled for your father’s body, frantically searching his uniform for a weapon. The barrel of a blaster peaked out from under his tunic, tucked neatly into his belt. Before ripping it free, the horrid question of what this blaster had been used for crossed your mind, but you pushed it away. You couldn’t dwell on that right now. 

Wrapping your trembling finger around the trigger, you turned to face the General, lifting the barrel to aim at his broad frame.

“Drop it,” he barked, searching his waistline for a weapon of his own.

Shakily, you pulled back on the cold metal, closing your eyes in anticipation of the discharging laser beam, but nothing came. Shit—the safety.

“Idiot,” Hux spat, raising the barrel of his own blaster and firing a shot.

You felt the impact immediately, the tearing of your flesh as the blast ripped through your shoulder, every bone in your arm seeming to shatter. The blaster in your hand clattered to the floor, echoing in the tiny room. The force of the fall released the safety, sending it flying forward until it hit the metal body of the gun with a soft ping, as if to mock you.

“A reckless, idiot girl who–”

The words died in his tongue as you swept your leg beneath his, buckling his knees and knocking him onto his back. His blaster flew from his grasp, landing meters away as it clattered against the jagged rock. 

You were frozen for a moment, waiting for any movement from him. Did you kill him, too? Though his skull hit the ground with the same force as his body, his chest finally rose and fell with shallow, slow, breaths. Strangely, you couldn’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed.

“You talk too much,” you said, groaning as you pulled yourself to your feet and collected the two blasters, holding the smaller one weakly with your injured hand.

You clutched your limp arm against your chest to the best of your ability as you hurried through the hallway to the main chamber, blindly navigating the winding corridor as the edges of your vision turned black. 

When you reached the mouth of the doorway, you stopped in your path, using your good arm to lean against the wall for support. The nausea returned and you hunched over your knees, coughing violently to settle your stomach.

The chamber was empty, with only the flickering lights filling the space. It was an unsettling sight, but you were in no state for an outnumbered fight. There was no strategy in your escape from this prison, only pure instinct guiding you now. 

Distant voices rang throughout the fortress, quickly approaching you as you stood at the precipice of the room, forcing down the adrenaline that rushed through you. 

Just as you stepped into the room, you sensed an unmistakable presence, one that had grown more familiar to you than your own reflection. Immediately, you felt a calmness wash over you.

“Ben,” you whispered.

[spilledbutter]

shining in your light (a knight, my love, a knight)

Summary: Jaskier's days as a single man are numbered. With family obligations knocking at the door and no escape in sight, he knows he will soon be forced to marry.

Things are further complicated when he meets a beautiful, brown-haired witcher by chance in a tavern one night.

Jaskier/Eskel | Rated: M | WC: 3k+ | CW: coarse language, implied sex

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A (very) belated Witcher Writers Winter Gift Exchange 2022 (@witcherficwriters) fill for @matrixfairy! I hope you enjoy, friendo, and sorry it's so late!

Also on AO3! I anticipate at least two more chapters, if not three, to finish everything up.

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When he was younger, Jaskier imagined life to be a fairytale.

Grand adventures, beasts to be slain, and knights in shining armor. 

“Yeeugh,” the man groaned out from the tavern floor where he’d stumbled before him, covered in mud and smelling of horse dung. 

Real life never was quite like he imagined it would be.

“I’m so sorry, are you alright?” Jaskier’s hands fluttered uselessly in front of him, wanting to help but not quite sure if the other man was injured. He hastily put aside his tankard of ale and lute. 

“Sir? Can I help you with anything?” He called when he received no reply. It took a moment, but the man finally raised his head, turning surprisingly keen, golden eyes on Jaskier. He’d thought he was dealing with a drunkard.

He knew he should feel exposed, perhaps intimidated, under such a sharp gaze. Jaskier had never been prone to the reactions of normal people, however, so he felt nothing of the sort.

Surprisingly, he only felt warm, heat pricking his collar. 

Warmer still, as he took notice of the strong jaw, full lips, and long lashes cradling those honeyed irises. His eyes scanned over a set of broad shoulders, topping off a barrel chest, and what he was sure were delectable abs underneath a ruby-colored gambeson. 

Covered in mud he may be, but a pig he was not. 

“You talkin’ to me, pretty thing?” The rumbling, rich baritone shook him out of his stupor. Jaskier planted a charming grin on his face, casually running his hand over his chin in a thoughtful pose to check for drool. Gods above.

“Ah, but the man does speak! Are you sure you’re alright?”

The other man sat up, leaning against the wall. “Just peachy,” he grunted, leaning his elbows on his knees. “No need to worry, pretty thing. My kind are made for a bit of wear and tear.”

Shit. And a smile meant to break a man’s heart, to boot. 

Well. Jaskier had never been one to resist a pretty face.

“Can I help you? Buy you an ale, maybe?”

The grin turned devilish, topaz eyes shimmering with mischief. “Aye, and a bowl of stew if you’re going to bed me,” he winked. “Probably need the energy. You seem like a wild one.” 

Jaskier flushed, shocked and pleased all in one. He returned the wink with a provocative smile of his own. “A gentleman never tells, my dear.”

He held out a hand. A little flirtation did not an acquaintance make. Jaskier was no fool, either.

Two swords on his back. Heavy traveling cloak, worn at the hem and tattered. Scarring on his face and forearms - from some beast or other, no doubt. 

A witcher. Very interesting indeed.

Those discerning eyes stared him down, assessing, before seeming to make a decision. A strong hand clasped Jaskier’s own.

He pulled the other man up with only a little effort and noted the surprise on the witcher’s face. He felt no small amount of pride. He didn’t have a witcher’s bulk, but he wasn’t a small man by any means.

Now that he was standing, Jaskier took full stock of the other man’s form. His new friend had about three inches on him and at least a hundred pounds. Jaskier felt a pleasant tingle run down his spine. It was rare he met a delicious man like this on accident.

“Jaskier,” he announced in his most imperious voice with a courtly, sweeping bow. “At your service.” 

The other man quirked his lips, amused. “Eskel.”

Jaskier felt giddy. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Eskel. I believe I promised you an ale?”

That lovely half-smile doubled in size. “Aye. I believe you did.” 

###

There wasn’t much talking after they went upstairs. Jaskier’s rented room was small, the bed smaller, but it would do the job. 

“Darling,” Jaskier purred once the door was shut, “That armor is quite dashing, but I have to say you’re a tad overdressed.” 

Eskel’s warm body pressed against his with a mouthwatering pressure. With the wall at his back and the absolute boulder of a man at his front, he’d never felt happier about being cornered. A rough hand grasped his jaw, calloused thumb brushing against his bottom lip.

“Pretty words from a pretty mouth,” Eskel rumbled in his deep baritone. Golden eyes bored into Jaskier’s own, pinning him with their intensity. “D’you sing just as sweetly?”

Jaskier smirked wolfishly, wrapping his arms firmly around Eskel’s neck. “I’m sure you’ll find out.”

A husky chuckle, followed by a throaty moan. And then the night was silent.

###

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open, moonlight filtering through the tiny inn window. 

He quietly took stock of the pleasant soreness in his limbs, aches in places which meant he’d had a very good night indeed. It took a few moments for him to become aware of the hard chest beneath his ear, carpeted with smattering of dark hair.

He came fully into awareness, remembering his night with Eskel and feeling a goofy smile bloom across his face. He was almost too comfortable using the witcher as a pillow. He would be perfectly content to lounge around until Eskel woke up. Maybe convince him to go for another round… But loathe as he was to move, he knew he needed to get back home.

As quietly as possible, he disentangled himself from the body below him. He dressed in silence, distinctly aware of every swish and rustle of fabric making their way to sharp witcher ears. He put on just enough clothing to be decent for the trek back, not wanting to delay any further.

Jaskier looked back at the man on the bed. He truly had the body of a god, looked absolutely delectable with a sheet just barely covering his exquisite cock. Blessedly, he’d had the skills in bed to match, which Jaskier was quite thankful for.

He looked oddly vulnerable, soft brown curls falling into his eyes and face lax with sleep. The moon’s rays danced across his striking features and made his tanned skin glow. He was the picture of inviting.

He was beautiful. It was a shame this was only for a night.

“May our paths cross again, Eskel,” he spoke softly.

Jaskier slipped out the door, unaware of the witcher watching him leave.

###

His nightly outings were becoming more common the closer he got to his impending doom. Since he’d passed his twenty-first birthday, Jaskier knew he was living on borrowed time. He knew his father would make things as unpleasant as possible.

Men of the Pankratz family were honor-bound to marry by the end of their twenty-first year. If they had not made a match by this time, a match would be arranged for them by the head of the household. The legend (or so he was told, although it all sounded like horse shit) went that were this rule not met, a curse would befall their house and lands, blighting all who lived within them. 

Or something. He’d never really paid attention during his governess’s lessons, dreadfully boring woman that she was.

But he was damned sure everyone in his house believed in the legend. Without a doubt, he’d be turned out on his ass for the first respectable gentleperson that came calling for him. He was under no illusions that his father had his best interests at heart–far from it, in fact. The sooner they’d be rid of him, the better.

Nothing like a parent’s love, eh?

He bitterly chuckled to himself as he stepped into the shadowed gardens below his quarters. Right turn at the archway. Left at the lavender bushes. Two steps and a hop across the charming little pond with the frogs he’d played with as a child. Now just a shimmy up the trellis to his open window and he’d be home free. 

He should really look into doing this professionally. He’d make an excellent spy.

Jaskier crested the windowsill, feet on the warmed stone floors. The embers of the fire were still hot in the hearth, no doubt stoked by his diligent valet. let out a yawn, feeling his eyes start to droop. 

“I imagine I’d be tired too, after an acrobatics routine like that.”

He jumped about a foot in the air. He did not shriek, thank you very much.

“Jana, you witch!” He hissed, blue eyes blazing. “Perhaps I should put a bell on you!”

She smirked, green eyes glinting maliciously. “And where would be the fun in that?” 

She was the devil incarnate. Evil in the flesh. He loved her to pieces.

“Sister dear,” he hummed, stepping towards his wardrobe. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just checking on my dearest Julek. Thought you might be tossing and turning tonight, is all.”

Jaskier squinted at her before turning back to his clothes. He grabbed a nightshirt and stepped behind the changing screen. “And why ever would I be restless?”

He didn’t need to see her face to know she was laughing at him. “Just a… feeling I had.”

He quickly stepped out from behind the screen, more comfortable now in his loose night clothes. He stepped towards the basin to wash his face. Jana was sitting primly on the bench, legs crossed daintily, looking serene as ever. 

Something was definitely wrong.

“Oh?” He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of true curiosity. She was unbearably smug about this little talent of hers.

She got like this, sometimes. Jana was prone to feelings—no one in their family called them premonitions, per se, but it was hard to find a different word to describe them. Sometimes it was small things, like an unexpected change in the weather, but there were other times, too–like when she’d gotten a bad feeling about Aunt Margot’s cold, and she’d passed within a fortnight.

Jana hummed, noncommittal, and tossed her long, chocolate locks over her shoulder. “Something is going to happen tomorrow. Something big. And it concerns you, brother dearest.” 

Jaskier didn’t respond, mind racing. He schooled his features, maintaining the indifferent mask he’d learned as a son of the peerage. The tournament tomorrow was for the benefit of the Pankratz House. It didn’t, however, directly impact Jaskier in any notable way–not more than it would impact them all.

“We shall see, I suppose. Now, if you don’t mind,” he pointedly shuffled towards his bed, pressing a kiss to her cheek as he passed. “I need my beauty rest.” 

He’d turned down the covers and was just about to snuff the light when Jana approached him, ruffling his hair. He huffed. She turned away toward the door with a smile.

“Indeed we shall, little brother. Tomorrow.”

###

The morning dawned bright, trumpets and birdsong intermingling with the fresh dew. The sunlight was dappled through the trees in the clearing and the air smelled of late spring blossoms.

It was far too fine a day for such nonsense.

“Hark! Hear ye, hear ye! On this day commences the Tournament of Koselig, attended only by the most honorable of knights and lords!”

The opening speeches were always dull as watching paint dry. The Pankratz family was seated in the box with the best view of the action at the head of the field. He was expected to smile and nod as the competitors passed their box, acknowledging the brave souls fighting and potentially losing life and limb. All for the sake of their entertainment–and today, the dubious honor of ruling the shittiest parcel in the province.

It made him sick, to be honest. 

“You don’t suppose we could slip out after the announcements, do you? I’m sure Vincent could be convinced to cover for us with the right motivation.” He winked at Jana, earning a giggle in return.

“You know we can’t, Julek. Besides–I really do have a good feeling about today. Something important is going to happen, I just know it.” 

Her feelings were not to be dismissed. It was sure to be an eventful day, for one reason or another. He just hoped it wasn’t at his expense.

“Jana, Julian, do be quiet. Where are your manners?” His mother tutted, one elegant brow arched. She was the spitting image of his sister, with a few more lines around her eyes and streaks of gray through her hair.

“Apologies, mother. I seem to have forgotten my patience today,” Jaskier smiled sweetly. “Must these things be so terribly tedious?”

“It would do you well to watch your tongue, Julian. Comes with the territory. A Viscount is expected to behave and attend events such as this.”

“Only a Viscount in name, father. Don’t you worry–you’ll never have to bless me with more responsibility than that with our dear Jana here.”

The tension between father and son was palpable. Jana discretely squeezed his hand in support. 

Jaskier’s relationship with his father had never been the greatest, but they had reached an all-time low recently. He felt like he was on a tightrope, closer and closer to falling to the brink as each day passed. Who–or what–his father had in store for him was a great source of anxiety. And two of them weren’t exactly the types to have heart-to-heart chats, so his fate would inevitably be a surprise. Joy of joys.

In other circumstances, he’d be filling the gaping pit of anxiety with a glass of wine and a warm body, but alas. Duty called, as his father liked to remind him.

“We have the honor of being hosted today by the esteemed Pankratz family: the Earl Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove, Lady Maria Pankratz of Lettenhove, Lady Jana Pankratz of Lettenhove, and Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove,” the herald carried on. “The knights and lords present will compete today for the honor of overseeing one of his Lordship’s properties in Hygge, a parcel of land which…”

Jaskier found his attention drifting beyond the stands, the announcements a tiresome buzzing in the background. From the looks of it, every person in the city of Koselig had turned out for the event, and probably the neighboring cities too. They were practically giving away a prize today, wrapped up in a neat, entertaining package and decorated with a ball. It was no wonder it looked like the entirety of coastal Redania had arrived on their front lawn. 

He wasn’t surprised. His parents were well-liked for their fair ruling of the lands they controlled, but they were equally liked for the lavish parties they liked to throw. It wasn’t all a front, but every event, gift, and act of service was part of a carefully calculated plan to keep the populace happy and maintain appearances.

His mother, for all that she was kind, was incredibly shrewd and good with people. She knew what would keep them happiest (and what would shut them up). His father was a strict man, committed to the principles of duty and obedience. At the same time, he wouldn’t hesitate to manipulate a situation in his favor. Jaskier loved them, but he didn’t always like them.

Hygge was a sizeable estate just shy of a week’s ride north of Jaskier’s home in Koselig. Its accompanying village was full of fishermen and farmers alike, with the coast nearby and plenty of fertile land to till. The former Lord who’d ruled over the property for the last twenty years had died two months prior. Rather unfortunately for everyone, he passed without an heir. Even more unfortunately, he had done a poor job managing things in the last five years. Much work would need to be done by the new proprietor.

His parents needed someone to manage the property and township. Jana, as heir to their family estate, had been assisting with the property in the months since the former Lord’s passing. This obviously wasn’t a long-term solution as she would take over in Koselig one day.

They had decided to select a new proprietor, ideally a knight looking to settle down or a lower member of the peerage without many responsibilities. And because his mother had a flair for dramatics, what better way to find someone willing than a tournament?

It was great marketing, he had to hand it to her. Undoubtedly, they would find someone today.

“Gentlemen! Please present yourself to the venerable Pankratz family!”

Jaskier put on his most polite and courtly smile for the introductions. One by one, the assembled lords and knights stepped up to the box. There was a Lord Valdo from Cidaris who seemed utterly obnoxious–-gods, he hoped he didn’t win. A knight from Roggeveen with a peculiar mustache. Another Lord So-and-So from Denesle who sounded absolutely drunk off his ass—that would make for a good show. 

He almost fell out of his chair when he spotted a familiar red gambeson and mop of brown hair. Flashes of last night sent a rush of blood to a very unfortunate place as he locked gazes with a familiar pair of golden eyes. 

Their bodies meeting in an intimate embrace. Eskel’s calloused hands gripping his hips tightly. Deep, rumbling groans as Jaskier rode him. The insatiable desire for more. And afterward, those same work-worn hands stroking soothingly down his back. Sweaty bangs tenderly brushed off his forehead. A gentle hand cleaning him up with a rough-hewn cloth. A handsome face, enhanced by scars, relaxed and sated in sleep.

Fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck.

Eskel dipped into a formal bow. “Sir Eskel, Witcher of the Wolf School.” 

“Ha!” His father burst out, with great amusement. “A witcher, competing in my tournament! Surely you can’t be serious.” 

“Deadly so, my Lord,” Eskel’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes cool. Despite this, he gave no outward signs of annoyance, his posture remaining relaxed and easy. 

“Oh?” His father raised an imperious brow. “And do you meet the entry requirements? One must be an established member of the peerage or a knight to compete. This isn’t a tournament for just anyone.”

“How fortunate, then,” Eskel drawled, “that I am knighted. His Royal Highness, Windhalm of Attre, knighted me four summers ago. Dealt with a rotfiend problem he was having, nasty business.”

Alfred did not say a word, but one look at his face said enough about his frustration. Eskel paid no mind.

“Convenient as well that he granted me the title Baronet of Attre, as a personal honor for my services. Still a peasant at heart and in title, but the words are pretty, yeah?”

Eskel rubbed a hand over the back of his neck in a seemingly bashful gesture. “Aye, a shame I turned the land down at the time. After all, a witcher? A proprietor? Can’t be serious.” He gave a deep belly laugh at the thought, throwing his head back. “Changed my mind, though. I’ve rather come to like the idea of settling down.” 

The tension could be cut with a knife. Jaskier, his sister, his mother–hell, even the herald–all waited, staring at Alfred in suspense.

“Well then, my Lord? Do I pass the test?” The witcher gave a winning smile, the epitome of mannerly but possessing an air of cold detachment Jaskier knew his father detested. It was the same persona his father used at court.

Color crept up Alfred’s collar. Jaskier could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. He hid a smile behind his hand, biting his lip. Entertainment, indeed.

Alfred cleared his throat. “Well, Sir Eskel of the Wolf School, Baronet de Attre, it certainly seems you do. We look forward to seeing you… compete.” Alfred gave a stiff and reluctant nod, dismissing him. The moment was over.

Or, well, Jaskier thought it was.

Eskel gave his family another formal bow. His eyes met Jaskier’s with intention as he rose back to his full height. Jaskier felt his breath catch in his throat as gold met blue. 

There was something there, in his gaze. A heat–not the burning kind, no, but something pleasant. Like hot cider on a winter’s night. Like a fire to warm cold bones--or an aching heart. Jaskier felt a shiver down his spine.

He felt trapped in that stare, unable to look away. He gave a coquettish smile, unable to resist his natural flirtation even for a moment, particularly with the witcher. Eskel gave a charming, boyish grin back, inclining his head deeply before turning away.

And oh, what a lovely sight he made. Although his trousers really did look better off…

“What the hell was that?” Jana hissed into his ear, breaking the spell Jaskier had fallen under.

“What was what?” Jaskier asked in his best attempt at innocence, rubbing sweaty palms against his knees. 

“You know what. Do you know him?” 

“We may have met before - hard to say, I meet a lot of people.”

Jana scoffed, pushing against his shoulder with her own at his non-answer. Jaskier laughed, fondly, and turned his attention back to the field.

Neither of them noticed Alfred’s piercing stare as he eyed them with suspicion.

(1/3)

[mrs-lockley]

it really annoys me whenever makeup companies release new products and when the models are light-skinned east-asians, everyone in the comments are saying "can you please put poc in your marketing campaign?/stop ignoring poc"

there are a couple reasons why this upsets me, and i just need to get this off my chest

rant under the cut. tw/cw anti-asian racism, colorism

colorism - i understand the frustration because as a medium, tan-skinned southeast asian woc, more than half the time, makeup companies use models who are on the pale to light-medium spectrum. i'm smack in the middle on medium and their swatches aren't accurate to me, and if i'm having a hard time finding swatches for someone who is medium-skinned (and i'm not even that dark to begin with), then i can only imagine how much harder it is for someone who is tan, dark, and deep-skinned. there's a reason why i don't wear foundation anymore. aside from it being a personal preference, it's hard to find the right undertones and shade for southeast asian skintones (even when the company is found by a woc, and don't get me started on the colorism in the asian beauty market). they're either too cool, neutral, or too yellow/orange if it's warm. there's a severe lack of brown asians and other tan/dark-skinned poc. poc come in all colors- there are dark-skinned asians, light-skinned asians, white passing poc, but no matter their phenotype, they are still poc. which leads me to my next point

anti-asian racism - for some odd reason (which is not odd at all!), in my personal experience, both white people and non-asian poc are quick to dismiss asians when talking about racism. when people complain (and i've seen non-asian poc and white people say this) in marketing campaigns with light-skinned poc (typically east asians) featured, they're quick to say "it would be nice if you included a poc." i'm getting so angry and frustrated writing this because this triggers me to think of the 20 years of casual racism i experienced in my life. when an east-asian or light-skinned asian poc is used as a model, you're essentially saying asians are not poc. ASIANS ARE POC, EVEN IF THEY ARE LIGHT-SKINNED. yes, there are light-skinned asians and yes, the asian/asian-american experience is different from latino and black experiences, and yes, i am aware that asian/asian-americans have privilege. and this is a topic for another time about the model minority myth and how it's used to pit asians against latinos and black people, but when you dismiss asians as poc, you're erasing their experience with systemic racism. not all of us are doctors, lawyers, and engineers. as a southeast asian, i never benefited from the model minority because i am not the "right" asian. a lot of south and southeast asian countries have painful histories of imperialism, colonialism, and in some cases, genocide. to blanket all asians as "model minorities" and implying that asians are not poc or "poc enough" is downright disrespectful, hurtful, and painful. when you are complaining about light-skinned asians as models in makeup marketing campaigns, do not dismiss us and say "oh i wish they used a poc as their model." ASIANS ARE POC! i understand the frustration as a tan southeast asian woman, but you're being dismissive about the asian experience. it triggers me because i think of all the casual racism i experienced throughout my childhood and when talking about it to my poc friends, 95% of the time, my non-asian poc friends have told me, and i quote, "you don't experience racism. asians are doing better than white people too, you have nothing complain about. you're the good stereotype!" is downright hurtful when my teachers have looked down on me for not being as academically smart as my east asian classmates and ignore all the hard work, blood, sweat, and tears i put into my assignments, when my classmates have casually asked me if i eat dog, when in college my white professor and white classmate were talking about the winter olympics and said it was weird that asians eat dog and i told them that it's not your domestic dog, but a dog farm similar to how there are chicken and pig farms, to which my professor looked me dead in the eye in front of the whole class, said "well how are you gonna know the difference when you see the dog down the street?" and have the ENTIRE CLASS laugh at you when you are the only asian in that class. when covid started, a non-asian poc looked at me and the asian girl i sat next to and said "I guess you can't eat dog anymore huh with covid." when in my online class, a classmate of mine posted a drawing of a bat that wrote in very loud letters, "WHO ATE THE BAT?" when an older non-asian poc that i considered a friend said they'd recognize my sister by how she looks and pulled their eyes at me, when my classmates said i didn't look "asian enough" and proceeded to pull their eyes at me. when attending research conferences in higher education talking about students of color in their retention rates, representation, and academics, being told explicitly and when i asked why asians aren't included when they talked about poc, they said "there is no data included or provided on asians, we didn't find it necessary to include them" despite showing data that they had a good amount of asians in their student demographic when other research shows that southeast asians tend to have high rates of dropping out of college.

when complaining about the lack of darker skinned models when a light-skinned asian is used, then say "please use a darker skinned model" instead of "please use a poc." BECAUSE ASIANS ARE POC!!!!!!!!!!! I cannot stress this enough! i understand that people mean well and don't mean any harm by it, but again, it's downright hurtful to ignore and dismiss asians as poc. just say "use a darker skinned model/poc." at best, this is a colorism issue.

i apologize if my post comes off as rude, but i'm frustrated at being dismissed and having my experiences ignored or erased. i am not making this a competition on which group experiences the most amount of racism.

i understand people mean well, but i am so tired of being dismissed and not included in activism, and when i do speak up, i'm ignored. i am a poc, i deserve to take up space and talk about my experience. i deserve to exist

[uwingdispatch]

Every Embrace

Every Embrace

Notes: Bodhi Rook/Gender Neutral Reader, disabled reader, everyone lives au, post-rebellion, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, fluff and angst

CW: PTSD, chronic illness, disability, medical settings, implied sexual intimacy

Ao3 Link

★★★★★★★★

You don’t know many people who wear glasses. Most beings on Chandrila and other developed worlds undergo a simple surgery to correct their vision. But Bodhi—he had a particularly unpleasant experience with the Imperial surgeon who’d worked on his eyes at the academy, and he has no intention of ever having that kind of surgery again. Which means the goggles he wears for other mechanical work aren’t just a safety precaution—they now have prescription lenses. And if he needs to read anything, whether it’s his data pad or a cereal box, he needs glasses.

At the moment, Bodhi is frantically going through every drawer in the house. “Love,” he asks, “are you sure you didn’t move them?”

“I never touch your glasses,” you say. “Because of exactly this.”

He sighs. “I could have sworn I left them on the table in the living room.”

It occurs to you that Bodhi fell asleep reading on the sofa last night and had to be coaxed to get up and come to bed. After lifting a few cushions, you find not one but two pairs of specs in the sofa. You call his name and hold your findings up in front of you.

His smile brightens his whole face. “I was starting to feel a bit mad,” he says. “Where were they?”

“Couch cushions.”

Bodhi takes the lenses from you, puts one pair on the kitchen counter and one on his head, like he used to wear those welding goggles back during the war. You know based on your own experience with eye health, and the eye health of many of your peers, that one of these days your partner is going to find himself needing corrective lenses for more than just reading. As you watch him return to his task, hunched over the recipe he’d been trying to read, those glasses ever so slightly sliding down the bridge of his nose—you can’t help but think how handsome he looks.

“Good,” he says. “I added a few things to the grocery list, and I’ve sent it to Cilvie in case you two want to do that tomorrow.”

“Bodhi—”

“It’s fine if you don’t. I can take care of it after work.”

“We can probably go to the store tomorrow. But I need you to sit down. You haven’t stopped moving since you got home.”

Bodhi sighs, running a hand through his long, dark hair. “I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he says. “I just feel like…maybe I’m forgetting again.”

Every fiber of your being wants to run to him, but you know he needs to come to you. With his memory—he doesn’t talk about it if he doesn’t want to and you know not to pry.

So you sit on the couch, take a deep breath, close your eyes. And when you open them, he’s there, next to you. He wraps his arms around you, his big hands gentle and warm. He slides his glasses to the top of his head again, pushing back his hair.

“You always figure me out,” he says. “But please don’t panic on my behalf.”

“Are you actually comforting me right now, Bo?” you ask. “When you’re clearly struggling?”

“No one calls me that but you,” he says. “Not since I was small.” He stares straight ahead for a moment, something in his eyes tells you he’s not entirely here with you.

“Bo,” you say, “come back to me.”

He smiles, takes your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Sometimes…” he says, pausing to take a breath. “Sometimes it’s nice for me to just be able to take care of you. To make sure you are safe and happy. Maybe it’s a bit selfish but it’s something I couldn’t do even for myself for a long time.”

Resting your head on his shoulder, you notice how nice he smells—some combination of shampoo, the clean cotton of his shirt, a light cologne he knows you like. You want to ask him what he’s thinking, whether he’s okay. But you know he has more to tell you. And the only way you’ll hear it is if you wait for him to be ready.

It’s not long before he lets out a long breath and says, “I made a doctor’s appointment a few weeks ago. Neurology specialist.”

“That’s a big step,” you say, wondering how much he’d been keeping from you, knowing how he hates the idea of burdening you with his own health issues. “You could have told me—I know this is really hard on you.”

“I know. It’s just a little too real, I guess.” He pauses. “But I have to know.”

It had been years since Bodhi had had his mind violated by Bor Gullet, a being who could not only see inside your mind but change it, move things around, make you believe anything or leave you with nothing at all. Bodhi was lucky to have mostly recovered, but there were side effects—then and still. For a while doctors said his symptoms lined up entirely with his PTSD, but Bodhi wasn’t so sure. Doubts like that can overwhelm a person, and now, after all this time wondering if he might have some kind of brain injury, there’s only one way to find out for sure.

“When is it?” you ask.

“Well,” he says, a “It was set for a few months from now. But I got a call right before I left work today and there’s an opening tomorrow. So…”

You take his face in your hands, gently caress his short beard before drawing him into a brief kiss. “I’m proud of you,” you say. “Where are we going tomorrow?”

“We?”

“I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“All right then,” he says. “The specialist is on Hosnian Prime. We’ll have to leave early.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be with you.”

Bodhi takes your hand, brings it to his lips for a sweet kiss. “Thank you, love.”

You hear Cilvie chirping from down the hall: packing your bag.

Someone in this house is always eavesdropping, but it is nice of your droid to take care of that for you. You thank her, and then look to Bodhi, his big, dark eyes reflecting so much love.

“It’s going to be okay,” you tell him. “We’ve got this.”

*

You’d been living together for just a few months the first time Bodhi went to a doctor’s appointment with you. He’d actually suggested it, hoping to provide some comfort, maybe even get some insight into what to watch out for in an emergency. If it had been any other man, you might have balked at the idea, wondered what controlling nonsense he was up to. But it was Bodhi, the most sincere being you’d ever met. So you agreed.

Unfortunately, the appointment he joined you on had brought a decent amount of bad news. Medications weren’t working as they were supposed to, side effects of other medications might be too risky given your conditions. You left feeling somehow both deflated and panicky. When Bodhi came in from the waiting room, the physician had nothing helpful to share with him, either.

In the turbolift, on the way from the doctor’s office to the parking garage, Bodhi asked you, “How are you feeling? I mean, physically.”

“Not terrible,” you told him. “Same as this morning.”

“Right,” he said. “Okay, well, we’re getting dessert then.”

“Have you even had lunch?” you asked.

“I think dessert is in order regardless,” he said, putting an arm around you, bringing your body close to his. “Maybe a bit of chocolate, even.”

Bodhi touched his nose to yours and you closed your eyes, breathing in the comfort of being close to him, his familiar scent, the steady beating of his heart, the strands of hair fallen loose from his braid brushing against your cheek.

“I really thought there was going to be good news today,” you said. “Something helpful.”

“I know.” he whispered. “I’m so sorry that wasn’t the case.”

“I’m so tired,” you said. “How do we have so many advancements in medicine and I’m still such a mess?”

“You’re not a mess,” he said. “I know I can’t do a lot to help right now, but…whatever I can do? I’m going to do that.” You’d almost reached the level where your speeder was parked when Bodhi pressed a kiss to your lips and said, “If that’s all right with you, I mean.”

And in his embrace, some of your anxiety started to fade. He took your hand as you walked to your vehicle, opened the door for you as if you were on a first date. “I know a place,” Bodhi said. “I have a client in this neighborhood that I’ve done work for. She has a hard time leaving the house so usually Pao or I come to her. And there’s a cantina—you’ll see. The sweets menu is glorious.”

“Glorious?”

“Glorious.”

It was a quick drive to the little cantina, and when you walked in, Bodhi’s arm around your waist, you immediately knew why he wanted to bring you here. It was a casual comfort food spot, and right by the door was the very full dessert case.

You found a booth in the back corner and you ended up ordering a sandwich to split before indulging in the dessert menu. It was just before dusk and not particularly crowded. As you were waiting for your late lunch, Bodhi got up from the table abruptly, told you he’d be right back.

When you’d met, back on Yavin, Bodhi had been shy, almost debilitatingly so, often compensating for his anxiety by talking too fast and too much—something you’d come to find charming even if others merely tolerated it. But in the pilot’s seat or in combat, according to the folks who’d fought alongside him, he would almost become a different person—a man with a commanding presence and a sharp tactical mind. That was how he’d been consistently promoted. If he hadn’t decided to step away from the Navy, you both knew he would have earned the rank of General.

He’d grown into himself since those early days, his confidence coming back to him as he’d found strength in his found family. In you. But still, it surprised you when he put a credit in the cantina’s old-fashioned jukebox, returning to you with an outstretched hand.

“I’ve always loved this song,” he said. “Come dance with me.”

“What?” you asked, not entirely sure that he was serious.

“Dance with me, love. Just for a little while.”

You raised an eyebrow as you took his hand, the slow, soft melody coming in over the speakers in the early evening calm.

“Come on, now,” he said, a smile in his eyes. “This song makes me think of you, you know.”

As soon as you were in his arms, it didn’t matter whether people were watching. “How many years have I known you, Bodhi Rook? And not known that you could dance?”

“Too many, perhaps,” he said, quickly brushing his lips over your cheek. “Maybe this is something we should do more often.”

“Dancing?”

“With the promise of dessert.”

*

Bodhi’s original U-Wing was a total loss when it crashed on Endor. And while he’d enjoyed his stint as an X-Wing pilot through the Battle of Jakku and the month that he’d spent piloting a repurposed zeta-class transport—much like the one he’d flown with the Empire—it was the U-Wing that he kept coming back to when he was looking for something to salvage for personal use.

“My whole life turned around when Cassian pulled me aboard that ship,” he said on the day he finally made his decision. “It’s a quite different, this civilian model. I’ll have to install a hyperdrive somehow, and we’ll need a new droid port…”

You’d let him ramble, even though what he was saying may as well have been Huttese to you. And today as you board the U-Wing—Bodhi’s U-Wing—you admire as always the beauty of it, so much of it built from scrap but crafted and polished to look like new. With his hands.

Now in hyperspace, the silver streak of stars just outside the transparisteel windows, you settle on one of the plush benches that Bodhi had reupholstered himself a few years back. With Red keeping an eye on the navigation, Bodhi comes back to sit with you.

“Thanks for coming with me, love,” he says,  “I can’t say I’m excited about this.”

“I know,” you say. “But if you get some answers, it’s worth it, right?”

He nods, pulling your legs over his so you’re nearly in his lap, his arms around you, bringing closer to his body. “I’m so afraid that I could lose something important. In my mind,” he says. “That I could lose my memories with you.”

You place one hand over his heart. He’s wearing a v-neck t-shirt and a soft cardigan—so different from how you used to find him in the back of the old U-Wing, so many years ago. But, stars, how you love him in v-necks—how they compliment his toned chest, the way one of his tattoos peeks out from under the collar.

“Bodhi,” you say. “That won’t happen. And if it did, I’d be right here to remind you.”

You caress your partner’s cheek, give his neatly trimmed beard a little tickle before he touches his forehead to yours, a few strands of dark hair slipping from where he’d pulled it halfway back, still damp from his shower earlier this morning.

“I hope the answer isn’t surgery,” he says. “I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll do it together, Bo,” you say. “I promise. There’s nothing in the galaxy that you have to do alone.”

“Okay.”

“You look really nice today, you know.”

“Now you’re just trying to distract me.”

“Maybe I am,” you say. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

Bodhi kisses you then, his hunger for your touch evident as he takes your face in his hands, his lips moving slow but firm as they fit to yours so perfectly that you feel like you were made for each other.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Is this okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” you tell him.

He responds with more kisses, deeper and more urgent as he leads you to the little pull-out cot he’d installed where on his old Alliance ship there would have been a second door and an ion canon. As you lie down, Bodhi folding the both of you under a blanket and sliding his hands under your clothes, you’re glad for the curtain behind the cockpit. When Bodhi’s gentle fingertips trace the curve of your thigh, you hope that this moment of pleasure is bringing him even half the peace it’s bringing you, a bit of warm calm in the cold of hyperspace.

*

“You know, the day we met, I thought that I’d never get to spend any time with you—and I hated it,” you told Bodhi. Back at home, you were now snuggled up on the couch together watching a holofilm you’d both seen more times than you could remember. “You were a big hero—the kind of pilot who had so much attention on him that he’d never have the time to spend with non-combat personnel.”

“Well,” he said. “As I’ve told you, I fell in love with you the day I met you, when you handed me that jacket. I’d never had a jacket that fit me so well,” He paused to softly run his knuckles over your cheek. “And you were so beautiful, love. Radiating kindness. I had no choice but to break things on purpose to keep coming back to see you.”

“Excuse me?” you said. There were a few times that you suspected he might be up to something, but back then you couldn’t quite imagine that this attractive, important man would break so many zippers just to see you.

“I didn’t really leave the cockpit much that first year after Scarif. Between having to learn to use my new leg and the fact that I was rubbish with a blaster…well, I wasn’t putting as much strain on my clothes as, say, Han or Jyn.”

“I knew it,” you said, laughing.

“And you never said anything?” Bodhi’s smile was so big and so charming—the smile you’d fallen for back on Yavin. And you reached to tuck a few strands of hair behind his ear, a handsome, if premature, streak of silver that had come in a year or so ago.

“Because every day I hoped to hear you’d somehow popped another button on your uniform. So that I could see you, too. Plus, you always brought me caf—and knew exactly how I liked it.”

“Of course I did. You were it for me,” he said, kissing you softly. “You are it for me, love. You know that right?”

You smile. “Well…let’s just say a more responsible tailor would have taught you to sew a button.”

“I’m glad you never did.”

“Me, too.”

*

It’s hard being in the waiting room, knowing that Bodhi is just beyond a door you can see a few meters away from where you’re sitting, and not wanting to be there. But there’s radiation involved, and he has Red, so Bodhi suggested that you go explore downtown. And you’d thought about it, but ended up just getting a cup of caf and a sandwich and returning to the waiting room to read a book. It’s been a few hours, and you’re starting to worry when the door opens and Bodhi emerges, followed by Red.

He looks tired—but not upset. You must look tired, too, because the first thing he says is, “How long have you been sitting here?”

“I just wanted to be here if you needed me,” you told him.

Red chirps: made sure Bodhi was okay.

“I know you did.” You say, giving the droid a little pat. Turning back to Bodhi, you ask, “How’d it go?”

He takes your hand and leads you out of the office, to the turbolift, out to the busy sidewalk. And then he says, “Mostly good news, I think.” He pauses, takes a breath. “Let’s find a place to get some dinner and we can talk about it.”

So you find a little diner, snag a corner booth, retrieve Bodhi’s reading glasses from your shoulder bag so he can read the menu, and after ordering some local comfort food, he tells you about the appointment.

“So they did find something,” he says. His voice is a little shaky, and you squeeze his hand. “I should have had you come in to hear it from the doctor—something about scar tissue. But it’s entirely treatable.”

“What kind of treatment?”

“There’s a medication that they sent to the pharmacy back home,” he says. “But I have to take it in conjunction with therapy.”

You smile at Bodhi, the look on his face a bit sheepish. Bodhi hadn’t done talk therapy in years. His previous therapist had retired unexpectedly and he never got around to finding someone new. He was doing pretty well so you’d never felt like it was your place to push him to find a new clinician. But you can tell in this moment that he’s dreading it.

“Are you going to do it?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says. “The neurologist already put in a referral to someone back on Chandrila. I looked her up, she sounds lovely. But I’m not thrilled about it.”

You reach to touch his face, tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. “Whatever you need from me to support you in this, it’s yours.

“Thank you,” he says before sneaking a quick kiss. “I’m glad you came today.”

“Me, too.”

When you leave the diner, it’s dark out. Both of you had talked earlier about possibly doing something fun tonight, but that was before the long day you’d had. Standing on the sidewalk, you ask Bodhi if he’s about ready to head back to the ship to get some sleep before leaving tomorrow.

“Actually, love,” he says. “I booked us a room. I thought it would be nice. Maybe even a bit romantic…I know you’re probably exhausted, though.”

“How far is it from here?”

Bodhi points out a tall building just a few blocks away. “It’s right there, I think. With the red spire. Are you good to walk?”

“I should be fine.”

With Bodhi’s arm around your waist you make your way to the hotel and, when you get to your room, Red plugs himself into the droid port in the corner and lets you know that he’s shutting down for the night. You’re about to ask about your luggage when you find that Bodhi has had your bags brought here by a courier earlier that day.

“You’ve thought of everything,” you say.

Bodhi pulls you close, touches his nose to yours. “You deserve everything, darling,” he says. “I mean that.”

When he kisses you, the sounds of the city fade away and a desire wakes inside you, a hunger to be closer to this brave, good man—who even in the midst of his own difficulties is thinking of you. You press closer to him, and Bodhi starts humming—a song he always says reminds him of you, and you sway with him, a sweet slow dance to shake off the stress of the day.

Soon you’re undressing each other, stumbling toward the bed, sliding into the soft sheets, clothes landing in piles on the floor.

Bodhi kisses your jaw and whispers in your ear, “You took such good care of me today. Can I take care of you now?”

You nod and he begins a gentle trail of kisses down your neck, your shoulder, your clavicle, your sternum. His beard tickles your skin as you realize you have goosebumps from the pleasure of his touch.

“Stars,” he says, taking your hand, his fingers lacing in between yours. “Have I ever told you that you’re perfect?”

And as he continues, pressing his soft lips to your tummy, you know he knows that neither of you are perfect by any standard measurement. That you are both deeply flawed, clinically. Emotionally. Still, you believe him when he tells you this.

“So are you,” you tell him. “And I love you so much.”

He hushes you, and you make a mental note to reassure him later of his strength and his beauty, how his body and his mind are exquisite and how lucky you are to have him. But for now, you relax into this moment with him, a sweet bit of pleasure that both of you deserve.

★★★★★★★★

Thank you so much for reading! I love writing Bodhi. I need a universe where he lives. But we have our AU. I hope this fic makes you feel seen and loved.

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[honoviadakai]

Ivan’s neck scar

(Cw: mentions of decapitation, mentions of attempted s*icide, violent historical events and mental health issues)

So in case this is new information, Ivan Braginsky does in fact have a scar around his neck

(not the best image but it’s there under the neck bandages, I promise)

It’s not yet been revealed when or how he got that scar but it’s there and Ivan seems to not what people to see it, much less talk about it. That leads me to believe that whatever happened was a very traumatic incident for him which leads me to a few theories.

Mongolia or Tatarstan attacked Ivan when he was a child.

When a very young Ivan first meets a very young Tolis, he explains to him that living under Tatar is very difficult and that he wants to become a crazy strong country soon so he is no longer under their control. There’s even a brief moment where you can see blood on Ivan’s hands, and maybe even on his clothes, implying he has to fight everyday just to survive till the next day. It’s very possible that Ivan tried to rebel a few times. Given that at the time he was a very small child, neither of the aforementioned older nations probably punished him too severely but I can see a situation where they got fed up with Ivan’s rebellious attitude and either completely or partially decapitated him as a way to show him who was stronger and that if he kept rebelling, they’d do worse.

Either Feliks or Tolis tried to decapitate him.

Both Lithuania and Poland we’re having wars with Russia/the Soviet Union starting in the early 1900s and some of the battles got really intense so there might have been an intense fight between 2, or even all 3, parties involved and one of them struck a deadly blow to Ivan. Tolis in particular is stated to be a very disciplined and competent combatant so I’m definitely leaning more towards the idea that in the heat of the battle, Tolis either particular or completely decapitated Ivan.

A human attacked Ivan during one of the many revolutions that occurred in Russia’s history.

I specifically think Ivan was attacked during the attack knows as “Bloody Sunday”(St. Petersburg January 22, 1905). We see time and time again in the anime and Manga, especially with Russia, that nations have to follow their bosses orders to the letter even if they personally don’t agree with what they’re bosses are doing. He was most likely ordered to join the imperial forces and shoot his citizens, some of whom did try to fight back before dying. I don’t think they fought back enough to go too deep, but I do think the human who attacked him most likely picked up some scrap metal and at the very least cut through his exterior and anterior jugular veins.

He’s done it to himself…multiple times

You don’t live through some dark times and come out unscathed. His history has canonically caused psychological damage to Ivan’s psyche that persists into modern day. It’s very likely that living through so much traumatic history would leave him with depression and PTSD at minimum. He has more than likely tried, on multiple occasions, to end his suffering by attempting to take his own life but has never succeeded because of his immortality.

Whatever the cause, I definitely think it’s caused physical issues such as his voice being as high pitched and airy as it is. He sounds very young and childish, as if his vocal cords didn’t develop properly once he hit puberty. He’s capable of deepening his voice but he has to actively force it, such as when he’s mad and wants to sound intimidating/threatening or during character songs when his voice slips into a deeper tone when he’s actively forcing his voice. When he laughs it’s a very airy “ufufuf” sound. That might also be due to vocal damage and if he’s ever in a situation where he’s laughing so hard, he’s holding his sides, he’ll most likely have an eerily silent laugh where he only makes noise when his trying to take air into his lungs. I also imagine neck is very sensitive and he doesn’t allow people to touch him there unless he absolutely trusts them with his entire being. Swallowing might also be a problem for Ivan, especially if he’s eating very hot food.

Of course he also has some self esteem issues because of his neck scar. Looking at it makes him feel ashamed because it’s a reminder that he was weak enough to let someone hurt him. It’s also a reminder that people didn’t like or trust him in the past so he thinks that’s still true. It’s a scar that reminds him of all that he has suffered and of all the people who have hurt him, it’s a reminder that he’s survived over 1,000 years of hell on earth.

[marxistcomedy]

a couple questions here. cw for discussion of csa and csem

1. what is it about these words that make you think that it’s “purely for fun and pleasure”? have you spoken to every single author personally? how would you determine whether it’s for personal sexual gratification or something worthy of the pass given to works of ‘artistic merit’? why is it that only nabokov and other writers you deem ‘good’ are allowed to write these themes? how were you able to determine nabokov didn’t experience any kind of sexual thrill from writing lolita, and what methods made your conclusion different than the people who want to (and have successfully) banned lolita from schools and public libraries?

2. do you think csa is some kind of mind virus? do you think that abusers of children only enact abuse because they’ve been infected with pedophilia brain? if you do, you’re living in qanon world and not dealing with the realities of csa, in a way that harms victims and has particularly scapegoated lgbt+ people by a) treating abusers of children as intrinsically pedophilic and b) treating pedophilia as a sexual orientation rather than an act of violence against a child. given the demographics of ao3 users and studies estimating rates of csa within the imperial core as 1/5 or higher, it is far, far more likely that, yes, even the fetish content you’re encountering is a victim processing their trauma than it is abusers recounting or fantasizing about abuse they have or would like to inflict — if that’s your central concern here, which, again, is qanon world

3. if you’re willing to confront the reality of csa, you’ll realize that most abusers are not specifically pedophiles. they’re opportunistic offenders who understand that children in our society are extremely vulnerable targets, who are not given the tools or knowledge to protect their autonomy and are surrounded by adults who teach them to deny themselves the right to that autonomy in myriad ways, big and small, every other moment of their life. they know children are routinely made to do things that make them afraid or uncomfortable or emotionally and physically harm them, because that it what it means in our society (and many others) to be a child. they know, maybe because it happened to them, that they won’t get caught, that the child won’t tell — and more often than not, even if the child does tell, they won’t face any consequence. not only are priests and parents and sports coaches and family friends and doctors not reading ao3 fanfiction, much less writing it, you aren’t even describing a coherent category with which you could pin some blame on actual abuse that occurs in the world

4. when you talk about fictional kids experiencing abuse, are you talking about whump fics that graphically detail the cruelty of abuse and the suffering of the victim? are you talking about fix-it fics where a character experiences csa and is saved from it by someone willing to intervene? are you talking about fics that make explicit a dynamic in canon that implies or is metaphor for a relationship that would be child abuse? what do you think should be done with this content? who do you think should be made to deal with it? what do you think should be done about the people who write it? would you make exceptions for victims? how do you determine who’s a victim and therefore allowed to process in this way? is there content you believe categorically could not be written by a victim, and would you discount people from that category who self-identify as such? what kind of victim are you willing to shame and smear as a perpetrator of abuse for writing words?

5. following from that, is your discomfort in the thought that these works depicting child abuse is going to brainwash people who wouldn’t otherwise abuse a child into doing so? or will convince them to justify the abuse of others? or is your problem seeing and being confronted with fictional depictions of csa, ‘good’ or not, for whatever reason they exist, that are only a fraction of real abuse actually occurring all around you in the real world, in ways that cannot be stopped by doing tumblr moms for liberty handwringing? could you be reading about youth liberation and educating others instead? the reactionaries already organizing in your area against sex education in schools are a bigger danger to children than anyone in ao3. by prioritizing and focusing on their own adult discomfort, they mystify the social conditions that allow child abuse to flourish. are you enlisting in their cause by doing the same?

[cranehusbands]

beck and call

dimitri alexandre blaiddyd/hubert von vestra; canon divergence (dimitri lives), crimson flower, fluff(?). mentions of past torture and implied stockhold syndrome cw

a/n: day 2 is here! my notes are probably going to get shorter through the week just bc i’m getting more tired trying to get these done (not that anyone but me is making me do this. i want to :D). the most i can say is mind the warnings.

likes < reblogs, any comments in the tags are appreciated!

ao3 mirror in the reblogs!

The body slept soundly across his chest, back rising and falling with gentle snores, face obscured in a mop of dirty, unkempt blonde that he twirled between his fingers as he observed. It was a curious sort of observation, not unlike watching a rat in a cage, but there wasn’t a hypothesis to it- because there was no meaning behind it. It simply was, and Hubert would let it be, taking comfort in the weight encompassing him and the soft feeling of breath against his bare skin. One of his hands, as decrepit and stained by dark magic as the other, was held down and claimed by his sleeping companion in a firm grip under the blankets, the other now slowly moving out of the grip of hair he had given himself, fingers trailing lightly along the other man’s spine in a delicate feather touch, as far as he could reach, before moving his hand back in the opposite direction, slowly, watching for any reactions or signs of stirring. There were none. Hubert continued.

The night before had been long and arduous, taxing and resulting in far too many casualties. Those Who Slither In The Dark were becoming craftier, now that their numbers were starting to thin out, meaning that ambushes and outlandish manoeuvres were plenty. This mission had been particularly strenuous, with losses on their side counting up rapidly. Still, among the battlefield, he had remained standing- thanks in no small part to the man now fast asleep and half crushing him under the weight of the world he carried. Dimitri fought as though he would give his dying breath for the cause, which was a curious thought for sure, considering where they had once stood- on opposite sides of the conflict, and of history. Now, they lay in the same bed, barely undressed and still covered in grime and blood from the fight they had endured.

Somewhere between the capture of Fhirdiad and the establishment of a United Fódlan under the ever-watchful rule of Lady Edelgard, the decision to not kill the former King of Faerghus had been made. He was to be kept under lock and chain, with his crest suppressed by wards and seals underneath the castle of Enbarr- imprisoned, questioned and tortured before his eventual execution in the streets. Hubert had been assigned to such a task, and had seen it through to almost perfection. In getting the man to come to heel, perhaps he had broken him too much; the once ferocious, snarling beast instead watching him, with one (only one; his other eye had been injured before his capture, and neglected until it became infected and almost rotted out of his skull entirely) glimmering blue eye underneath swathes of golden hair, like the moon amidst the treeline, other scars and blemishes across Dimitri’s skin like the stars in the otherwise blank expanse, just as his expression was. Blank, unfeeling, but still somehow wanting. Like the moon, his eyes illuminated that- a desire, a need. It hadn’t been until months ago that Hubert figured out just what that need had been. 

He had never been uncomfortable with the idea of losing a prisoner before. When the well of information had dried up, it was time to end the farce- Hubert did not consider himself to be overtly cruel, especially to those who didn’t deserve it, nameless and rankless soldiers and those on the wrong side of history being the majority of them. The Imperial army had taken capture of more than a few enemy soldiers in their time, to analyse movements and strategies, and once they had what they wanted, he had given them mercy. Direct enemies to Her Majesty, however, did not get that same mercy. Their treatment was, well, torturous, long and taxing until they were begging for an end. Hubert liked to hear them beg. But Dimitri never gave him that. All he gave him anger, and rage, until all that was left was a husk with a faraway stare, like he wasn’t even looking at him but off into some alternate future where the war had been his to win, or into what he hoped would be his fate- the darkness of the other side. It was then that the marquis made a realisation, to make use of what otherwise would be a waste of resources in the dungeons, and to capitalise on what had always been Dimitri’s best qualities- his strength, his ruthlessness. His loyalty. All it would take was a little more twisting in the right direction, to steer him away from the lost cause of a fallen Kingdom, and towards the Empire. Perhaps, more selfishly, towards House Vestra alone. 

So then came a new plan, one in direct opposition to what had originally been proposed. The plan was risky, terribly risky and perhaps even stupid, but it was one he had more than a modicum of faith in, and one he held on a tight leash- if the dog bit at his master, as diseased and mauled as he was, he would simply be put down. A kamikaze soldier sent out to fight Those Who Slither In The Dark alongside Hubert and the rest of his agents. Dimitri, however, had been surprisingly well-behaved- a hulking phantom in the Vestra estate, stalking through halls and standing in doorways, scaring the poor staff half to death with a forlorn stare. He had never turned his strength on these parties, however. They had been spared from his ire, or lack thereof, as he did little more than… stand, and watch from a distance, like a beast far outside a human society. Which is exactly what he was, for the time. Dimitri had never been told who he was killing- he had simply been commanded. And, just as he’d expected, the dog obeyed his master without question. 

Dimitri fought, and killed with something akin to joy (a joyless sort of joy, the light lost from his eyes but his grin splitting his face in two with a cackle and a war cry), but he was far from tender, or even receptive to any sort of touch- not that he was ever due the kindness, being the prisoner that he was, but even still, an attempt was made. It had taken months upon months to get the hound to stop flinching or shaking at a hand near him, long enough attempt to brush his hair before a majority of it had to be cut away entirely to salvage it, the rest of it matted and stained with his own blood that he had been rolling in, sleeping on the stone floor of the dungeons- or, more than likely, not sleeping, but simply waiting to die. It took even longer for the beast to allow himself to be handled through hand feeding, an action that Hubert had undertaken the training for himself. Like the crunching of bones, and the screams of the damned and the dying, he remembered the moment all too well, like a flash of lightning in the depth of a stormy night. He remembered way he’d pressed a grape to Dimitri’s lips, sitting in the study on either side of the disorganised desk, full of contracts and letters and declarations that Hubert could not get to before he had done this simple action. He remembered the way he’d watched as the beast had accepted the gift, tongue wrapping around the small fruit before biting down, eye never leaving Hubert the entire time- a fragment of moonlight still illuminated with a feeling. He remembered the way he could almost see his reflection in the brightness of the blue, as he pulled his hand away, watching greedy lips being licked, as if asking for more. As if affirming that Dimitri was his to command.

He remembered realising that was what the moon was lighting the way to. Dimitri was his.

Perhaps indulging in this was unwise of him. Aside from it being nothing short of coercion, the manipulation of a toy he hadn't grown bored of yet, Hubert knew this was a compromise to his position in this future that he and the rest of the Strike Force had fought so hard for- the same future that they had fought against Dimitri for, through the wind and the rain and the dead of night. And yet, despite this, the beast that had once stood against them was somehow satiated, fast asleep against the only thing he seemed to care about anymore, breath coming out hot against Hubert’s chest where he comfortably slumbered, one hand cushioning his face against the bony surface he had taken and the other still intertwined with one of the mage’s he’d claimed as his bed, both hands weathered and scarred from years upon years of lance work. Always fighting. Hubert looked down to the hand he held onto, carefully lifting it up from beneath their covers just enough to watch himself brush his thumb along Dimitri’s knuckles, feeling the way one of them popped out just wrong from when his hand had been broken and not healed correctly. He remembered that incident well; the crunch under his boot still echoed in the dungeons, sometimes. The screams, too, and the snarls of threats through gritted teeth. The crest of Blaiddyd, as minor as it may have been, had made Dimitri a hard man to break. But he soon fell silent. And that silence had almost been disconcerting, replacing the hatred and the anger that ran in the blood of the fallen king with complacency. Acceptance of his death. Hubert squeezed his hand at the thought, when he first knew Dimitri had been ready to die down the depths of the dungeons, either by the Marquis’ hand or even his own, somehow. But he was still here. 

As if rattled by too loud thinking, there was a gentle stirring just below him, a groan that snapped Hubert out of his thoughts, and his once idle free hand went to run through the rivers of gold pooling across his chest.

“Shh, down boy, it’s alright.” Like consoling a dog, he was gentle, watching the head lift and look up at him, chin resting where the cheek once had been. The moon was in Dimitri’s eyes again. Yearning, wanting. “You fought well last night, my pet. You deserve a reward.”

There was a slow blink in return, the half-asleep mind of a broken soldier struggling to catch up with the words being spoken to him, as if waiting for an order, or command, even now, as exhausted as he was. There was still blood stained on his cheek, right underneath the eyepatch he still wore to hide the ugly scar the war had given him. 

Hubert couldn’t help but chuckle, something low and rumbling, and dangerously tender, moving his hand from within the other man’s hair to cup his at his cheek, his thumb rubbing at the dried blood until it flaked away underneath his grip. It was difficult to not take note of just how quickly the weight shifted to lean against his palm. “Rest, Dimitri. I will not ask again.”

At the issue of a command, like the dog he was, Dimitri looked up at his master more intensely, as if trying the memorise his features, before exhaling a held breath as he again came to rest on Hubert’s chest. The hand that had once been his cushion moved under the blankets to place itself on Hubert’s hipbone, fingering curling in ever so slightly as if to signal possession, but he, however, did not move in response. Once again, the mage began twirling golden hair between his fingers as he watched the dog settle down again, taking note of all the dirt and blood still in the locks that had only just started to grow back. The hound should be bathed and cleaned as soon as possible- by the master’s hand, of course, for the hand that feeds does not risk being bitten. After that, perhaps he could invest in a hair tie- the same blue of the old tattered cloak the man refused to part with, perhaps? Or a deep red, like the colours of the empire, and the blood Dimitri so joyously shed in the name of House Vestra? Hubert smiled at the thought, flashing teeth to no one as he brushed away some golden locks to kiss at Dimitri’s forehead, feather-light and gentle.

“And rest well, my pet. Our enemies will not give us this luxury for much longer.”

[nine-blessed-hero]

Talis and the Blades

CW: Implied intimidation

Summary: Talis the Baker thought he was doing a good deed by making a young Breton's trip to the Imperial City more exciting. Who knew it would backfire?

Podfic version, read by me.

Original: Tumblr || AO3 Podfic also available on AO3