#'your words are violence and your presence itself is violence'- these messages i really loved as a kind of emotional self harm

[delicatebarness]

cry baby | chapter three

Summary: Not your average day out, well, maybe for The Avengers it is.

Warning: Minimum Violence. John Walker.

Word Count: 1374

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A/N: JACKET. Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

Tags: buckys0whore | @thezombieprostitute | @lanabuckybarnes | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @softieekayy | @noonespecial90 | @hello-therree

The aroma of coffee filled the small space of your kitchen, and the events at the restaurant and the fallout weighed heavily on your mind. As you stood by the counter, lost in thought, you heard a soft knock at your door. 

Opening it, you found Bucky standing there, looking slightly disheveled. “Hey,” he greeted, his voice gentle. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay after last night.”

You stepped aside, letting him enter. With a grateful smile, you nodded. “I just made some coffee, would you like some?” 

His eyes scanned the room as if he was ensuring everything was in place as he walked in. “I’d love some, please, Sweetheart,” he smiled, turning back at you. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, the whites of them were threaded with red veins as his lids struggled to stay open. “I didn’t get much sleep.” 

You poured two mugs, handing one to Bucky. “I know you told him about John,” you said softly, leading him to the couch. 

“I’m not sorry about that,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Steve should have done more damage,” he mumbled under his breath.

You sighed, sitting next to him and bringing your knees up to your chest. “I just wish it hadn’t come to that. Steve shouldn’t be in fights because of me,”

Bucky turned his gaze to you, softening at the thought of your worry. “That wasn’t your fault, Steve did what any brother would, and John… well, he’s not worth your time or concern.”

His presence helped steady your emotions, comforting you. He had a way of keeping you grounded, making you feel safe. “Thank you, Bucky,” you said, meeting his gaze. “For everything.”

He gave you a small, reassuring smile. “Always.” 

As you found a comfortable silence lacing itself between you, the familiar massage tone of both phones pinged together. Reaching for them in sync, you read the message. ‘They’ve taken Steve in, again.’ Your heart sank.

“Walker,” Bucky mumbled as he stared at his phone, sighing. You closed your eyes, a wave of guilt washing over you. “It’s not your fault,” Bucky reassured you, cupping your face, the cold metal soothing your flushed skin. “Let’s go get him.” 

Nodding in agreement, you raised from your seat and settled your mug down on the coffee table. Grabbing your keys, you began to race toward the door. Bucky cleared his throat moments before you reached for the handle, grabbing your attention.

He held out his jacket toward you, gesturing toward your attire. The adrenaline coursing through you caused you to forget you had yet to change out of your nightwear. Mumbling a thank you toward him, you slipped into his jacket, letting the leather material surround your body.

~

The ride to the police station was a blur, your mind replayed the events of the previous night. Every what-if raced through your thoughts. 

When you entered the police station, Sam, Natasha, and Wanda were already waiting inside for Steve. “Have you seen him yet?” you asked, as Bucky went over to the front desk. 

Sam shook his head, concern shown on his face. “Not yet. They’re questioning him now. They haven’t given us anything, yet.” 

Natasha rose from her seat in the waiting area, her expression a mix of frustration and determination. “He’ll be okay, we’ve been here before.” 

Bucky returned from the front desk, his face masking a barely restrained anger. “Walker’s really pushing himself this time.” 

A confused look washed over your features, “This time?” you asked, gazing up at Bucky, searching for answers in his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘this time’?” 

Wanda put a reassuring hand on your back, “Walker wants what Steve has,” she spoke, and a heavy tension began to weigh in the air. “You know, the authority, the bar’s respect…” she continued as she gestured around the station.

“He’s just trying to provoke us,” Sam suspected, as his gaze met yours, you felt smaller than usual around your friends as you realized your part in this. “He knew getting to you would do that.” 

Your gaze tried to avoid all of theirs, feeling humiliated. Wrapping Bucky’s jacket tighter around your body, you found an empty seat and sank into it.

The minutes felt like hours as you waited. Suddenly, the door to one of the interview rooms opened, and it wasn’t who you were hoping for. John emerged, looking smug and satisfied. His gaze met yours for a brief moment, a smirk across his face. 

Before you could react, Bucky was across the room. He grabbed John by the collar and slammed him against the wall with force, the entire station went silent. “Is there a problem, guard dog?” John spat as he tried to maintain his composure.

Bucky’s grip tightened, his voice a growl. “Listen, Walker. If you ever,” another slam, “go near her again, you’ll have more than just Steve to worry about.” 

“Barnes!” Officer Fury, who dealt with your group on numerous occasions, called out as he approached. “Not here,” the man tried to squeeze himself between the two men. 

Reluctantly, Bucky let go and took a step back. Fury placed a firm hand on John’s shoulder, guiding him out of the station. “Don’t make things worse for yourself.” 

Straightening his collar, he shot one last venomous look at you before turning and walking out of the station. 

Fury sighed as he turned to Bucky, shaking his head. “Keep it together, Barnes. You know the drill, don’t let him get the best of you.” Bucky nodded as he looked over at you.

Within seconds, another interview room door opened, this time, Steve walked out. You immediately rose from your seat and rushed over to him. He pulled you into a tight hug. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle with a lace of tiredness. 

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. “Forget me, what about you?” 

Pulling back slightly, Steve looked at you with a soft smile. “I’m good. Fury’s got our backs, letting me off with a warning.”

You glanced over at Fury, sending him a grateful smile as he gave you a reassuring nod. “Just keep it in the bar,” he advised. 

“Speaking of,” Sam smirked as he gestured toward the station door. “Shall we?” 

A sense of relief washed over you and your friends. Following their lead out of the station, you suddenly remember you were still in your nightwear. The warmth from Bucky’s jacket caused you to feel fully dressed and covered the entire time.

Bucky walked beside you, sensing your sudden discomfort he placed a hand on the small of your back. “I’ll take you home first,” he gave you a small smile as you glanced up at him. 

~

As you reached your apartment, Bucky followed you up the stairs, his hand never left the small of your back as he rested gently against it. The familiar scent of your home instantly put you at ease as you stepped inside. 

“I’ll be quick!” you promised, as you turned to glance at him. He closed the door behind you and leaned against it as he watched you make your way to your bedroom. 

“Take your time, Sweetheart,” he said, a playful tone laced his voice as he smiled back at you. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Disappearing into your bedroom, the adrenaline that had carried you through the events at the police station began to wear off. You quickly change out of your nightwear and into one of your dresses, and check your appearance. The comforting weight of Bucky’s jacket still lingered on your shoulders as you replaced it with one of your cardigans. 

Bucky had moved into your living room by the time you emerged from your bedroom, his expression softening when he saw you. “Gorgeous,” he said, a rush of heat spread across your cheeks. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled, as you avoided his gaze, and caught the sight of his jacket draped over your arm. “Oh, and thank you!” You gestured toward the jacket as you handed it back to him. 

Bucky’s face fell slightly as he took the jacket, disappointment crossed his features. “It looked good on you,” he said as he reluctantly slipped it on.

---

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#cry baby series #cry baby #bucky barnes x cry baby #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky fanfic #bucky fic #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x rogers!reader #steve rogers x sister!reader #biker!bucky #biker au

[wild-at-mind]

I remember how I used to read tumblr and the more angry and disillusioned someone seemed with society and life, the more valid I thought their point of view was. This is now mostly no longer the case, but when I'm depressed I think I still go there.

#i think there was a lot of 'you personally must do something to fix this vast societal problem!!!' #and also 'your personal self and identity is personally dangerous is me as a marginilised person' #'your words are violence and your presence itself is violence'- these messages i really loved as a kind of emotional self harm #i wasn't used to having my own identity because my abuser never let me have one so the idea of me having one being somehow oppressive #and therefore the idea of me not having one must be good and was helping somehow #and that's why i was closeted for so long- well that and living in my parents' house till my mid-20s i guess #now i realise that the idea i had that my shit feelings helped marginlised people somehow came from my church growing up #suffering is good...but actually me suffering is neutral and feeling like shit is neutral to the world at large #me feeling bad doesn't help others. i liked to pretend it did because i had to justify my existence to myself #as a privileged person but now i realise i also have to live my life because that's all we get! Just the one! #and there's only one way out of doing it and the fact that i was even contemplating that showed how extreme this was all getting #i HAVE to live and i have to understand myself and keep going #and not give up and say 'everything is so shit and as a privileged person i only make things worse so what's the point of doing anything?' #i think a lot of social justice at one point had unintentionally gotten across the idea of 'if you try you will only make things worse #so don't even try'. #i think a lot of people writing back then were having really difficult times and had genuinely difficult lives and i hugely sympathise #i hope all of them are doing really well in 2024 and are living securely and have happiness and joy

[shesey]

Excerpts from Reni Eddo-Lodge’s Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race

I can no longer engage with the gulf of an emotional disconnect that white people display when a person of colour articulates their experience. I just can’t engage with the bewilderment and the defensiveness as they try to grapple with the fact that not everyone experience the world in the way that they do. The words hit a barrier of denial and they don’t get any further. Watching the Color of Fear by Lee Mun Wah, I saw people of color break down in tears as they struggled to convince a defiant white man that his words were enforcing and perpetuating a white racist standard on them. All the while he stared obliviously, completely confused by this pain, at best trivializing it, at worst ridiculing it. So I can’t talk to white people about race any more because of the consequent denials, awkward cartwheels and mental acrobatics that they display when this is brought to their attention. Who really wants to be alerted to a structural system that benefits them at the expense of others? Trying to engage with them and navigate their racism is not worth that. I cannot continue to emotionally exhaust myself trying to get this message across. I don’t have a huge amount of power to change the way the world works, but I can set boundaries. I can halt the entitlement they feel towards me and I’l start that by stopping the conversation. Thinking about power made me realize that racism was about so much more than personal prejudice. It was about being in the position to negatively affect other people’s life chances. Entire lives sustaining constant brutality and violence, living in never-ending fear. I wondered how often history would have to repeat itself before we choose to tackle the underlying problems. If all racism was as easy to spot, grasp, and denounce as white extremism is, the task of the anti-racist would be simple. He might look at the white kids he went to university with and watch them effortlessly transition from student booze-culture-loving lager louts to slick-young-professional status. We don’t live in a meritocracy, and to pretend that simple hard work will elevate all to success is an exercise in wilful ignorance. How can I define white privilege? It’s so difficult to describe an absence. And white privilege is an absence of the negative consequence of racism... It is an absence of funny looks directed at you because you’re believed to be in the wrong place... Trying to convince stony faces of disbelief has never appealed to me. The idea of white privilege forces white people who aren’t actively racist to confront their own complicity in its continuing existence. White privilege is dull, grinding complacency. It is par for the course in a world in which drastic race inequality is responded to with a shoulder shrug, considered just the norm. But there simply aren’t enough black people in positions of power to enact racism against white people on a the kind of grand scale it currently operates at against black people. Are black people over-represented in the places and spaces where prejudice could really take effect? The answer is almost always no. I tried to encourage her to consider the suspicion and anger of a person who has suffered racism their entire lives. Everyone is complicit, but no one wants to take on responsibility. You learn to be careful about your battles, because otherwise people would consider you to be angry for no reason at all. I must confess that over the last few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate... the white moderate who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of a tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I can’t agree with your methods of direct action,”... shallow understanding from people of goodwill is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. He is the kind of white person who will do that unlearning and unpicking. I only have a few white people in my life like that, and I couldn’t be in a relationship with a white person who wasn’t. I think what made me feel defensive is that I was embarrassed that there was a chance that someone knew something that I didn’t. On some level, maybe I could sense that accepting whatever that person was saying would open a can of worms. It was a combination of embarrassment and panic. I can’t put my finger on exactly what I was trying to protect or defend. I think it was an indignation.  I’m trying to do more things in my ordinary day-to-day life that aren’t in activist spaces, to bring issues up when they’re relevant at that time. Because I don’t know what the other people in the room are thinking, but if I’m thinking about that and no one else is saying it, then it’s on me to say something. Being accountable for that, really only to myself. Doing things when there’s nobody there to see it, because it’s not really about somebody witnessing it or patting me on the back for it. Racism bolsters white people’s life chances. It affords an unearned power; it is designed to maintain a quiet dominance. It looked like he just wanted silence, the kind of strained peace that simmers with resentment, the kind that requires some to suffer so that others are comfortable. When they make it about offence rather than their own complicity in a drastically unjust system, they successfully transfer the responsibility of fixing the system from the benefactors of it to those who are likely to lose out because of it. Tackling racism moves from conversations about justice to conversations about sensitivity.  The imaginations of black Hermione’s detractors can stretch to the possibility of a secret platform at King’s Cross station that can only be accessed by running through a brick wall, but they can’t stretch to a black central character. There is an old saying about the straight man’s homophobia being rooted in a fear that gay men will treat him as he treats women. This is no difference.

Even though I wrote about my experiences with so much contempt, feminism was my first love. It was what gave me a framework to begin understanding the world. Being at feminist events was a relief; to be in a space where people just got it - the shared anger, frustration, the burning will to do something, anything, to change the messed-up world we live in. People’s knowledge was very varied. But we were all kind of describing the same hurts, the same frustrations, and the same anger-inducing moments. That, to me, was just absolutely powerful. Women of today are still being called upon to stretch across the gap of male ignorance and to educate men as to our existence and our needs. This is an old and primary tool of all oppressors to keep the oppressed occupied with the master’s concerns. Now we hear that it is the task of women of colour to educate white women - in the face of tremendous resistance - as to our existence, our differences, our relative roles in our joint survival. This is a diversion of energies and a tragic repetition of racist patriarchal thought. I choose to reappropriate the term “feminism,” to focus on the fact that to be “feminist” in any authentic sense of the term is to want for all people, female and male, liberation from sexist role patterns, domination, and oppression. The modesty expectation is just as limiting and judgemental as the compulsory bikini-body one. Both obsessively focus on a woman’s looks and how covered or uncovered her body is in determining her value, as though her body belongs to a male gaze before it belongs to her. There are always external factors influencing the way a woman dresses, but the ultimate decision should be her own. This isn’t about good men or bad men - binary notions that we feel comfortable enough with to slot into neat boxes - but about rape culture. We should be asking why, when children and women speak up about being raped or sexually assaulted, there are always people around them who bend over backwards to try and find the ways to suggest that she incited or invited it. The taboo in discussing these crimes isn’t about race, it is about men. Predatory men. Every woman who has ever been a teenage girl could tell you a tale about an encounter with a predatory man, men who smell youth and vulnerability, and seek only to dominate. [Feminism] will have won when women are no longer expected to work two jobs (the care and emotional labour for their families as well as their day jobs) by default. The mess we are living is a deliberate one. If it was created by the people, it can be dismantled by the people, and it can be rebuilt in a way that serves all, rather than a selfish, hoarding few. Above everything, feminism is a constant work in progress. We are all still learning. I have always loved feminism’s readiness to viciously rip into the flesh of misogyny, to stick its chin out defiantly and scare the living daylights out of mediocre men.  Demands for equality need to be as complicated as the inequalities they attempt to address. Men inhabit different spaces. Some face racism. Some face homophobia. Even if we as feminists decide to put the differences between men aside, does equality demand parity with people who have always had a disproportionately large share of resources. I don’t want to be included. Instead, I want to question who created the standard in the first place. Women in general aren’t supposed to be angry. Women are expected to smile, swallow our feelings and be self-sacrificial.  The ‘angry black woman’ phrase says more about maleness and whiteness than it does about black women. Often, there will be no one fighting your corner but yourself. It was black feminist Audre Lorde who said: your silence will not protect you. Who wins when we don’t speak? Not us. We need to see how it seeps, like a noxious gas, into everything. Structures, she said, are made out of people.  You don’t have to be the leader of a global movement or a household name. It can be as small scale as chipping away at the warped power relations in your workplace. It can be passing on knowledge and skills to those who wouldn’t access them otherwise. It can be creative. It can be informal. It can be your job. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as you’re doing something.

#racism #feminism #reni eddo-lodge #why i'm not longer talking to white people about race #feminist book #black feminism #inclusive feminism

[nanasparadise]

Can you do (aged up of course), Yandere Narancia x reader. [p.s can it include any of these prompts? “ Stop denying our love! Stop denying our future together!! ”, “ Please don’t cry. Show me the smile I love so much! ”, “ You can’t escape my love.”,” You will grow to love me back, I just know it!“] Thx so much <3

“You can’t escape my love”

“You will grow back to love me, I just know it.”

Hiya anon! I hope you enjoy it! <3 

Summary: Your boyfriend doesn’t understand the concept of boundaries and keeps harassing you, until he stands in front of your apartment’s door...

TW: cyber harassment, implied stalking, gaslighting, mentions of a panic attack, toxic relationship, noncon touching, curse words, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

Narancia has been aged up, no minor content on my blog!

Word count: 2155

“No escape” Yan! Narancia x gender-neutral reader 

 Bling. Another one of… how many messages again? You have stopped counting a while ago. An exasperated sigh escapes your lips, wondering why you haven’t turned off the volume yet. Why is he so unrelenting? Annoyed, you take your phone in your hand, staring at the twenty-five texts Narancia has left for you. At first, they have started off innocently, asking you about your well-being and your day. But as time has passed, the messages have begun becoming more invasive and have ended up being straight-up creepy. 

“Why aren’t you answering me, did I do something wrong?” 

“Stop being so stubborn, I know you want to be with me, too!” 

“I’m always near you, you’re aware of that, right? You can’t escape my love.”

 An icy shudder travels down your spine while reading the last two sentences. Fear clenches around your heart, making your chest feel heavy, your breaths short and laboured. 

“’’Try out this dating app!’ they said, ‘It will be fun!’ I see where this fun has lead me to”, you think gloomily. Why on earth did you ever sign up to that damned app and had to match with Narancia? You curse yourself, curse your naivety for having expected to encounter there a nice and healthy relationship.

The only thing that has waited for you is an obsessive stalker you can’t get rid of. Of course you didn’t realise Narancia’s disturbing nature at the beginning. No, you thought of him as sweet and energetic, although a bit tiring. Your first dates were pleasant: you went to a fair, sharing candyfloss and laughter between you, to a restaurant, where the Italian nearly choked on his pasta out of excitement, to a spring picnic at the local park, bathing in the gentle sunlight. It all seemed so beautiful to you back then, so innocent. But quickly, things have changed. 

Narancia has become increasingly clingy to you until it started feeling as if he was glued onto your hip. Oh, you want to go grocery shopping? He’ll come with you and help you carry your bags! You’re planning on visiting your family on the weekend? He’ll join you, he has been dying to meet them anyway! 

Setting boundaries with him was extremely challenging. Every time you hinted that you’d rather like to spend some time alone, he nearly threw a fit, taking your words out of context and twisting them around. 

“So you want to toss me away? You don’t think I’m important to you?”, he shouted at you, tears of anger forming in his eyes. Back then, you didn’t notice his gaslighting methods, felt guilty for prioritising yourself. But now, you don’t want to hold yourself back anymore. There isn’t any reason for you to justify yourself, especially not to someone who clearly has no right to intervene in your life like this. Your gaze travels back to your phone. All these messages, these implications, are proof enough of his unhealthy attachment to you. Hell, he even admitted following you! No matter how much you enjoyed your time together, you can’t let Narancia continue with his creepy behaviour.

Quickly, you type a text, telling the Italian that if he goes on invading your privacy, you’ll block him. For a few minutes, sweet silence dominates your living room. 

“Maybe he finally got it”, you muse hopefully. 

Bling. There goes your hope. 

“Are you messing with me? Why would you write that?! Please, stop with these jokes, we can talk about this!” Another sigh comes out of your mouth. 

“No Narancia, we actually can’t. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell the whole time, but it seems you don’t understand. I’m sorry, but I’m gonna block you for now, otherwise I’ll go insane.” 

With these final words, you block his number. Relief washes over you as you realise that the Italian can’t harass you anymore. 

“It‘s kind of sad how things have turned out”, you mumble to yourself. Though you do feel some regret – after all, the two of you had shared many beautiful moments together – you abruptly stop your pondering. “No use to cry over spoiled milk, Y/N. If he keeps treating you like this, it’s best to get away from him.”

Little did you know that Narancia isn’t letting you go that easily. The following days, he kept reaching out to you towards multiple phone numbers. Every time you blocked it, a new one popped up. At this point, you’ve simply stopped using your phone altogether, only relying on the device if it’s inevitable. In those cases, you’re helplessly exposed to the unnerving messages of the young man. The latest one keeps haunting your mind, initiating your anxiety. 

“I’ve been really patient with you, Y/N, but this little game is making me lose my temper. I’ll be seeing you tonight and then we settle things straight. You will grow back to love me, we’ll make up again, I just know it.” 

Nervously, you eye the nearest clock in your flat. 8 p.m. What does Narancia consider ‘tonight’? Will he even come? Are you able to face him right now? 

“Oh god, I need to go”, you whisper desperately, nausea manifesting itself in your stomach. You could crash at your friend’s place, you’re sure they’d understand your situation. Quickly, you gather all your important belongings, ready to flee, as a loud knocking on your front door followed by an all too familiar voice interrupts your escape. 

“Hey Y/N, could you open the door for me, please?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You mutter an incoherent string of curses. Petrified, you just keep staring at the door, not daring move a single muscle in your body. 

“If you don’t open the door yourself, I’ll just break it in, you know?”, Narancia shouts on the other side. The casualness of his tone scares you even more. 

“How can he just be so blasé by his behaviour? Doesn’t he notice how wrong his actions are?” Actually fearing the Italian might damage your property, you accept your defeat and slowly walk up to the front door. Hesitantly, with shaking hands, you unlock it and pull the handle down. Nervousness creeps up on you, making your palms grow sweaty and your heart palpitating erratically. Soon – too soon for your liking – you meet a pair of familiar purple eyes. To your surprise, Narancia smiles upon seeing your face. 

“Hi babe,” he greets you, carefree, “I’m so glad you opened the door for me! You have no clue how much I’ve missed you!” Without even waiting for you to invite him in – which you definitely wouldn’t have done – the young man marches into your flat, invading your privacy even further. Suddenly, two arms wrap around your middle and pull you close to the young man’s chest. Your breathing falters at the abrupt touch. “It’s alright, it’s only me, Y/N”, Narancia tries to comfort you. If only he knew that his presence currently gives you anything but comfort…

A few moments later, you find yourself sitting on your couch next to him. Narancia flashes you a seemingly reassuring grin all while you keep fiddling with the sleeves your shirt. You blankly stare at the floor in front of you. Even though Narancia’s behaviour is conveying sympathy, you couldn’t get rid of the intuitive feeling that this is all but a façade to lull you into a false sense of security. Who knows what he could do to you? Despite his overall sweet and fun nature, the young man doesn’t shy away from using violence if you test his – admittedly little – patience. His numerous messages flash up in your mind again. You’re painfully aware now how he made it clear that you’ve clearly missed your opportunities of being in his good graces. This realisation pushes you nearly over the edge, being on the brink of a panic attack. Would Narancia really hurt you? 

“Look Y/N,” the sound of his voice interrupts your train of thought. A little startled, you immediately straighten your back and glance at his form next to you. The young man’s hand finds its way to yours, stopping your fumbling by securely grasping it. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but what’s wrong? Why did you just ignore me like that?”, Narancia asks you. You don’t miss the hint of annoyance in his voice, indicating his true feelings. Though anxiety still has a hold on you, you try your best to fight against it and tell him the truth. After all, it’s not like you could escape this situation anyway. So you take a deep breath in and out again, before you spill your following words. 

“Well, I know you’re more of a clingy person Narancia, but what you’re doing is unhealthy. You can’t expect me to give you my full attention all the time. And you definitely can’t follow me around! It’s just creepy and wrong. You know that’s considered stalking, right?”

The Italian stares back at you incredulously. You wonder what’s going on in his head right now. 

“You gave me no other choice, Y/N! How am I supposed to see if you’re doing alright if you deny me like this? You really think me worrying about you makes me some deranged criminal?”, Narancia barks angrily back at you. The grip on your hand tightens. Listening to your previous gut feeling, you immediately retrieve your hand from his all while scooting away from him to gain more space between you. The dark-haired man’s jaw visibly clenches at your action, disapproval glistening in his eyes. Of course he would use his gaslighting tactics on you, he always does when things don’t go his way. Cautiously, you think for a while of what to say, not wanting to trigger Narancia’s wrath any further. 

“It’s not the fact you worry about me, it’s the way you choose to show your concern. Narancia, it’s not okay what you’re doing, you’re actually making me feel very uncomfortable, even right now. Plus, you’re blaming me for your behaviour, which is, again, not acceptable”, You carefully reply, hoping to talk some sense into him.

He makes you uncomfortable? Narancia can’t comprehend your words at all. He’d been worrying himself sick the last few days, trying to reach out to you as best as possible while you cruelly kept on ignoring his countless messages. But he is supposed to be the bad guy now? The Italian scoffs intensely at that thought. He can feel the anger gnawing at his guts, ready to be released. 

“You’re being ridiculous, Y/N,” Narancia reprimands you, “can’t I show you anymore that I care? That I love you? Even after you’ve blocked and ignored me? What do you expect me to do now, to just let you go?” 

“Actually, I do,” you peep quietly, “I can’t continue with this madness. If you don’t want to understand and listen to me, then it’s best for you to go. Now.” Your voice grows stronger with every word you utter, finally regaining your confidence. Meanwhile, Narancia’s heart sinks to his stomach at your statement. Do you really want to leave him? 

“No, no no no Y/N, you don’t mean this, right? You wanna stay with me, don’t you?” 

“No, I really don’t think I do, not after you’ve shown me your true colours.” 

With a force you don’t expect, Narancia pulls you suddenly against his chest again. His arms cage you in, leaving no room for you to move at all. 

“This is just a misunderstanding,” the young man keeps repeating like a mantra while tightening his grasp as if you could dissipate into thin air if he didn’t cling onto you, “It’s normal for couples to fight from time to time, it’s fine. We’re fine, right? You wouldn’t abandon me for real, would you?” 

“Narancia, I –“ you try to intervene, but your attempts remain futile as he cuts you off quickly. 

“No, you’re not going to leave me! I’m not letting you. Look, this is but a silly fight, you’re not going to toss away our relationship for that, are you? Just remember all the beautiful moments we shared together, how happy I can make you, if you just let me!” Narancia nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck. “I love you, Y/N.” He eagerly plants kisses onto your skin, making you shudder and whimper helplessly. Your eyes grow bigger, your breath quickens as you desperately look for a way to escape this situation, to escape him. 

“I love you more than anything in this world. I’d gladly give up everything if it meant to spend every second with you by my side. No one can love you like this but me. Remember that next time you’re thinking I’m going to let you off the hook”, Narancia whispers in your ear, the underlying threat being crystal clear to you. No, you aren’t going to escape from him any time soon…

#JJBA #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #yandere jjba #yandere jojo #yandere narancia x reader #yandere narancia #yandere x reader #jojo golden wind #minors dni #tw: aged up character #tw: yandere #tw: noncon touching #tw: toxic relationship #tw: gaslighting #tw: cyber harassment

[thegeminisage]

my secret galaxy brain reading of spn s11 is better than yours

or: why season 11 is good actually. this is a long-ass meta, so it's going behind the cut

some disclaimers before we get going

absolutely all of this is accidental. nobody does this shit on purpose. this is ~my interpretation~ or whatever. i'm not actually trying to argue the writers meant to do this lol. what i'm saying is that this is the way to make season 11 make sense in your brain because it makes sense in mine and it's one of my FAVORITES. it could be one of your favorites too if you stop limiting yourself

there is heavy discussion of sexual violence in this meta so read safely etc also spoilers for all of s11 obviously

unless you watched the anime, i've seen more supernatural than you have, so i'm right >:)

for the uninitiated, the basic plot of season 11 is that eons and eons ago, before there was heaven or hell or earth or humans or angels, there was only god (chuck) and the darkness (amara). amara kept destroying what god made, so he and the archangels locked her away in a cage, which removing the mark of cain from dean's arm opened. amara escaped and dean was the first thing she saw, so she spends the season using some kind of thrall over him to make him feel drawn to her and unable to hurt her, and also looking for chuck so she can give him a little payback.

ALRIGHT HERE WE GO

season 11 & sexual violence

you don't need to look very far to find examples of sexualized violence and outright sexual violence on supernatural, but s11 is lousy with it. just to name a few examples:

amara's "thrall" on dean, which we will absolutely get into more later

crowley's jokes about altar boys and the tastes of catholic priests

ALLLLL the pedophile jokes made when crowley was raising baby amara

angels torturing cas and threatening to cut his genitals off, only to send in hannah (an angel who formerly had unrequited romantic/sexual feelings for him) to play good cop(/honeypot??) in hopes of making him talk

the return of lucifer, who possessed sam (spn has a history of equating possession and sexual violence) and is heavily implied to have raped sam in hell, and the MULTIPLE times he menaces sam throughout this season, including forcibly touching his soul

lucifer possessing castiel and using him to enact violence on the winchesters, his loved ones

i absolutely REFUSE to acknowledge the lucifer/crowley stuff but if you know you know

the episode with the kissing curse, using "love" as a means to deliver death

dean's possession in the soul eater episode

the "chitters" monsters involving mating, orgies, and forcible impregnation

you get the idea

i could write a whole essay on almost all of these but for this post we'll be sticking mostly to dean & amara

@marcusantonius pointed out while we were watching season 11 that what amara does to dean is basically speedrun his two major attachments - sam and castiel. she starts out as a baby, someone in need of protection, and quickly grows into an adult who attempts to romance/seduce him. the feelings dean has around amara aren't feelings FOR HER, they're feelings he has for SAM AND CAS that are being TRANSFERRED onto her through means of her power. (this is important for later.)

what amara does to dean is sexualized violence bordering on outright sexual assault. compelling him to feel drawn towards her and to protect her, frequently getting in his personal space and touching his face, and even kissing more than once when he is quite literally unable to resist (it's stated many times that he is unable to kill or even harm her, so he is completely helpless in the presence of someone who makes no secret of her intentions for him, sexual or otherwise). 

dean says many times that what he feels for amara is not love or desire or attraction. he can't put a name to it at all - not once in the entire series is he able to properly define this thrall she has over him, which leaves us the audience a little confused (amara asking "what IS happening between us?" in 11.06 as a teenager making sexual advances on a grown man does give me a good laugh, because it was written SO WEIRDLY)... BUT we know that it is definitely sexual in nature, and not at all something dean wants to be happening.

this is addressed kind of strangely in 11.13. the villain of the week is a witch moonlighting as a hairdresser, who puts a kissing curse on her clients. the curse must be passed along like a hot potato - if you kiss someone else, it's passed along to them. if they kiss someone else, it's passed along to them. but eventually, a monster called a qareen will show up in the form of "your deepest desire" and kill you, and work its way backwards to the original curse-ee. in the episode, dean kisses the vic (i'll point out this was also technically done w/o her consent, though it was a very businesslike kiss) to put the curse on himself and protect her. the qareen takes the form of amara, and she gives Dean this little speech:

Qareen!Amara: You're a mystery. I can see inside your heart. Feel the love you feel. Except it's cloaked in shame. When it comes to this, you can’t help yourself, so why fight it? Just give in.

then, at the end of the episode, after dean reveals who the qareen was for him, we get this conversation between sam and dean: 

Dean: You seriously think the sister of God is my deepest darkest desire? Sam: She isn't? Dean: No! She can’t be! Sam: Why not? Dean: Why? Because if she is that means that I'm… Sam: Means you're what? Complicit? Weak? Evil? Dean: For starters, yeah. Sam: Dean. Do you honestly think you ever had a choice in the matter? She's the sister of God, and for some reason she picked you and that sucks, but if you think I’m gonna blame you or judge you…I'm not.

the "shame" part of both of these is really what stuck out to me - the word itself isn't in the second passage, but dean's vibes are absolutely filled with shame. to me, this always read as being shame about the sexual violence and about the complicity/weakness that "allowed" that violence to happen. 

and as a reminder, sam is just a few episodes past the confrontation with his own rapist (he returns to the cage to speak with lucifer in 11.09 & 11.10, and canonically struggles with what happened there even after the confrontation ends). sam made a point earlier in this episode of making sure the victim of the curse knew it wasn't her fault her husband died, but the fault of the witch who cast the curse. sam is VERY emotionally intelligent, and i honestly believe that he was speaking as one survivor of sexual violence to another here. what he's telling dean is something victims often need to be reminded of: it's not your fault. you weren't complicit, or weak. you didn't have a choice. you don't deserve blame or judgment.

we've had bad guys make sexual threats at both dean and sam many times before this and a few more times after, but as far as i can recall, this is the only conversation in the entire series that even attempts to address the impact of that particular kind of violence on dean. it's short, and strangely written, but nonetheless: there it is.

season 11 & the dean in the closet

for the purposes of this post, i'm not going to go through the entire series and find examples to try and prove dean is bi and has feelings for cas. if you don't believe that then what are you doing here? we're skipping to the goods.

actually, i always got annoyed at people who read the fake-amara's speech in 11.13 (or any of the other times people spoke about dean's shame regarding amara) as being about dean's sexuality, because in my mind it was ABSOLUTELY about his being a victim of sexual violence, which was far more important to me, as it is discussed far less often.

BUT, knowing what we know now (that cas was always canonically in love with dean, and it's all but canon that dean really was bisexual), i'm willing to entertain another notion:

Sam: ...you're what? Complicit? Weak? Evil? Dean: For starters, yeah.

the "evil" bit never really sat right with me as part of the narrative of sexual violence, aside from touching on dean's general self-loathing, but it fits the narrative of being closeted MUCH better. dean, a self-hating homophobic bisexual, would probably use a similar word, if not something heavy as "evil," to describe the way he feels about other men. it's a malevolent feeling. (if you're like me and ascribe to the jackles headcanon that dean resorted to turning tricks to make food money when he was underage, we could also consider the extremely fucked up fact that almost every queer man dean's ever met is someone who hurt him.) 

dean is ashamed of who and what he is, and the way he feels about cas. living like that, that's violence. he lives violently day in and day out with that feeling. (and amara knows it. it's worth nothing that she uses cas to communicate with dean MULTIPLE times in this season, both by carving messages on his body and psychically, through his own connection to dean - and when dean "betrays" her to rescue casifer, she's horrified at whatever she sees in his head.)

equating sexual violence to the violence of being closeted

but what's amazing about this weird badly-written little 11.13 conversation (and indeed, the season-long plotline of dean and his shame) is that we don't HAVE to assign it to the purposes of being about sexual violence OR about being closeted. it can be and IS both. 

my favorite reading of this is that BEING IN THE CLOSET IS INHERENTLY A VIOLENT AND TRAUMATIC EXPERIENCE. many of the same feelings are involved: shame, guilt, self-loathing. sam's comforting words to dean - that he will not be blamed or judged - are equally applicable in both cases. dean is a victim of sexual violence, and he is also in the closet, and both of these experiences are traumatic ones, and they are intermingled with each other in a big way (again, if you're into dean-turned-tricks headcanon, they are intermingled INSEPERABLY - the sexual violence being one of the direct causes of dean not wanting to accept or address his own sexuality).

the bait-and-switch

the real galaxy brain moment of this whole thing begins at the end of 11.22 (an otherwise lackluster episode that played sam's lucifer trauma for laughs how dare they ugh god whatever that's off-topic but i HATE IT) when amara and chuck finally have the confrontation she's been fighting all season for. she is attacked by witches, demons, angels, and then stabbed by lucifer himself, before she's finally on her knees before chuck, and then we get this little exchange:

Chuck: I'm sorry. For this, for everything. Amara: An apology at last. What's sorry to me? I spent millions of years crammed into that cage alone and afraid...

maybe you already know where i'm going with this. a cage isn't so different from a closet when we're working with metaphors, right? 

amara talks about her grievances with chuck many times throughout season 11 - that he was spoiled, that he created the earth to stroke his ego, that he couldn't handle her as she was. and once he finally makes his appearance he tells it his own way - that he had no choice but to lock amara away, that she couldn't stand the things and people he made, that he did it to protect people. but something about THIS conversation in particular - even though it's not written into the dialogue - gives me a particular kind of vibe. 

there is something innately, unspeakably WRONG with amara. i don't mean unspeakable as in very bad, i mean unspeakable as in LITERALLY undefinable. it's just like dean being unable to put a name to the pull she has over him. no one talks directly at it or about it, they go in circles around it, but facts are facts: amara simply couldn't be allowed to exist as she was because there was just something innately wrong with her. and it's this conversation in particular, the first one they have together onscreen, that really slams that feeling home for me.

the entire time chuck and amara are talking, the camera repeatedly cuts to dean - he is so visibly upset that the first time i watched this, i was certain he was about to jump into the middle of things and put himself between the two of them. we're meant to believe that dean has trouble hearing this because he "cares" about amara, but i have a different take.

i think it's empathy. real, actual empathy - not the kind of feeling that amara had to force out.

stay with me here. eventually, after chuck tries to lock amara away again, she gets her second wind, attacks him, and leaves him for dead - and as he dies, the sun dies with him, and so too does all life on earth. 

in the following episode, the finale, amara finds her way to a park, where she takes in god's creation, visibly upset as she realizes that his flowers die at her touch (again, hammering home the point that there is something innately wrong with her that means she cannot live in this world), and eventually speaks with an old lady feeding the birds. 

Woman: Do you want to feed them? Amara: I shouldn't. Woman: I've been feeding these birds going on 20 years now. They're practically family. And I know that makes me sound like a crazy old bat, but...heck. My husband died a couple of years ago, and my son keeps slipping me these brochures for retirement communities - a.k.a. where they send old folks to die, but not to make a fuss about it. Amara: So you hate him. Woman: Well, a little bit. Sometimes. But you know family. Even when you hate them, you still love them.

this speech brings tears to amara's eyes. what's more, she spends this entire section with her hands in her lap. after a season of killing her way through humanity to get god's attention, she is afraid to touch these birds for fear of killing them. she feels empathy for them. she and dean are connected, after all - so as soon as he began to feel true, genuine empathy - so did she.

when dean shows up to kill amara (via a bomb made out of souls hidden in his chest), she immediately clocks his plan. she practically dares him to do it, and - he can't. he is, as always, helpless against her. 

what dean does instead is talk to her. more importantly, he listens to her. when she says her brother sent dean here to execute her, he tells her chuck actually didn't want this - that it was actually his very last resort. he asks her if this, the death of everything, is what she wanted, and she tells him all she really wanted was payback. again, dean EMPATHIZES:

Dean: Yeah, that's revenge. It'll get you out of bed in the morning, and when you get it, it feels great... for about five minutes. I've been there. Me and Sam, we have had our fair share of fights—more than our share. But no matter how bad it got, we always made it right because we're family. I need him. He needs me. And when everything goes to crap, that's all you've got—family. Now you might be a—an all-powerful being...but I think you're human where it counts. You simply need your brother. 

what's really neat about this section, and the scene before it where amara confronts her brother, is that they mark the first times dean felt any sort of genuine emotion for amara at all - one that she didn't force out of him or one that he felt for someone else that she just took for herself. dean genuinely EMPATHIZES with her - after everything she's done to him and his loved ones, and to the people on earth, dean sees the humanity in her. that's kind of his and sam's M.O., loving monsters into men - the number of non-human adversaries who eventually became allies because of the winchesters’ empathy or liking for them or even just their influence is staggering. cas, gabriel, meg, benny, crowley, rowena, metatron, to name a few off the top of my head - and now amara. 

and then we get THIS:

Dean: You don't want to be alone. Not really. I mean, hell. Maybe that's why you wanted me. But deep down, you didn't really want me... 'cause I'm not him.

(emphasis mine)

and here's my galaxy brain take: dean empathizes with amara - TRULY empathizes with her - because they're both queer (or queer-coded). 

I KNOW THIS SOUNDS NUTS BUT LISTEN. this weird creepy stalkery hetero "romance" was fake on both sides all along. dean and amara are the same. that unspeakable and innate wrongness lives in both of them. they're self-loathing and furious at god for his failures and callousness, outcasts in a world that isn't for them, a world that has HURT them simply on account of them being what they are. the violence done to amara was done to her BECAUSE of this unspeakable wrongness about her - her queerness, or her queer-codedness - and we already decided this was, for the purposes of this season, functionally the same violating and traumatic experience as sexual violence.

amara's been using dean to try and replace chuck this entire season. it's some weird comphet bullshit tied in with the fact that dean was the first part of chuck's creation she ever saw. it stands to reason then that she was trying to force dean to be with her and love her the way she wanted to force CHUCK to be with her. that's part of why she started life as a baby - as someone he'd protect as he did his own sibling. 

so in some weird, warped, very roundabout way, amara was enacting on dean the violence that chuck enacted on her - making him feel the same shame and weakness that chuck made HER feel when he locked her away eons ago. if amara unknowingly replaced chuck with dean, then she also unknowingly took part of her revenge on him. the only way she knew how to love someone was to force them to do it, because the only ways she had ever been loved until now involved violence - until dean and his moment of genuine empathy.

consider this final speech:

Dean: Maybe I can kill you. Or maybe I can't. Maybe if I pull this trigger, we all live happily ever after, or maybe we die bloody, or maybe it doesn't matter, because maybe there's a different way. So I'm gonna ask you again. Put aside the rage. Put aside the hate. And you tell me...what do you want?

dean is the only person in BILLIONS of years to ask her this! one queer to another! and it turns out that and all she wanted - the ONLY thing she needed - was to be understood and accepted by her family. immediately after this, amara summons chuck to their park, and the two of them talk it out in what is genuinely a very moving scene. amara - perhaps because of her connection with dean, perhaps because she's finally admitted to herself that she does still love her brother - sees the beauty in the world now, and feels love for it, and she doesn't want to destroy it anymore. 

and at the end, after she's made her peace with god, and the sun has been turned back on, amara says:

Amara: Dean, you gave me what I needed most. I want to do the same for you.

and what do we get at the end of this episode? mary winchester, risen from her grave. dean's family. and - SPOILERS FOR SEASON 12 - though at first mary rejects dean (and sam) as being the same children she remembers from 1983, after a long and rocky road, at the end of the season, they eventually come to a reconciliation where she sees them for who they truly are. it's never ABOUT being queer because this show uses the fucking hays code when it comes to dean's sexuality, but it's still about being queer!! 

dean gave amara what she needed - acceptance from her family - and she gave him that back in turn. all it took, the entire time, was one SHRED of empathy from one queer to another. all dean had to do was recognize her - REALLY recognize her - not as a replacement for sam or cas but as who she really was. and he saw himself in her, and the empathy that followed was genuine because it was the most natural thing in the world. in the end neither dean nor amara needed the "romance" they thought they did/were forced to want. they never did. they only needed acceptance and understanding.

supernatural is always about family and the power of love, and this season is no exception.

other great parts of season 11

if you're still not convinced, season 11 is full of other things that make it amazing:

GOD'S RETURN. after SIX YEARS he's back, this is canon, we finally get to hear what he has to say. they did more with him in a handful of episodes in this season than all of season 15

also, something else returns after six years. i'll give you a hint: it glows hot in god's presence. it was last seen being dropped into a motel trash can.

and of course the big one: lucifer and sam. what great callbacks to seasons 4-6 when lucifer and what he did to sam in hell was actually scary and mattered a lot! lucifer returns to being scary in this and i can't get enough of it.

this is also inseparable from sam's arc involving his faith - he begins praying again, having visions again, and is GUTTED when those prayers and visions lead him back to the place of his worst trauma. he gets to MEET GOD this season. it's fucking insane

the inherent melodrama of castiel, someone loved and trusted by the winchesters, being possessed by someone who they hate and who has hurt them. you get all of the sam drama with him accidentally trusting lucifer with his soul and his brother's life, and all the dean drama where he watches the devil run around in his boyfriend. also, misha collins does an uncanny impression of mark pellegrino. it's actually really creepy

somehow, they managed to make metatron, a deeply hated villain by all, ACTUALLY LIKEABLE. for TWO whole episodes. it was NUTS

this season starts off rowena's long arc with lucifer and her lucifer trauma that eventually becomes the catalyst of her bonding so profoundly with sam <3 best friends forever <333

sam and dean bond with a pair of canonically gay hunters who DON'T DIE

billie is introduced in this season and she's super hot and cool and awesome

eileen is also introduced in this season. her arc mirrors sam's so well, it's SO good. i never though i'd care about sam and a girl who wasn't jess, but i care about them SO MUCH it makes me insane. if you don't love eileen you're wrong!

anyway, watch season 11. it's weird but it's really fucking good. THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK

[spn masterpost]

#supernatural #dean winchester #amara #supernatural meta #destiel #in a roundabout way #i needed a 5th tracked tag lol #i stayed up ALL NIGHT writing this but im gonna be a smartie and schedule it to go up at noon when ppl are awake #liz watches spn #liz's meta #liz's spn stuff #liz makes stuff #long post #just in case the cut fails #this meta really is 3800 words long lol #as a bonus it was implied in late season 10 that amara is the older sibling #even though they retconned it and made them twins later #like amara and dean are both eldest sisters.......

[sodomitecastiel]

Hi! I re-read the last (posted) chapter of Fenario this morning, and the scene with the mezuzah made me think.

I have a question, and idk how to get the answers out of Google. If you can't or don't want to answer it yourself, that's okay. If that's the case, then if you could perhaps direct me to a helpful website, or to someone who you think can and will answer it, that would be extremely helpful and very much appreciated 😊

Cas's words from Fenario are "It's meant to remind you of the presence of God, which l choose to interpret as holiness."

I'm not Jewish, nor a follower of any Abrahamic religion, but for some reason that scene and the idea of ​​the mezuzah resonated strongly with me on a spiritual level. Especially Cas interpreting it as "holiness" rather than God.

I know it would be disrespectful to have an actual mezuzah (according to what I found through a Google search), but, I was wondering, do you think it would okay for me, a non-Jewish person, to have something similar in my home? Probably at my bedroom doorway.

To explain a little further: I am an atheist, but I do believe in the divinity of the universe itself, and I think it would be good to have something to remind me of that divinity every day. Similar concept, inspired by the idea of the mezuzah.

Cas's was empty (at least, the fic didn't describe anything inside), but when looking up the mezuzah on Google, I read that they usually have a piece of parchment in them with verses from the Torah. I wouldn't use a religious text for my own, l'd find words elsewhere. Probably the following quote: "The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself." - Carl Sagan

It's important to me to be respectful to other people's religions and cultures, despite not being part of them myself, which is why I want to find an answer to this rather than just assuming it’s okay. If you could give me your thoughts, or direct me to someone or somewhere that I could receive an answer from, I would really appreciate it!

Thank you so much! I hope you have a wonderful day!

-Ender

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

first of all, thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!! it means a lot to me when non-jews get something out of my explicitly jewish writing.

i do think it would be odd to have a mezuzah type thing in your actual doorway, as that's one of the most Very Jewish practices i see in daily life - it's also one of the very visible ways you can spot a jewish home from a distance, and i know that when i walk around the world & see a mezuzah, it's a visual cue that the space i'm entering is a jewish space. i worry that putting a mezuzah up in a non-jewish home would send a confusing and conflicting message. not that your home wouldn't be safe and a place of refuge for jews! but i personally am leaning toward thinking it wouldn't be appropriate. of course other jews might feel more loosey-goosey about it (jewish people are def not a monolith lol, i'm just one guy), but it would make me feel uncomfortable for a practice that IS usually explicitly about the jewish god being co-opted for other worship practices. kissing the mezuzah is one of the MOST jewish everyday practices we have, and it's the same physical action we take when presented with the torah, too - a person reaches out with their tzitzit (fringe of the prayer shawl) and touches it to the torah, then brings it back to their lips as an indirect kiss. the kissing-the-mezuzah action isn't a nondenominational practice, if that makes sense? if i made friends with someone and went over to their place and found something like you described, i wouldn't love it. it would make me feel weird and a little unsafe.

historically, jewish people haven't been allowed to have any visible markers of judaism on their home without opening themselves to threats of violence. the choice to put up a sign like a mezuzah, or a hannukiah in the window, is a blatant display of not being afraid of antisemitic retaliation. it means something more than just the mezuzah itself.

i also didn't intend for cas's mezuzah to read as 'empty'! pretty much every mezuzah has a scroll with a specific prayer inside (it's called the shema & it's the most important jewish prayer), i just didn't think it was necessary to specifically describe the scroll inside in my fic because it's pretty much a given, haha. i Also intended for cas's watering-down of what mezuzot are to be a choice he makes as an angel, and as a jewish person; the fact that it isn't wrapped up in god for cas doesn't make it a less religious or less jewish practice.

i guess the crux of what i'm saying is that i don't feel comfortable with the idea of gentiles using mezuzot for non-jewish worship, and i would highly encourage you to find other ways of reminding yourself about daily holiness. i know that's probably not the answer you were hoping for, and i really hope you take this message in as gentle & warm a way as i intended to write it!!

tl;dr: yeah i still think it's cultural appropriation, even if it isn't a mezuzah you buy from a judaica store.

#nathaniel.txt #answered #jewish

[firelxdykatara]

I really like hearing your thoughts on ships, so I was just wondering what you thought about the episode 'Seeing Red' from Buffy as a Spuffy shipper. I love the ship too and remember being so uncomfortable watching that episode. It felt like it came out of no where while I was marathoning the show

Ok so, I’ve been sitting with this for a while (my inbox is telling me it’s been 10 days......time plz stop moving without me noticing), mostly because it’s... a really Touchy topic, for a lot of (very obvious, to anyone familiar with the episode or the arc) reasons.

CW for discussion of attempted sexual assault and rape ahead. (I’m gonna talk a bit about Willow too.)

First of all, I wanna state that I understand why Seeing Red was a ‘point of no return’ for many people. There are a lot of people for whom sexual assault/rape is The Thing they simply cannot get past and they could never see Spike or Spuffy the same again, and that’s valid and understandable. For me, personally, I don’t consider it any more or less reprehensible than murder or anything else vampires and demons get up to in the show because they’re monsters and very specifically Not Human, but at the same time it felt gratuitous and unnecessary (like the writers were trying to remind us Spike was really evil right before he went to get his soul back of his own accord, and I’ll talk a bit more about that later), and the episode itself is difficult to watch. (Also because it includes Tara’s death, which wrecks me to this day.)

It’s also been a very long time since I’ve seen the episode in question, mostly because I haven’t done a full rewatch in years, and when I do watch Buffy it’s either starting from the beginning and then losing track of where i was and starting over again, or else jumping to random episodes throughout the show which I enjoy and watching those by themselves (and Seeing Red is very much not on that list lol). So I rewatched it just to refresh my memory and....god there are a lot of other reasons I don’t care for this episode. (Xander was exceptionally horrific to Buffy re: finding out she was sleeping with Spike. Gods I dislike him more and more the older I get.)

In general, it’s just a really hard episode to watch. (And I’ll never forgive Joss for finally putting Amber Benson in the opening credits, only to kill her that same episode.) There’s a lot of ugliness, and the Trio are among the worst villains in the show--not in terms of how they’re written (they feel kind of terrifyingly realistic, although they also seem kind of exceptionally meta in light of how much has come out in the last decade about Joss Whedon’s own attitudes and behavior and treatment of women), but because every other big bad with very few exceptions has the excuse of being a soulless vampire or a demon or a hellgod or some other monster that can’t really help the fact that they were made that way. The Trio are just normal dudes who think they’re entitled to women and money and power and are willing to do absolutely anything to get all three, proving that maybe it isn’t really the presence or absence of a soul that actually makes humans, like, humane.

But that’s me side-tracking. As far as Spuffy goes, yeah, this episode is pretty brutal. There’s no mincing words here--Spike attempted to rape Buffy, and he only stopped and had his ‘oh my god, what have I done’ realization after she managed to kick him off. If she hadn’t, he probably wouldn’t have stopped. And I can almost understand it, from a writing perspective--how do you make a soulless vampire realize that he’s truly a monster and, further, how do you finally get him to want to change that? Make him cross a line he never had before. Except... that really wasn’t necessary. Not for his character arc, nor for his relationship with Buffy, and a part of me thinks that it was really intennded to just drive home the message that Spike was a monster, and that Buffy could never really love him, and the easiest way to communicate that was sexual violence, something that the show never really had its vampires engage in previously. So it would be a shock to the audience, it would throw Spike’s motives into question when he went to get his soul back, and it would make his presence in season 7 a constant question, plus provide a reason for Buffy not to trust him.

I think all of this could have been achieved without the sexual violence. I think the scene was largely done for shock value--again, to douse the audience with ice water and remind them that Spike, no matter how chummy he’d seemed with the Scoobies since getting chipped and eventually working with them, was still a monster. But we really didn’t need that reminder, and I think it would’ve made more sense for him to simply attempt to kill her--still a betrayal, still shocking, still something that could spur him into the actions he would take afterwards (going to get his soul restored), but without the exceedingly uncomfortable attempted rape scene in a season where there had already been serious issues with consent.

I’m talking, specifically, about Willow.

There’s something interesting I’ve noticed in fandom, and it’s that people really don’t seem to want to talk about or acknowledge the fact that Willow raped Tara. Maybe because it was via magic, rather than violence--or because it was never really called what it actually was in the narrative, or because they’re The Gay Ship of btvs, I don’t know. But she did--when she spelled Tara to forget about their serious fight which had been building for weeks, and then went to bed with her. And then explicitly had sex with her the next day. It’s part of why I’ve always had a complicated relationship with “Under Your Spell”--I love the song, but it’s also literally spelling out the fact that Tara’s mind had been violated by the woman she loved and she could not consent to sex while under the spell.

So that moment was already toeing the line in terms of consent and at least Tara was able to talk about how Willow violated her mind and how that made her feel (in song, at that), but Seeing Red was like a slap in the face. Where Willow’s magic addiction and willingness to cross those lines had been building for more than a year, Spike attempting to rape Buffy came out of nowhere. This isn’t a show that explored any really complicated relationship between vampires and consent (in The Vampire Diaries, for example, vampires have an ability called compulsion and compelling humans that they then have sex with is pretty normal and no one really blinks about it, human or vampire; it’s definitely still rape, but it’s not treated as anything particularly beyond the pale, because they’re vampires who can control the minds of their prey and don’t tend to consider the feelings of their food sources to be of any real importance), and while the vampires are hot and have sex, there’s never been any indication that they sexually assault humans in addition to feeding on them.

I think that specific scene in Seeing Red is the hardest to watch in the entire show. There’s really nothing like it in any other episode or with any other villain, and it has a tendency to sit in the back of the mind and sour feelings about Spike and Spuffy because it’s genuinely difficult to forget. I’m not sure if the intention was really to turn people off Spuffy (especially since he got his soul and came back in season 7 and Buffy forgave him and fell in love with him), but that was certainly the effect it had on a lot of people.

For me, personally, like I’ve said I don’t like the scene and I don’t think it was necessary, which is why I tend to ignore it as much as possible when I’m thinking about Spike and Buffy and their relationship. It’s a thing I know that happened, but I also know that I don’t think it was particularly fitting from a character perspective, and that makes it easy for me to file it away as sloppy writing and generally OOC, and move on. Again, I can definitely understand why some people can’t or don’t want to do that, but I also know that a lot of people continue to love Spike and Spuffy and I don’t think I’m alone in considering that moment to be OOC for him and generally try to ignore it in my meta and other analysis of the show.

#spuffy #buffy summers #spike #seeing red cw #btvs #btvs meta #spuffy meta #seeing red meta #asked #Anonymous

[attemptsonherlifepdf]

attempts on her life: an exploration of victimhood, theatre and self-empowerment as modern feminine survival tactics

trigger warning for discussions of suicide, self harm, sexual assault, fetishism, eating disorders, implications of paedophilia and violence

‘is she not saying, your help oppresses me? is she not saying, the only way to avoid being a victim of the patriarchal structures of late 20th century capitalism is to become her own victim?’ martin crimp’s 1997 play, attempts on her life, was first performed at the royal court theatre upstairs the year of its release. written ‘for a company of actors whose composition should reflect the world beyond theatre’, the play explores the seedier, harsher aspects of reality, including pornography, ethnic violence and suicide. crimp’s central character, anne, is characterised as unique and empowered, but most importantly she is characterised by narrators and other characters describing her. the irony of a woman described as so empowered having so little voice of her own throughout the play is crucial to the question the play poses: is liberation from patriarchal constraints even possible, or do acts of reclamation serve to eventually end up catering to the male gaze regardless?

the scene ‘untitled (100 words)’ details anne’s self-destruction, manifesting in ‘various attempts to kill herself.’ it is an effort to replace being a victim of ‘patriarchal structures’ with being a victim of her own actions and emotions. arguably though, this effort may not be entirely fruitful as anne’s behaviour produces the same result she would achieve through allowing herself to cater to traditional expectations: a helpless victim of the male gaze. anne’s actions are presented as exhibitionist; while motivated by her own suicidal ideation, her attempts to take her life work as ‘a kind of theatre for a world in which theatre itself has died.’ she leaves a ‘gallery’ of memorabilia surrounding her attempts, including ‘medicine bottles, records of hospital admissions polaroids of the several hiv positive with whom she has intentionally had unprotected intercourse, pieces of broken glass...suicide notes…’ a narrator describes this exhibition as ‘the spectacle of her own existence, the radical pronography...the religious object.’ the semantic field of language in this scene associated with anne’s suicide attempts is littered with sexualisation and ideas of performance: ‘its sexy...voeyuers...pornography...object of herself...to be consumed...self-indulgent...entertaining.’ this opens up a dialogue between the narrators that evaluates her suicidal behaviour as a piece of artwork. one asks ‘who would possibly accept this kind of undigested exhibitionism as a work of art?’ while the other offers the idea that ‘gestures of radicalism take on new meaning in a society where the radical gesture is simply one more form of entertainment - in this case artwork - to be consumed.’ as uncomfortable as it is to suggest, anne’s suicidality is both fetishised and commodified, something that is partially her own doing. the concepts of ‘pure narcissism’ and ‘self-indulgence’ are attributed to her performance, along with one of the narrators pushing for her to receive psychiatric treatment. an obvious but viable interpretation of anne’s ‘gallery’ is that it is an exaggerated cry for help, where she lays out the evidence of her mental state in the hopes of receiving validation or assistance. this idea is disputed by this narrator’s counterpart, who suggests that ‘help is the last thing she wants.’ the sexualised language used and the repeated hints at exhibitionism could indicate that her performance is for the purpose of her own sexual pleasure: ‘surely our presence [the audience] here makes us mere voyeurs in bedlam.’ in forcing those around her to witness her mental decline, anne may be participating in fetishism. she certainly is acting with the intention of performing, and of being watched.

this is where the idea of empowerment and reclamation comes in. anne forces her peers into watching, something that she gets pleasure from, and this arguably serves as a reversal of typical sexual dynamics which place men in dominant, pleasure-receiving roles roles. in self-destructive behaviours, she reclaims her body and chooses to destroy it herself rather than allowing others to do it to her. however, in the process of doing so she achieves the same result that she would if she were allowing her environment to shape her into an object of the male gaze; that is to say, a helpless object. men’s stereotypical attraction to what ibsen referred to as ‘feminine helplessness’ tends to be the driving force of the objectification of women. it can be argued that this objectification is inevitable and thus anne’s efforts to control the means by which it occurs is the closest she can get to liberating herself from it. finding a way to enjoy or bear something painful and inevitable serves as a survival mechanism; ‘not the object of others, but the object of herself.’

the aesthetic framing of anne’s violence against herself is incredibly significant to its relevance as a piece of artwork. in ‘aesthetic violence and women in film: kill bill with flying daggers’, kupfer argues that film, and by extension plays and scripts, aesthetically frame violence in three ways: symbolically, structurally, and as a narrative essential. anne’s violence can be characterised as self harm and fulfills these three framings. symbolically it is an act of free will and a reclamation of her own body, an opportunity to enjoy her ‘inevitable’ objectification. structurally, the scene ‘untitled (100 words)’ occurs five scenes after the last discussion of anne’s suicidality within the play, a scene titled ‘mum and dad.’ this sets up certain aspects of anne’s performative nature in advance. after a suicide attempt she describes ‘[feeling] like a screen’ to her parents: ‘where everything from the front looks real and alive, but round the back there’s just dust and a few wires...an absence of character.’ here she details an experience of feeling disconnected from herself beyond her performance. the act of using performance as a means of openly criticising performance is certainly subversive, and is a device seen in more modern media, such as bojack horseman (‘i felt like a xerox of a xerox of a xerox...not my character’) and in bo burnham’s ‘inside.’ crimp uses his play to propose ideas about the nature of acting, particularly its role in the lives of women. the sentiment of acting being a survival tactic for women is echoed in much earlier texts, such as ibsen’s ‘a doll’s house.’ throughout the play nora caters to her husband’s infantalised fantasies of her whenever he is present, and doing so results in him giving her an allowance and certain limited but significant moments of freedom. torvald admits, ‘i would not be a man if your feminine helplessness did not make you doubly attractive in my eyes’ and repeatedly states that he wishes some ‘terrible fate’ would befall his wife so that he could have the pleasure of rescuing her. anne’s performance of suicidality, of feeling ‘beyond help’, would likely be received by men similarly to how nora’s childish facade is received by her husband, as a fantasy that involves saving her for their own sense of pleasure and accomplishment. however, what makes anne’s behaviour ‘radical’ is her refusal to accept help. she recognises that her feelings of hopelessness are fetishised and argues that ‘your help oppresses me.’ this sentiment is also reflected in ‘a doll’s house’; nora must refuse torvald’s money and help in order to pursue her own freedom in the final act. catering to his idealised image of a wife only served to help her survive her household, not to prosper or be her individual self. she had to leave the environment which forced her to perform behind entirely in order to discover who she is beyond the act. not accepting help is anne’s version of this, but the narrators consider the idea that even in isolating her act to only include herself, anne still cannot escape objectification. her ‘radical gesture’ of destroying herself and laying out the evidence of her behaviour is ‘simply one more form of entertainment, one more product… to be consumed.’ an earlier scene, titled ‘the camera loves you’ includes the line ‘we need to go for the sexiest scenario’, a statement which accurately summarises the likely reception to anne’s ‘dialogue of objects.’ arguably another aspect of what makes anne’s predicament ‘the sexiest scenario’ is that even within the text itself she is the subject of the conversation, but rarely a participant. anne is described by narrators, art critics, her parents, her family, etc, but only ever speaks for herself when her defiant statements are being quoted by one of these narrators. descriptions of her self-inflicted violence fit kupfer’s final framing: a narrative essential.

interestingly, the play consists of a somewhat non-linear narrative, where each of its 17 scenes has its own plot unconnected to that of the last. as a result, a narrative essential in ‘attempts on her life’ would be a device, or in this case an instance of violence, which builds our understanding of both anne and the play’s messages, rather than a traditional narrative essential which would drive the plot forwards. the play delivers multiple instances of various forms of violence, ranging from ethnic violence to self harm to forced pornography. anne’s self-injury in particular is framed just prior to and just after the midpoint of the play. before the midpoint, the audience learns of her ‘terrible detachment’ from the character she plays, how she ‘feels like a screen.’ the midpoint, a scene titled ‘the international threat of terrorism™’ opens with a brief analysis of a statement made by anne: ‘i do not recognise your authority.’ the speaker asks, ‘does she really imagine that anything can justify her acts of random senseless violence?’ ‘random’ and ‘senseless’ seem ill-fitting qualities to attribute to anne’s violence, particularly given that her parents state ‘she’s planned all this.’ however, this midpoint scene states ‘no one can find anne’s motive’, seemingly the reason that the speaker cannot see a possible justification for her behaviour. choosing not to recognise the authority of those around her is yet another aspect of our protagonist’s performance that is ‘radical.’ in neglecting to acknowledge the power of those objectifying her, anne is achieving two things; either she is allowing herself to experience her own body and emotions without it being for the sake of others, or she is allowing herself to be fetishised and is simply in denial of it. her defiance is complex and the results of it, and indeed the motivations behind it, are difficult to ascertain.

martin crimp’s use of 17 separate individual scenes rather than a traditional singular plot narrative allows the audience to gain a multifaceted understanding of many multifaceted issues. anne is placed and acts within varying contexts such as her own personal self destruction, destruction of land that comes with ethnic cleansing, the commodification of female bodies and two different familial structures. the scene ‘the camera loves you’ emphasises how anne is an ‘everywoman’ but rather than this term being used to describe an average woman in daily life, it instead refers to a woman who is, simply put, everything. anne is described in the scene ‘girl next door’ as ‘the girl next door...royalty…a pornographic movie star...a killer and a brand of car...a terrorist threat...a mother of three...femme fatale...a presidential candidate...a predator…’ by not allocating a specific speaker to each line, crimp allows the director to decide who describes anne and in what way. lines such as ‘what we see here is the work of a girl who clearly should have been admitted, not to an art school but to a psychiatric unit’ can be spoken by a parent, an art critic, a teacher, anyone, and the relation of the speaker to anne is what characterises the comment and thus characterises her. someone described as ‘self indulgent’ by a parent is very different to someone described the same way by a lover. this means that anne is not just every woman, but every woman to everyone. by placing this ‘everywoman’ in such a range of contexts, she arguably becomes a plot device used to convey meaning, and it can be argued that this negates the more empowered features of her character. it is entirely common for female characters to be reduced to plot devices, however most often when this occurs, the character is two-dimensional. anne, on the other hand, is consistently given additional layers to her character in every scene; she exists to be characterised. excessive use of character description in conjunction with limited speaking time is either evidence that crimp’s writing is atypical in style but not theme, or that it is poignant.

arguably, by giving anne countless traits and emphasising ideas of performance and media, crimp is using his 17 scenes as an extreme example of the commodification of female bodies. anne is sold to the audience as this larger-than-life persona, someone who fulfils a million roles in subversive ways that are interesting to watch, but she still ‘feels like a screen.’ again, this sentiment of the effects of performance on an actor is echoed in many modern texts and pieces of media, but ‘attempts on her life’ makes this point in specific reference to women. real life examples of anne’s treatment exist, and her ‘everywoman’ role allows audiences to relate anne to any number of women existing in media. the way that others only talk about anne when describing or evaluating her mimics the way that agencies and record labels create a solid branding for their actors, musicians, and so on. this brand becomes an intrinsic part of their genuine personality as they cannot be caught behaving in a way that is not consistent with it. acting becomes a constant, and these women are constantly selling a brand or persona, and have very little space to behave in ways that feel true to themselves instead. acting ‘out of character’ results in the loss of public support, funding from agencies, job offers, etc, and thus the character created for celebrities is vital to their survival in their respective industries. as previously discussed, traditional texts argue the importance of theatre for women’s survival just as much, namely ibsen’s ‘a doll’s house.’ the same way nora must leave the environment that forces her to act in order to be happy or individual, anne must do the same; but her attempts at suicide suggest that the environment forcing her performance is not a household or an industry, but ‘the patriarchal structures of late twentieth century capitalism.’ either she dies or ‘becomes her own victim’ in an attempt to escape constant performance, but even her death becomes somewhat performative. even dead, many female celebrities continue their branding through martyrdom. there is very little room for one to make art detailing suicide, sex, and the like without seemingly crossing the line between expression and glorification. women who suffer are not necessarily acting, but as their suffering is a part of their life experience, it becomes interwoven in their branding or public image: amy winehouse’s experiences with alcoholism and bulimia come to mind. winehouse never glorified alcoholism herself, but songs such as ‘rehab’ and documentaries covering her illness released after her death have certainly been accused of doing so. agencies and other creatives took advantage of winehouse’s struggles in order to perform their own ‘activism’ or ‘spreading of awareness.’

in light of ‘attempts on her life’ and the concepts surrounding performance that it poses, we must consider: is liberation from patriarchal constraints even possible, or do acts of reclamation serve to eventually end up catering to the male gaze regardless? it would not be accurate to the play’s style and purpose to try to make one singular conclusion to this question. crimp uses varying styles and contexts in order to showcase the various aspects there are to this issue; the necessity of performance, the constraints it leads to, the sexualisation of suffering, brand maintenance, and so on. anne’s lack of voice in this play can be read either as an example of the very thing the play criticises, or simply just poor usage of character, and the former feels most appropriate for crimp’s writing style. the play implies that victimhood can be intrinsic to womanhood, but presents anne’s defiance as ideallised, encouraging it. theatre can be used as both a survival mechanism and a method of empowerment, but the play posits that it is only empowering to a certain extent; it allows one to control the means by which they are objectified but not to actually avoid objectification. one can behave in undesirable manners, such as anne’s displays of suicidality and exhibitionism, but then we must examine their motivations. is anne behaving in this way solely based upon her low mental health? or is the fact that she is also engaging in a form of exhibitionism and forcing an audience evidence of her sexualising her own experience? if so, her sexualisation of suicidal behaviour likely stems from the ‘patriarchal structures’ she is working to avoid being a victim of, suggesting that it is not possible to liberate oneself from them. anne is evidence that women are not separate from the patriarchy, but active participants in it as it is a collection of ideals engraved into western society. it would be unfair and somewhat dejected to conclude that these ideals cannot be unlearned, but ‘attempts on her life’ certainly illustrates that unlearning them is a more active and difficult task than simply holding a feminist ideology.

i.k.b

#attempts on her life #martin crimp #feminism #literature analysis #books and literature #essay #literature #analytical essay #script analysis #tw sa #tw sh #tw suicide #tw ed #tw alcohol #play analysis #ibsen #henrik ibsen #copyright ikb #mine #personal essay #male gaze #cw exhibitionism #tw violence #gender critical feminism #radical feminism #patriarchy #male violence #intersectional feminism #feminist #gender stereotypes

[rivalsforlife]

The Miles Dadworth Fic Rec List

List last updated: May 14 2021

Hopefully comprehensive list of fics of Miles Edgeworth Being A Father. This can be heavily implied or him outright adopting a kid. Not filtered through for quality, I just picked all the ones I could find easily.

Here’s how it works: I went through the 29 fics in the platonic Miles&Kay tag on ao3 that weren’t also tagged with the ship (gross), and skimmed through the fics that listed them both in the character tags. I also went through the platonic Sebastian&Miles tag. (Pretty much all the Sebastian fics are under the aai2 spoilers category regardless of how much spoilers are actually in there, just to be on the safe side!) I picked out ones that were either Miles Is A Dad or at least had heavy Dad vibes, and in which that relationship played a major if not were the sole focus of the story.

I didn’t go through Trucy’s tag yet because it’s the largest and also overlaps heavily with narumitsu - and while I love the ship, I wanted to focus on platonic relationships here, and didn’t really want to break down if each fic is more Miles&Trucy focused or narumitsu focused. Maybe later! I also didn’t go through the fics with original child characters for Miles -- though if you have any, lmk and I’ll add in a category for them, it counts as Dadworth too.

In the interest of being transparent as possible, these options are probably going to be biased. I read over or at least skimmed all of the fics submitted here before I put together this list, and therefore, I probably missed some that are tagged under ships that I personally dislike. As long as the ship isn’t something egregious, feel free to recommend it preferably with the Dadworth parts you like pointed out to me, and I’ll add it!

Now that those disclaimers are done… each of the fics below is sorted into one of three categories based on spoilers. There’s the link, followed by the title, author, rating, word count, and completion status (most are complete) along with any notes I thought might be helpful, such as which Dadworth relationship it focuses on but also any content warnings. Check them out and send the authors your love!

If you have any recommendations for the list, whether that’s because it’s on a non-ao3 site, under a ship I avoided, under a Dadworth relationship I didn’t search for, or I just plain missed something… send me a message either here or on twitter @rivalsforlife with a link to the fic! 

Similarly, if one of your fics on this list and you don’t want it to be, let me know and I’ll remove you from it, no hard feelings!

Full list under the “keep reading”.

Relatively Spoiler-Free Recs

… like it’s not going to be totally spoiler-free, but no major spoilers for anything released post-AJ unless stated otherwise.

Surprise Visit, by tellezara. T, 1385 words, complete. Not explicitly Dadworth, but Kay breaks into Miles’s house and meets Phoenix. Background narumitsu.

Means to an End by xtwilightzx. T, 24653 words, complete. Miles + Kay and a little bit of Miles + Trucy, again there’s narumitsu haha oops there’s gonna be a lot of those. It’s a spy+secret agent AU, I kind of just went through the Kay parts when adding it so I didn’t read over a lot of it and it’s been a while since I read it the first time. Not a fluffy piece, so tread carefully!

startling conclusions., by snowweiss. G, 3589 words, complete. Mainly Miles + Trucy and also Kay is there, and again, background narumitsu. 

The Little Things, by TelepathJeneral. G, 1838 words, complete. Miles+Kay, literally tagged “the ‘dad who isn’t a dad’” so. Yeah.

By the Skies, by potatomin. G, 1893 words, complete. Miles + Kay, not outright dad-stuff and can be read as friendship-only but here I am anyways claiming it

Turnabout Road Trip, by AutisticWriter. G, 1032 words, complete. Miles + Kay, not outright dad stuff but there’s a line implying it. Miles and Kay go to the Stonewall Inn, and there’s implied narumitsu.

Dear Kay, by chariset. T, 3790 words, complete. As the name would suggest it’s Miles + Kay. Contains spoilers for Dual Destinies, largely narumitsu focused, and a few lines that are nsfw-ish (for the narumitsu) but nothing graphic.

Jingleheimer Schmidt, by Meowzee. T, 2702 words, complete. It’s an AU where Miles has adopted (younger) Kay, Sebastian, and Ema, running into Phoenix who has adopted Trucy and (younger) Apollo and (human?) Charley. There’s a bit of implied narumitsu in there I think.

The Track Meet, by Auste. G, 2053 words, complete. Kay invites Miles and Gumshoe to her track meet. It’s not outright Dadworth, can be read as friendship only, but it’s implied in a few places.

An Unexpected Embrace, by PaleSkiessss. G, 2493 words, complete. Miles+Kay, there’s a spoiler for the victim of AAI case 4 in there but since I don’t think it’s an outright spoiler it’s here. Warning for kidnapping and hopsitals.

A Real Hero, by agoldengalaxy. G, 1609 words, complete. Miles+Kay, it takes place after aai2 but there aren’t any spoilers for it in here. 

The Single-Dads-In-Law-Enforcement Club, by milesedgeworthy (glassandroses). T, 1063 words at the time of writing this, incomplete. AU where Miles adopts Kay (who is aged down in this). Narumitsu seems to be a future focus, there’s also Gumshoe/Maggey and Mia/Diego. 

Long Known Facts, by Laquilasse. G, 3010 words, complete. Miles+Kay and Miles+Trucy, along with Miles+Gregory (various Dadworth flavours!). Miles turns 36 and reflects on the loss of his father; it’s a little heavy, naturally, but has a hopeful ending. Narumitsu is there as a pairing. Warning for past suicidal thinking.

Looking Past the Blindside, by AuthorForHire. G, 2808 words, complete. Miles+Kay, watching the beginning of Turnabout Succession (hence, AA4 spoilers).

From Borginia, with Love, by Inkblot0Blue. G, 678 words, complete (but reportedly part of an earlier abandoned(?) work). Miles+Kay and Miles+Sebastian, but no spoilers pop up regarding Sebastian.

Found, by BexDaBex. G, 318 words, complete. Miles+Kay, Miles finds Kay crying in the prosecutor’s office.

To the victor goes the spoils, by Verse. G, 499 words, complete. Miles+Kay, Miles spends a ridiculous amount of money on Kay. Warning that, while the fic itself is fine and absolutely dadworth, it is based on a prompt and the prompter mentions it as a ship in the prompt. (Again, the fic itself is fine, just brace yourself for that if needed.)

Making the Most, by digitaldreams. G, 2000 words, complete. Miles+Kay, Miles introduces Kay to Phoenix. narumitsu is in this one.

AAI Spoilers

For fics that contain spoilers for the first investigations game, but not the second.

Room 1202, by AquilaMage, G, 2950 words, complete. A bit of Miles + Kay stuff, but mostly Kay and Trucy sister-like bonding fluff!

Late Night, by agoldengalaxy. G, 1270 words, complete. Miles + Kay, post-AAI.

Turnabout Smokescreen, by chariset. T, 61036 words, complete. This is a multi-chapter casefic, it’s not super Dadworth focused but believe me it is in there, Miles + Kay. Some SOJ spoilers, not very fluffy, and I didn’t read over it before adding it to the list since it’s so long, so there may be some warnings or spoilers that I missed!

Promises, by an orphaned account :(. G, 1390 words, complete. Miles + Kay, Miles signs her promise notebook.

Two in the Bush, by Rosage. G, 4568 words, complete. Miles has adopted Kay in this, and some Kay+Trucy interactions plus Protective Dad Phoenix -- it’s not a fluffy fic, though, deals with moral ambiguity + Actual Yatagarasu Kay.

Spreading Her Wings, by Auste. G, 1542 words, complete. Less Dadworth and more Miles as a mentor to Kay, on her first day as a prosecutor, but I’m counting it in this anyways.

Father and daughter, by thewritingchip. G, 370 words, complete. Miles + Kay. Kay misses her father.

Coming out, by Verse. G, 977 words, complete. Miles+Kay, Kay comes out as trans to Miles. Content warning for an instance of unintentional deadnaming in the fic.

Never Lose You, by Leave_the_cravat. T, 13800 words, incomplete as of the time I’m writing this. Miles+Kay, Miles get shot and his friends/found family wait for him to recover. Evidently, content warning for gun violence and hospitals; more detailed warnings in the chapters.

Here, by lesbiantoddhoward.  G, 1194 words, complete. Miles+Kay, Kay works through some of her trauma post-AAI with the help of Miles. Not outright dadworth, but can be read as such.

AAI2 Spoilers

For fics that contain any amount of spoilers for the second investigations game.

Childswap, by theacegrace, aka me… sorry for the self-promotion haha but it fits. G, 11781 words, complete, has Miles’ relationships with Trucy + Kay + Sebastian (and also background, heavily implied narumitsu)

“family.”, by snowweiss. G, 2403 words, complete, features Miles’ relationships with Kay and Trucy and also narumitsu. No major plot spoilers but some implied ones through aai2 case 3 and 4.

These Children Are Not Objections, But I Will Raise Them!, by organicgold. G, 12368 words, complete. Has a whole bunch of platonic relationships you can see in the tags and also narumitsu. Some plot spoilers re: Sebastian

Edgeworth Gets Glasses, by Pinkstar14, G, 1516 words, complete. There aren’t any aai2 plot spoilers but Ray and Sebastian do show up in this. A bit of Miles and Sebastian, and Miles and Kay. Also Gregory’s Ever-Looming Presence, because technically he’s a dadworth too.

a great thief has to eat too, by polly_perks. G, 1357 words, complete. Some spoilers for cases 4 and 5 in here, focused on Miles and Kay. Miles gives Kay college advice.

Family Found, by MortisBane. G, 2422 words, complete. Spoilers are just General Sebastian things, but it’s outright dadworth with Kay and Sebastian.

Marked, by AquilaMage. T, 2112 words, complete. Kind of like one of those “soulmate AUs” except skin-to-skin contact with someone who truly loves you, whether that’s platonic, familial, or romantic, results in marks. Has some Miles + Sebastian dad stuff, but Miles also has Sebastian and Kay living with him. There’s also the Klavier/Sebastian ship. Warnings for implied child abuse.

That Warm Familiar Feeling, by ShyAura. G, 3091 words, complete. It’s an AU where Kay and Seb are aged down and Miles adopts them. Again warnings for implied child abuse in this re: Blaise.

Sleeping on Talent, by StrawhatsAndDeliberds. G, 10258 words, complete. Mostly Miles + Sebastian focused, but Miles adopts both him and Kay after the events of aai2 (or at least lets them live in his house.)

With a Chip in his Shoulder, by StrawhatsAndDeliberds. G, 80179 words at the time of writing this, incomplete. Much like the one above, Miles+Sebastian focused but Kay is there too. (I’m not sure if this is supposed to be part of a series or not, but it’s similar with Sebastian working through his issues!)

Surprises and Pride, by agoldengalaxy. G, 2848 words, complete. Miles+Kay but Sebastian is there too, I don’t think there are any aai2 spoilers but since it takes place post-aai2 and Sebastian is there, I put it here just to be safe!

Awfully Quiet, by rainingbluegold. G, 1079 words, complete. Miles+Kay and Miles+Sebastian, Miles cheers them up after the events of aai2.

Home Is Where The Heart Is, by JJsADragon. G, 5887 words, complete. Miles+Kay - Miles tries to figure out Kay’s secret about where she’s been staying throughout the course of the investigations games. 

Birds of a Feather, by theacegrace (oh look it’s me again). G, 8738 words, complete. Miles+Kay (with a little bit of Miles+Gregory). Five times Miles reminds Kay of her father, and one time Miles reminds himself of his own.

Warm Welcome, by debestefarewell. G, 551 words, complete. Miles+Sebastian - Sebastian gets a REAL dad.

Of Revelations and Wedding Bells, by Hotel_Japanifornia. G, 1330 words, complete. Miles+Kay, Kay is getting married (to an ambiguous/unknown partner) and Miles walks her down the aisle.

schön rosmarin, by KiwiKat_Writes. T, 13885 words at the time of writing this, incomplete. Miles+Sebastian and some Miles+Kay. Sebastian gets a dog! Warnings for some child abuse (Blaise being horrible), mentioned animal death at the beginning. (I haven’t had the time to read this one in detail yet, so let me know if I missed something.)

Smile Through the Memories, by VonKarmasWhip. T, 2490 words, complete. Miles+Kay, where Miles adopts Kay and deals with memories and doubts about being a father. There’s Gregbadd in the beginning of this and mentions of narumitsu and faraskye.

A Different Kind of Lullaby, by JJsADragon. T, 4101 words, complete. Miles+Sebastian, Sebastian calls Miles in the middle of the night wondering what happened to his mother. Content warning for Blaise being terrible, so implied/referenced child abuse and neglect.

Photosynthesize, by UtterPandamonium. T, 2140 words, incomplete at the time of writing this. Miles+Kay, with Miles and Phoenix and their accidental child acquisitions. No spoilers yet, but I’m putting it here just in case there is. narumitsu and franmaya are tagged as relationships in here.

#ace attorney #dadworth #miles edgeworth #kay faraday #sebastian debeste #ace attorney fic recs #dadworth fic rec list

[oloreaa]

Vencuyanir Ch. 7 - The Imperials

Summary: They are handed over to the Imperials

Words: 5.8k

Warnings: canon-typical violence, distress, angst, separation from their children, (implied) prostitution, non-explicit mentions of sexual harassment/assault (but nothing happens), getting drugged

Notes: Thank you SO much @over300books​ for looking over this, you´re the absolute BEST!! I cannot state how grateful I am for you 

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When Elana came to herself after a while, it was with the mother of all headaches. Groaning as she tried to prop herself up, clutching the edge of the sink, she did her best to become a bit more coherent.

Washing her face with the ice cold water in the sink, she flinched at the sting in her eyes. Looking up into the small mirror cabinet, she winced at the puffiness of her eyes, how prominent the bruises under them were. Her dark hair was a mess, tangled with knots and flyaway hairs sticking up. She loosened her braid, trying to comb it through with her fingers and get some resemblance of order. She did not bother braiding it neatly against her scalp again. Pressing ice cold fingers against her face, she was able to de-puff it a bit, making herself a bit more presentable. Elana wished that she had some of her old stuff that she had left on Arvala-7 back, something to give her a bit of comfort, to help her feel more put together.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she had to blink several times to stop the tears that threatened to well up again. She felt so useless, so weak in the face of what was to come.

Suddenly, something flickered across their bond. Bean was searching for her. He was pushing pictures at her of him in the cockpit, the glint of the beskar helmet from his point of view, and the blue streaks of hyperspace. The left seat behind the pilot's was empty.

Elana blinked, and was seeing herself in the mirror again. Staring at the reflection, still looking tired and scared but not as wrecked as a few minutes earlier, she sighed deeply.

Time to go.

Smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt, dusting off her pants and adjusting the belt, she did her best to loosen her body, stretching some, waking herself up a bit. Retying the laces on her leather boots and combing her hands through her hair again, she opened the door of the fresher. Peeking out cautiously, the cargo bay was the same as the night before, just missing the pram and the Mandalorian.

Looking at the ladder that went up into the cockpit, she grasped the rungs and pulled herself up. Getting into the cockpit, she saw the blue swirls of hyperspace through the viewport, cruelly beautiful for what was lying behind it.

Elana moved quietly and walked to the right co-pilot seat and looked into Bean’s pram. He looked up at her, ears perking up and he smiled brightly, cooing at her. The helmet of the Mandalorian did not move an inch.

"Morning, honey," she whispered to Bean as she stroked his ear, marvelling again at the softness of his skin. She could not help but smile, wrinkling her nose at him as she squatted down to be at the same height as him.

She distantly noticed that the bounty hunter had turned his head, and was now watching them. Elana ignored him, and took Bean into her arms. It was unfair how cute he was. He tried to grab at her hand, patting at her clumsily, eyes wide and full of love. Briefly pressing her forehead to the little one's, brows drawn together, she then placed a kiss on his fuzzy head.

"Today's a big day," she told him, a slight tremble in her voice, "You have to behave all day, all right? You‘ve got to listen to what I say, mhm?"

Bean cooed at her, patting at her cheeks.

"Dropping out of hyperspace in a minute," the warning of the Mandalorian shattered the moment. Elana just nodded, and resisted the urge to glare at him as she carefully put Bean back into the pram.

Getting to her seat and sitting down gingerly, she stared into the tunnel of blue and white swirls, and watched them leave hyperspace.

The planet in front of them was dark grey, with red veins bleeding through the surface, grey clouds swirling in the atmosphere. It looked as foreboding as she would have expected, and some part deep in her scoffed at the almost theatrical suspense that started to build up.

Nails biting into her palms painfully, Elana clenched her hands so tight she was surprised the skin did not break. She looked at the planet in front of them, growing larger by the second.

So, this is it.

That was Nevarro.

That was where the Mandalorian would hand them over to the clients.

Elana did not know exactly what the Imperials wanted Bean for, but every scenario she came up with was more horrific than the last. They could possibly turn him into a weapon with the abilities he possessed, and if he was not capable of reaching the expectations they had set, simply get rid of him. Elana could see Bean trying to climb out of his pram, and gave a start before watching him carefully.

Meanwhile, a hologram message was opened by the Mandalorian, the static fuzzing the blue-tinted figure that appeared. It was of an older, dark skinned human, wearing a coat that looked expensive, a big smile on his face, visible even from where she was sitting.

"Mando!" He greeted, "I received your transmission. Wonderful news." The Mandalorian's helmet turned towards it more, giving the pre-recorded message his full attention.

"Upon your return, deliver the quarry directly to the client. I have no idea if he wants to eat it or hang it on his wall but he's very antsy. Safe passage. You know where to find me."

While listening to the man speak, her fists clenched so hard that her nails left deep indentations in her palm, the sharp pain of it making her inhale sharply.

The Mandalorian turned around at the noise, and gave her a once-over. She glared into space, not even giving him the satisfaction of seeing her look back.

"He won't eat the asset," he tried to assure her, but the undercurrent of uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. Elana ignored the bounty hunter, and glanced at Bean.

Bean was unscrewing the silver knob of the lever on the right of the Mandalorian, and started to chew on it. Shiny! he was thinking, delighted with the way it reflected the light.

Good Bean, she sent to him, smiling grimly, the pettiness in her overwhelming.

But the Mandalorian caught sight of what the baby was doing, and extracted the silver knob from him.

Elana noticed how gentle he was with Bean, but what did that matter? Was being nice to a child that he was going to be delivering to death somehow a redeeming quality?

"It's not a toy," he told him, placing the silver knob on the headboard before picking Bean up by the nape of the oversized robes he wore and carefully placing him back into the pram. Bean whined at the loss, and looked to her, eyes pleading and lower lip trembling. She could feel over the bond how much he liked that silver ball.

"He said no, honey," she answered, leaning towards the small child. His ears drooped, and he pouted, completely adorable.

The ship angled itself differently and began the descent into the planet's atmosphere, the dropping altitude mirroring the sinking feeling in Elana's chest.

It took another hour, the Razor Crest battling against the air resistance of Nevarro, and Elana took Bean into the hull, unwilling to spend more time in the presence of the Mandalorian than necessary.

The little green child was sitting on her lap, playing with the end of her hair. She carefully brushed out the strands, gently undoing any knots while humming a song to calm Bean. He was starting to feed off her anxiety, becoming more fussy by the minute.

Pinning her hair up, figuring that loose hair and flyaways would not help her in any case, Elana tried to control her shaky hands.

She felt her control over the situation slipping through her fingers like quicksand, and the more desperately she reached for it, the quicker the quiet moments before the storm seemed to pass.

The ship landed with a thud. Her chest felt like it was caving in, hollow and numb and a deep panic started to spread. Bean patted at her thighs, looking up at her. Elana tried to give him a smile, but knew deep down that it was so wobbly that even Bean would know that something was wrong.

Shortly afterwards, the Mandalorian dropped down from the cockpit, almost completely silent. His helmet tilted towards her, and he gave a jerk of his head.

"Time to go," he told her.

"Are you really gonna do this?" Elana asked, her whole body trembling.

"Yes." His voice was flat, without any kind of emotion.

"Can we make a deal?" Desperation filled her voice, tasting sour, "Please, is there anything I can do?" She felt her body shake, but gathering all her courage, she looked him straight into the visor.

"Don't try it." His voice was cold, and he simply tilted his head.

Swallowing down her humiliation, she jutted her jaw. "I would let you do anything to me," she whispered, feeling hot tears burn behind her eyes as she fought to keep her eyes on his helmet, "Anything, as long as you don't hand him over."

He was silent, and she tasted blood on her tongue, having bit down too hard, ears rushing, feeling faint. She readied herself for his answer, determined not to cry.

"No deal," he said quietly, not moving an inch. Even though her heart dropped with relief, the last offer she could have made him was now out of the question.

Elana could not keep the bite out of her voice when she snapped at him. "Mandalorian, I beg you," she tried to ignore how dangerously choked up she was beginning to sound, "Bean is just a child, please, don't."

Bean babbled at her, feeling her anger and fear through their bond, and tugged at her shirt.

The Mandalorian stepped closer and loomed over her, simply tilting his visor down. "No deal," he repeated, voice firm.

She shrank back, fear and disgust building up in her in equal measure.

"You have no honour," she said, desperately trying not to cry, "You have no honour if you hand Bean over."

"Are you done?" His voice was as cold as ice.

"Not in the slightest," she hissed, lip curled in a snarl as her entire body burned, white hot anger coursing through her.

He simply looked her in her face, beskar helmet menacing. "I don't care."

"You know that you killed him, right?" Elana spat, tears in her eyes, "Bean's death will be on you."

He said nothing, just pushed a button on his vambrace, lowering the ramp of the Razor Crest, before harshly cuffing her already injured wrists together. She did not hide her wince at the rough treatment, but stared at the ground, unwilling to give the Mandalorian even more satisfaction at seeing her in pain, humiliation and despair cresting over her like a tidal wave.

Seething silently, she stepped after him.

The sunlight from outside was blinding, and she had to squint as they descended, the ramp folding itself up behind them while the Mandalorian set off, taking a sharp turn to the left. Elana kept up, but it was a difficult thing as his gait was quick and purposeful. On their right another ship was landing, the wind that resulted from it whipping in Elana's face, and a distressed coo from Bean made her look over. His eyes were big and worried, his ears flapping in the wind. He knew that something was wrong.

Trailing after the Mandalorian, she took in the sights of Nevarro. The diffused light through the covered sky and the bare rock on the ground gave the place a cold feeling, not eased by the grey housings and stone structures around them.

The air smelled of sulfur and ash, dried magma, making her suppress a gag. It was surprisingly cool for a lava planet, the breeze cold enough to make goosebumps rise on her skin.

There were some colourful bursts of orange and red stall coverings, but the contrast washed out the rest even more. Dust was in the air, smoke and steam rising from the houses, swirling up by the masses of people in the town itself. A big main street was framed by a stone pillar gate, weathered and missing pieces, towering above them, about ten times taller than Elana herself.

The people in the main square were from everywhere; she could see Jawas, Twi'leks, different droids, Humans, Kiffar, and countless other species. Noises filled the air, different stalls showcasing various wares, droid chatter, yelling by vendors, conversations between different individuals, all overlapping to a symphony of sounds that did nothing to calm Elana in the slightest. Bean made a loud noise, turning his head towards the Mandalorian and giving him a questioning look. Elana clenched her jaw as he did not even turn his head towards the child, but kept on walking straight ahead, the cold light of the sun reflecting off his helmet and pauldron.

Bean's ears lowered, an undercurrent of fear thrumming through the bond, too many new sights and noises all at once, and no comfort was to be taken from the Mandalorian.

She tried her best to send back some reassurance but she was as scared as he was. And he knew that, could feel it, his fear wrapping around her heart, as hers did around his.

Taking a few turns away from the main street, they arrived at a staircase that descended into a sketchy looking alley. The tall walls of the buildings around them made it feel like they were caged in, nowhere to go. Elana wanted to start to beg, make offers, trying anything if it meant that he would change his mind. But there was no negotiating with him, he proved that.

"Please," she choked out, looking at him imploringly, but he ignored her.

The Mandalorian knocked on a door on the right of them, and a sensor droid shot out of the hatch next to it, a big singular red eyeball knob, gargling a language she could not understand. The little one jumped and made a scared noise, and Elana instinctively put herself in front of him, shielding her Bean.

Holding out the fob in his right hand, the Mandalorian let the sensor droid scan it, and after a short exclamation, the droid folded back into the building again.

Bean garbled a questioning noise, looking towards the Mandalorian, and then to her, and she held out her hand, tracing his ear carefully in reassurance.

Then, stormtroopers stepped out, and Elana's heart skipped a beat. Their white armour was battered, rust starting to creep onto the white paint, adding to the grotesque look the stormtroopers were already sporting. The Mandalorian turned to look at them, and visibly hesitated. Elana's heart was beating so fast in her chest she started to feel slightly faint, her breath becoming quick, panic visible on her face. Bean was whining low in fear, so quiet only she could hear it, due to her laser focus on him.

This is it.

They entered the building.

The stormtroopers led them in, one in front, and one in the back. They were caging the Mandalorian, Bean and her between them. The door closed.

Elana closed her eyes, taking in a deep shuddering breath as she set one foot in front of the other.

No way back.

One of them yanked at the pram, startling the child, who squeaked in protest. Elana gave a start but before she could say anything, the Mandalorian cut in, voice tense.

"Easy with that," he said, earning a scoff from the stormtrooper.

"You take it easy," he mocked, amusement in his voice.

Elana looked to the ground, trying to keep her cool. Her heart beat fast in her chest, her throat felt as it was being choked, blood rushing in her ears. She was terrified.

When the door swished open, revealing a large room, the beeping of a tracking fob filled the air.

The room was as desolate as Nevarro itself, a grey, unadorned duracrete warehouse with loose crates strewn around, some windows with closed blinds in the back, a big table and three chairs smack in the middle of it. There were two men, one an old man, dressed in dark, expensive garments and a signet of the Empire hanging around his throat. The other, younger, had dark hair and a beard, wearing glasses as well as a white uniform with dark pants.

The Imperial was approaching fast, a manic look in his eyes and glee on his face.

"Yes," he said, coming closer, approaching fast, "Yes, yes, yes."

They both peered into the pram.

"Yes," the old man hissed, looking at Bean.

The younger man scanned the child with a red blinking device, Bean whimpering against the bright light, and he was positively giddy as he announced that Bean was healthy. Then, he turned to Elana, and a look of confusion was on his face.

"Who is this, Mandalorian?" he asked, and scanned her as well.

The red light hurt her eyes, but she did not flinch as she stared at the ground.

"Its caretaker," the Mandalorian replied, making a gesture to the pram. The man hummed, and nodded after he completed the scan.

"She is healthy as well," he said, before offering a friendly smile, "We will have good use for her." Elana could not help the shiver that ran down her back when those words were issued, and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Now it was settled. Before, she did not know for certain how her fate will be. Now, it was with the Imperials. She refused to panic even more, it would not help her in the slightest.

"Your reputation was not unwarranted," the old man said, sounding smug, watery eyes sliding over her before fixing on the Mandalorian.

"How many fobs did you give out?" the bounty hunter asked, voice tense, and Elana resisted the urge to sneak a look at him, but stared hard at the ground instead, shoulders set back and back straight.

The Imperial exhaled, and his Core World accent was pronounced as he said: "This asset was of extreme importance to me. I had to ensure its delivery."

His head turned in their direction, and she could almost feel how his gaze swept over her and Bean.

"But to the winner-," he announced as he tossed the fob onto his desk. The Imperial lifted a grey camtono with little difficulty from beneath the desk, and placed the payment for Bean on the surface with a hard thud, "go the spoils."

Pressing a few buttons, the camtono opened with a hiss. The Mandalorian gave a start, and began to walk towards it, Bean and her forgotten.

Elana lifted her gaze, and froze when she took in the stacked ingots that were inside. Was that some kind of precious metal? Why was that a payment?

But as the Mandalorian approached the table and inspected the ingots, the reflection of them in the light made her heart skip.

Beskar. Those were beskar ingots.

It was a huge sum, Elana realized, and the way the Mandalorian had tried to keep them safe suddenly made more sense. A lot more sense.

He was going to get a reward that would make him the richest man in the parsec, of course he would not risk them getting hurt, of course he would want to ensure that he would get the full reward.

Bean and her lives were being traded away for a stack of beskar.

Rage started to boil in her, but she kept her mouth shut, biting hard enough on her tongue that she tasted blood.

He was going to give the most beautiful child away to the Empire for riches.

"Such a large bounty for such a small package," the old Imperial said, a smile on his face, and when Elana met his gaze, his smile became mocking. Her nails dug into her palm, and the skin broke once again, warm blood seeping out the indentions in her trembling palm.

The dark haired man pressed a button, and Bean's pram started to float towards him, and Elana instinctively took a step after Bean. With a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, the man gestured for her to follow him, and she did.

She had no other choice.

With a final look back, she stared at the Mandalorian, feeling numb. He stared back, visor trained on her.

"I hope you rot," Elana whispered, tears gathering in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. The bounty hunter stood, so still she thought him a statue.

Turning away, legs feeling like lead, she went after the pram, following it as it floated into the next room, away from the Mandalorian.

Bean was sitting sideways, little claws on the edge of his pod as he cooed loudly, calling out to the Mandalorian, voice reflecting his fear. Her nails digged into her skin even more, the sharp sting almost making her gasp. Elana could not bear the sight, would not turn around to the man who had effectively killed them. She could not. If she looked back, she would cry.

Bean's ears lowered when no answer came, and he scrambled into the back of his pram as the door shut behind them with a hiss.

Elana closed her eyes and bit down hard on her bottom lip, feeling the prick of tears as she took a deep breath.

The man smiled at her as she opened her eyes again, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Take a seat, please," he said, gesturing to a small table with two chairs standing next to it. There was a metal carafe and two glasses positioned on it, as well as a clipboard with some documents. She did as he said, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pants, ignoring the two stormtroopers in the corner of the room.

"Terribly sorry about the inconvenience, Miss," he said, "I am Dr. Pershing. If I may ask, what is your name?"

She looked at him warily. "What will you do with the information?" Elana asked, voice quiet, eyes never leaving the dark haired man.

Pershing shuffled slightly, "We will not do anything with it, per se, but it will make things easier, you understand?" Even if he was not threatening in the slightest and did not feel dangerous at all, he unnerved her. Why would he bother being friendly? Was that just who he was, or did he have some higher plan? Was he trying to gain her trust?

"Elana Lissiri," she stated, observing his reaction. There was no recognition in his eyes.

A good sign, she thought to herself.

"All right, Miss Lissiri, you are the Asset's caretaker, as I understand it?"

"Yes. What are your plans for him?" With every word, her voice became steadier, and she was now fixing the doctor with an icy glare. Bean was observing them with big eyes, deathly silent. The anger in her started to swell again, because Bean was scared. And she would not stand for it. Now, she was the only thing standing between the Imperials and her child, and she would die before letting anything happen to him.

"Oh, nothing like you fear, I assure you," he said, "Just a few tests we need to make, nothing big, and nothing dangerous."

He fixed her with an earnest look, and she must have still looked skeptical enough for Pershing to start talking again.

"To be entirely honest, Miss Lissiri, I abhorred the way we had to retrieve you, but it was necessary to get you to Nevarro as fast as we could."

"Why?" she snapped, not caring at all that she was impolite, "Why send bounty hunters after him?"

Dr. Pershing looked very uncomfortable, his eyes flickering around the room, not meeting her gaze.

"It was the fastest way, and the most secure one," he tried to say, but Elana pressed on. "Do you know how many times he," she pointed to Bean, whose ears lowered in response, "has been in mortal danger?" Elana started to get truly angry, and her hands clenched into fists once more. Not even caring that the skin was now bloody and painful to the touch, she shook in her seat, all the built up fear cresting over her like waves on a shore.

"That Mandalorian dragged us through conditions that could have easily killed him! He risked dehydration and starvation, not having enough protection from the heat, from the cold-", at these words, she had to take in a deep breath to control the sob that threatened to escape her throat.

She tried to start again, noticing Pershing's concerned look, and somehow, that was too much. Bringing up all the danger they had been through since the cursed Mandalorian had killed all the Niktos in the encampment made her realise how many times she could have lost Bean. How many times she had been in danger as well, how many times the only thing that kept her whole was decided by the bounty hunter who had brought them here. How he could have easily hurt her, hurt Bean. And now she would definitely lose Bean to the Imperials because of him.

She tried to fight it with all her might, but Elana started to cry again, tears welling up and rolling down her cheeks. Burying her face in her hands, she muffled her sobs as Pershing reached out hesitantly and patted her shoulder. Elana had half a mind to shrug him off but the other part of her was simply too distraught to think coherent thoughts.

"I'm sorry that you had to go through that, but be assured, we will not harm the two of you."

Lie.

It shot through her like a lightning bolt, everything in her screaming against it.

Elana looked up and into Dr. Pershing's eyes.

He may say that but he does not believe it himself, the warning told her.

He smiled at her, and cleared his throat. "We need to do certain check ups on both of you to ensure that you are both functional," he said, "May I start with you?"

What could she do? Say no? Not likely. So she nodded, and stood up.

The man started collecting some different measuring tools, and started the check up. A flashlight was held into her eyes, and her hearing and reflexes were quickly inspected. The doctor was a complete professional, but still, her skin crawled every time he had to touch her physically in some way.

Bean was looking at her with curiosity and concern in equal measures, and she did her best to send some reassuring thoughts across the bond. But it had no use. Bean knew that something was wrong, he knew that she was scared, which made him even more scared as well. After she had been deemed fit enough for Imperial standards in addition to the scan they had given, it was Bean's turn.

He whined every time Dr. Pershing touched him, checking his ears, his eyes, looking at his claws and teeth.

Bean tried to bite him but the doctor was faster, and from the impatient huff he gave Elana knew that if she was not there, hovering over his shoulder and watching like a hawk, he would have punished the child one way or another. "Shush, baby," he murmured every few moments, as if that would calm him down.

Bean frowned, his mouth downturned, and scooted away from the man, towards the back of the pram, but to no avail, the doctor simply grabbed him and pulled him out.

"Hey," she protested, stepping forward, but one of the stormtroopers grabbed her arm, keeping her in place.

"Dispose of the pod, please," Dr. Pershing said to one of the stormtroopers, and with a nod, the pram trailed behind the man as he left the room.

Bean was struggling in his grasp, little legs kicking and arms flailing, and Dr. Pershing had to adjust him several times.

"Careful, please," Elana pleaded, already taking a step towards them, but the doctor moved towards a device with a huge droid floating above, laying Bean down on the slab beneath it. The small one wriggled and tried to turn on his belly, but with one well placed palm on his body, Dr. Pershing stopped his efforts. He turned his head to Elana, struggling to move towards Bean despite the grip of the stormtrooper on her, desperation on her face.

"I'm sorry, but you cannot be in the room for this procedure," Pershing said with what looked like genuine regret in his eyes, and pressed a button.

"Wait, why?" She asked, in half a mind to tear herself away from the stormtrooper, take the doctor by his uniform and shake him, any pain and punishment be damned. Another door behind her opened, and two different stormtroopers came in.

"Please take Miss Lissiri to operation room two," he requested, and the stormtroopers stepped closer to Elana.

Heart beating fast in her chest, she looked at them frantically. "What are you going to do to him?" Elana asked, an undercurrent of panic in her voice. The stormtrooper already holding her passed her over, and the other ones grabbed her arms, and she started to struggle against them. "Let me go!"

Bean cried out, his hands reaching towards her from his spot. A high whine came out of his mouth, and Elana knew that he was close to crying.

They started to pull her backwards, and Elana dragged her legs, trying to stay on the spot, giving all her strength. "What are you going to do?"

Doctor Pershing just pushed his glasses up his nose, and folded his hands in front of him.

The tug on her body became stronger, and she started to kick and twist her body, "Don't hurt him," she pleaded, arms at an uncomfortable angle behind her as she leaned forward, legs scrambling for purchase against the ground, "Please, don't hurt him!"

Bean shrieked loudly, eyes clenched shut, and she felt a tug, enabling her to get a few steps closer to him before the stormtroopers caught her again.

They dragged her out of the door, and there was nothing she could do as they gained a good hold on her, the struggle not even helping much anymore. Bean started crying, she could hear and feel it across the bond. He was scared, so scared.

"Bean!" she screamed his name, kicking out and thrashing like a wild animal, "Bean!"

The crying became louder, and there was a loud crash, like everything in that room had been pushed at the same time, a wave coming from Bean, before it cut off. The bond between them suddenly dimmed, his side becoming fuzzy and unclear. The last thing that came through it was him wanting to be in her arms.

"Bean!"

Dropping to her knees, desperately trying to crawl forwards, to get back into the room, the two stormtroopers grunting at how hard she was resisting.

"Bean!"

"Shut up," one of them told Elana while yanking her back.

"Let me go, please, I have to get to him," she pleaded, tears blurring her view, "Please, please."

They successfully got her down the hallway, into another dark room, and with a lot of effort, heaved her onto a table of sorts.

Elana trashed against them, shouting herself hoarse. "Let me go!" She repeated again and again, giving all her strength to escape, but they were too strong and strapped her down onto the table. She twisted, the straps digging into her skin, and Elana knew that if she survived until tomorrow her entire body would be covered in bruises. The stormtroopers’ chests were heaving when they stepped back, Elana finally secured on the desk.

"Wonder if that Mando had such difficulties with her," she could hear them say.

"Y'know, he probably liked pinning her down. Enjoyed some struggling."

They laughed, the sinister sound making her skin crawl.

She tried to move some more, wriggling desperately, but to no avail.

"Stop that, stupid bitch," the other one snarled at her, pushing her onto the table roughly by her shoulder, making the back of her head connect harshly with the table surface.

Blinking at the sudden dizziness, she gasped, clenching her eyes shut at the pain.

The door suddenly swished open, and Dr. Pershing came into sight.

"What have you done with him?" Elana yelled at him, voice thick, tears in her eyes.

He did not answer, simply gave a thin smile before going over to a cabinet at the side, taking out a syringe filled with a clear fluid.

"I sincerely regret the circumstances, Miss Lissiri, I truly do," he said, before shrugging slightly, "But since you're so... unwilling to cooperate, maybe this will help."

Elana thrashed against the straps, trying to get away from the syringe in his hands. Panicked sounds were leaving her without her consent, high and pitiful noises that she did not know she was capable of making.

"No, don't, please," she begged, eyes starting to burn with unshed tears, "Just tell me what you did to him, I'll cooperate, please." Choking back a sob, she watched as the man lined the syringe up with her forearm.

"Please, don't, please."

When he injected her, it burned.

Elana seized up, a scream building in her throat, though nothing but a whimper escaped.

The world turned blurry. She did not know if it was because of her tears or whatever was now inside her body.

The blood rushing in her ears was deafening.

Her heart beat so fast she felt faint.

"She'll be calm for a few hours," she heard Dr. Pershing say, but it was as if it came through a cotton wall, "Behave yourselves."

Elana's eyes slipped shut.

The world turned dark.

……………

Thank you for reading!!

#the mandalorian #pedro pascal #din djarin #din djarin x oc #baby yoda #vencuyanir #oloreaa writes

[rocorambles]

Let Me Show You How Much I Love You

Pairing: Oikawa x Reader 

Genre/Warning: Yandere, Implied/Slight NSFW, Implied Rape/Non-con, Violence, Abuse, Manipulation

Summary: Oikawa’s had years of practice of knowing exactly what to say to have you wrapped around his finger and with a sweet melody of reassurance, comfort, and love, you melt into his arms once again. Why had you even been afraid? Oikawa was just looking out for you because he loved you. And you loved him.

Requested by Anon

You sigh at the constant friction of faux fur brushing against your wrist and ankles as you shift until you find a comfortable position on the bed. You don't like being chained to a bed like some kind of glorified sex slave or pet, but it's better than the alternative. At least this means there's no hands constantly touching, no sickly sweet voice whispering in your ear, no presence physically hovering over you all the time. You'd take your current predicament over any of that, even if the blush pink color of the faux fur hand and ankle cuffs make you want to puke and gouge your eyes out.

It wasn't always like this. You remember when Oikawa and you first started dating. You had been so enamored by the handsome pro-athlete and easily agreed to hanging out with him over and over again until it just felt natural to officially couple up. He'd always been clingy, but back then you had eaten it up, loving the attention he always gave you. So what if he wanted to know what you were up to all the time? So what if he questioned you about every person you talked to or messaged? So what if he began to weedle his way into your life so much that it seemed like you two were attached at the hips? That just meant he loved and cared for you, right?

Things became a little strange after the two of you got married and started living together in Argentina. He followed you as soon as the two of you got out of bed, watching you as you got ready in the morning, insisting on shaving you and washing your hair and body for you. He even insisted on cutting your nails for you. Whenever you were in the kitchen and about to cook something, he'd nudge you away from the stove and never let you near anything remotely sharp, insisting he'd cook for the both of you. Every time you brought up learning the local language and finding a job to keep yourself occupied and bring in some extra income, he’d just chuckle at you and insist his hefty salary was more than enough to support the two of you and your beginner language books would mysteriously disappear the next day. But you were so lost in the honeymoon phase of your marriage that you just let it all slide with a giggle, convinced he was just that in love with you and that he just didn't want you to lift a finger. 

It wasn’t until one day while you had been taking a stroll around your neighborhood hand-in-hand with your lover that you began to realize Oikawa’s behavior might not be as innocent as you had thought. You had been distracted while looking down at your phone and didn’t notice the uneven sidewalk in front of you until you tripped and sprained your ankle. You hiss in pain as you try standing up, only to slump into Oikawa’s arms, your swollen ankle unable to support your weight. He lifts you in his arms as he walks back home and you curl into his chest, looking up into his face expecting to see worry and warmth, but you flinch when he doesn't even look down at you or say a single comforting word. 

The tension between the two of you grows thicker and thicker with every step you take until you feel like you’re suffocating as he gently places you on your bed. You try to sit up and reach out to the brunette, but you yelp when he roughly shoves you back down to the mattress, fury raging in his eyes. “You’re not leaving this bed unless you absolutely have to, unless I’m with you watching over you. Look at you. You can’t even walk without getting hurt!” Stunned speechless, you just stare at him as he then grabs your phone and shoves it in his pocket claiming he needed to keep it away from you for your safety because ‘it’s a dangerous distraction’. Rage lances within you and you try to lunge at him in an attempt to retrieve your device, but you cry in pain when a strong grip wraps around your injured ankle. 

Ice cold fear begins to freeze the fire burning within you and you shiver as you stare into chocolate brown eyes. You stiffen as he finally releases your ankle and joins you on the bed, but Oikawa’s had years of practice of knowing exactly what to say to have you wrapped around his finger and with a sweet melody of reassurance, comfort, and love, you melt into his arms once again. Why had you even been afraid? Oikawa was just looking out for you because he loved you. And you loved him.

A few days pass and you yawn as you flip through a book Oikawa has chosen for you. You look at the clock on the wall as your stomach growls. He’s late and you haven’t eaten since he left much earlier that morning. You know he wants you to stay in bed until he’s back, but surely he wouldn’t mind if you grabbed a light snack, right? Confident the man you love wouldn’t want you to be hungry, you gingerly make your way to the kitchen, limping on your good ankle. You're slicing some cheese to go with the crackers on the counter when the sudden opening of the front door startles you and you slightly nick your finger with the knife in your hand. Grimacing, you quickly reach for a paper towel to wipe the blood just as your husband enters your home and sees you. 

You turn to cheerily greet him home, but you recoil at his clenched jaw and the way he grits his teeth. “Why are you out of bed?” Your mouth opens and you try to stutter a response, but his eyes narrow at the crimson spot forming on the makeshift bandage around your finger. It only takes him a couple of long strides before he’s grabbing your wrist and dragging you back to your shared bedroom. You try to tug your arm back, telling him to slow down as shards of pain jar you with each step you tack on your bad ankle, telling him to soften his grip as you begin to lose feeling in your hands from the lack of circulation. But he doesn’t even acknowledge you as he continues to haul you until you’re once again slammed back down on your cushioned prison. 

You barely recognize the man on top of you anymore as his face twists in malice and venom coats every word that leaves his mouth. “I told you to stay in bed and look at what happened because you didn’t listen!” You panickedly stutter that it was just a small cut and that there’s nothing to worry about, but your voice breaks off in an agonized scream as he latches onto your injured ankle and begins to twist it. “I can’t trust you to listen to me. I can’t trust you to keep yourself safe. You’ve given me no choice. I’m going to make sure you can’t move without me.” You hardly have the time to register what exactly he’s implying before there’s a resounding cracking sound and you howl as a pain you’ve never experienced before envelops you. Needless to say, you don’t move an inch off that bed as your broken ankle struggles to repair itself. 

The next two months are agonizing. You’re finally seeing Oikawa for what he really is and you begin to loathe the feeling of his skin against yours. Words that used to be so soothing to you now make you curl in on yourself in disgust. Actions that used to be comforting now feel smothering. But what choice do you have? You can’t do anything by yourself and you just slump helplessly as he carries you from room to room, as his hands linger too long on you in the shower, as he thrusts into you night after night. The only freedom you have is your tears and you quietly weep when his arms entrap you and he raves on and on about how much he loves you and how everything he does is for you. 

Hope begins to thrum within you when your ankle fully heals and your mind starts planning, strategizing, thinking as soon as you're given the all clear by the doctor. You don’t even fight Oikawa as he insists on still carrying you around despite the fact that you’re more than capable of walking yourself and you’re still lost in thought when he deposits you onto your bed. It’s only the slam of a drawer and the scent of Oikawa far too close to you that has you looking up and when you see what’s in his hands, you immediately scramble away, trying to put as much distance between you and the monster next to you as you can. 

When Oikawa reflects on the moment, he’ll admit you put up a good fight. You got a few strong jabs in and one solid kick and your nails left quite the marks on him. But it doesn’t take him long to restrain you and you whimper in humiliation at the furry, pink hand and ankle cuffs now adorning your limbs and spreading you on full display for hungry eyes. You clench your eyes in denial as Oikawa coos at you telling you how pretty you look for him, how good you’ll be for him and when he forcefully brings you to your peak over and over again that night, you feel something inside of you break as you lie there and take what he gives you.

Your trip down memory lane comes to a screeching halt as your bedroom door swings open. You don’t even bother turning your head, instead choosing to close your eyes as an all too familiar pair of lips affectionately capture yours. “I missed you, Y/N-chan.” You shudder as a lean, muscular figure situates itself between your legs. “Let me show you how much I love you.”

#haikyuu yandere #yandere haikyuu #oikawa x reader #oikawa #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru #yandere oikawa #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fic #haikyuu #haikyuu writing #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #tw: noncon #tw: rape

[bookwyrminspiration]

So uh. I reblogged the latest wings au chapter and forgot to actually read it until now. Working memory is little bitch like that sometimes I guess.

-Elwin! I’ll be honest, I sort of forgot about him, but it was so great to see him again and hear his side of everything. And yay for the kotlcrew finally getting their injuries looked at by someone who knows what they’re doing.

-The middle section of them all just vibing and being teenagers was great, I love seeing them interact like real people.

-This is kind of a minor point, but I think there was more of Wylie in this chapter than there has been in a little while, so that was cool. I hope there’s more of him again soon, and I’m really interested to see your take on his ability and his wings.

-The messages! I’m guessing they’re riddles, and I wonder if the messages she hasn’t looked at contain more clues to the riddles.

-The ending!! Is it something about the presence dragons of dragons that inspires violence in people (which would be so cool)? And if so, what does that mean for Marella 👀…?

this just reminded me that 1. i still need to read my partner's fic they posted a very long time ago 2. there's a little more writing left for the wings au today to meet my goal. but!! onto your ask first! this is super sweet and i'm very glad you enjoyed the chapter!! trying to balance adding a new character while keeping up the interactions amongst the others and all that!

-- I'll be honest I kinda forgot about Elwin too and put off adding him in probably longer than made sense, but they just finally reached the breaking point where it was getting more and more annoying to keep track of all the injuries (on my end, at least!) so from a writer's perspective he's kinda being used as a reset opportunity, because he wouldn't leave anyone unattended to. so once he's completed his part in this section of the story, I can approach the next with a clean slate in terms of injuries and what they're physically capable of! and it was also just a great opportunity to get an outside perspective and some feedback on a few of their more questionable decisions without being judged. it's just been them working amongst each other with no outside input, which only helps them to a certain degree. in that way, i guess elwin functions like a mental reset too, changing how they'll think about and approach any future endeavors. also i just like him :)

-- me too!! as someone who is essentially smack in the middle of all the characters' ages, I sometimes feel there's the teenage part of them that's missing, likely because they were written by someone who is not currently a teenager! which is fine, I don't expect her to be able to write about just casually being teenagers in this day and age without having that experience, but as a fic writer I can kinda slip in some of that banter we have with each other to just give them more of an awake feeling, like they're more people-like! because that kind of conversation and just improvised banter poking fun at each other is the kind of thing I would do with people in real life! it's also just fun to give them a slightly different twist, because there's an aspect of them I get to explore that Shannon doesn't as I have removed the romance

-- yep! there was more Wylie that I think there's been in a while--he had a few brief lines in chapter 9 (or was it 10?), but I haven't really touched on him and Maruca yet because they're more minor characters in canon and I haven't 100% figured out how I want to integrate them. but! they're not just gonna be background characters forever, I've just kinda been approaching each person one or two at a time, and Maruca and Wylie haven't come up in that aspect yet. however, I do have plans to include them more in the near future. so that's something I'm both nervous and excited to write!! i think the wings I've given him are pretty fun, so hopefully you'll like my choice as well!

-- the messages! the long awaited messages have finally been revealed! i hope they were worth that wait--I didn't expect them to attract as much attention as they did, but several people seem very put-off with me (in a joking, fun way) for that one cliffhanger where she almost read them, only to talk to elwin instead. they are riddles!! well, really it's one big riddle split into two parts. they coexist, I suppose. they rely on each other for the answer they point to. i can say tho, that as of right now they are entirely self-sufficient and Sophie shouldn't need any other outside information to figure them out, just those two messages! there may be more secrets and puzzles to figure out that she acquires later tho...who knows !!

-- the ending! the drama of linh lunging towards Sophie at the sight of that dragon scale. was she attacking? was it the dragon scale itself or something else building up? so many questions!! all of which I happen to have the answer to, but that's for you all to find out later! or just to theorize about--I might not explain every single little detail within the writing. but there is definitely more about the dragons that will be touched on later and what they mean storywise for both Marella and Linh (still not saying what her wings are, but there's clearly something going on!!)

I'm very pleased that you liked this chapter!! there was a lot of set up for future drama going on so it's really cool to see what stood out to you and which details you liked. this au just keeps getting longer and longer so i'm honored you've stuck around this long! we are....rapidly approaching 100,000 words. currently at almost 94,000 (including unpublished) and I! don't know how to react to that!

but that's besides the point. thank you for reading and commenting on the au!!

#and we haven't even reached some of the things I want to yet #i have no idea how long this thing will end up being #i just know that when I'm done I could print this thing out and like actually bind it and it would be longer than some of the actual books #on my shelf #oo i could even sign it #have a signed author copy #and write a little note to myself in it #i am very tempted to do that #anyone else want a signed copy? /hj #kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #kotlc wings au #wings au asks #shattered upside down #quil's queries #tiergan-andrin-alenefar #oo also btw nice theme! i saw it changed #long post

[selfilluminatingkyu]

Dancing with the Devil(s): Chapter II

Previous|Current|Next 

The Underground Auction is no place for the faint of heart, nor for the weak of stomach.

F!Reader x Adult Trio; this takes place during the same timeline as Season 3 of HxH but the events with Kuropika and the crew are just shifted a little. This may end up changing though, but for now, run on that premiss. 

Warnings: Swearing; Human Trafficking (Reader is sold to the Mafia); Brief mentions of Child Abuse; Grammatical Errors (yeah I am going to warn y’all bout that.) 

Upon arriving to hotel you would be staying at until you were moved to the holding area for the auction, you were whisked away by a team of women and pampered to spa treatments like you’d never experienced before. The Don who had bought you would not be in attendance, as Yuuto, the man who you’d come to know from your…acquisition…had told you. 

“He’s sorry he can’t be here. He was actually looking forward to meeting you. But he’s certain he’ll have the opportunity later on. I think he’s of the opinion that one of the other Dons will buy you for themselves…or their sons.” Yuuto says lazily after you’ve come back from all of the pampering, undecided if you’re going to look at it as a treat or getting merchandise ready for sale. 

You didn’t know what you’d expected when he’d relayed the Don’s message to you, but it had not been that. You don’t remember how you answered, sudden exhaustion creeping up on you and causing you to nearly pass out where you stood. Looking back on it now, you wonder if you’d been drugged so that you didn’t make much of a fuss while you were waiting for the festivities to begin. You began to think that was actually the case as you were almost constantly in a fog up until you were moved the night before the auction to a different area. Something was amiss, that much, despite the brain fog, you were certain of. So there you had waited until d-day had arrived. 

You had been placed in a waiting area, to be called upon and showed around to the representatives of the wealthier families anticipated to bid on the higher ticket items (and those who had paid the hefty fee to view you prior to your scheduled debut) when Yuuto was suddenly coming in with another man, a man you had never met before but had a strange feeling to him, and were being whisked away quickly and quietly from where you were. You had felt this feeling before, when you been in the presences of those with strong nen abilities, but it wasn’t as potent as some of the people you’d crossed paths with. There had been a man once, who’s aura had caused you to stop and watch his back as he moved through the crowd. The power that radiated off of him had caused your heart to skip several beats…and not in a pleasant way. 

Since that day, you’d never felt power like that and, if you were being honest, you hoped you never did again. You don’t know what it was about that man, but it wasn’t the power he undeniably wielded that frightened you, no, it was the dark and sinister undertone to it that did. A presences that indicated to you nothing short of nefarious intentions. Sometimes though, you couldn’t help yourself and wondered about the man. Wondered if maybe you’d been to harsh in your snap judgment and that the man was the same as you: a product of his upbringing and while his abilities may have been fostered from dark ways, he did not use them as such. 

But as you sat in your new room, surrounded by other items that were going to be up for auction, you realized that it didn’t matter, not anymore at least. You hadn’t seen that man since then, some three years ago, and you doubted you would ever see him again after tonight. Not that you were sure you would even want to. Pushing the thoughts to the side, you stood up from your spot and began wandering around the room, looking at all of the pieces that were up for auction and wondered what was the most expensive item in the room when suddenly you heard shouting and gun shots, you could hear people running around as men shouted in the hallways. What they were shouting about you couldn’t understand but you knew from the tone that they were in a panic and it sounded like chaos even from inside the room. 

Turning back to all of the items in the room, you began looking around for something, anything really, to protect yourself with. Crouching down you, began peeling the lids off of boxes, before hastily putting them back into place. One after the other had weirder and weird things in them; rare items, cursed items, artifacts from long gone civilizations, mummified body parts, full mummies, and in the last lid you lift, scarlet eyes. The lid clattered to the floor as you dropped it, dropped into a squat and throwing a hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming. You had heard about the atrocity that had happened to the Kurta clan, heard the stories about their famed eyes, but to see a pair, not attached to a body, was an experience you could’ve lived several life time without. 

Placing the lid back onto the box, you bit back a whimper and sent a silent prayer into the sky, hoping that whomever these had belonged to had suffered unnecessarily. Your heart went out to them and the pain all those alike. The unnecessary violence of the world was something you had never understood, especially in this instance. While you could not lie, they were beautiful indeed, to covet something like that to go to such lengths made your stomach flip. It took a special sort of evil to find pleasure in the pain of others; it took an even greater evil to personally inflict it, knowing a life was on the line and continue forward and unabashed anyway. 

As you sad crouched, hidden by the stacks of boxes, the door flung open and before you could even lift your head up to see what was going on, you were being cloaked in darkness. 

The void wasn’t so much as being asleep as it was being locked into a padded closet, a sound proof one at that. There was no telling how long you’d been in there and after counting for several hours, you’d given up figuring at some point, you’d get out. Not wanting to alert the person, or persons, who had taken the auction items that you were included amongst those things you remained silent. Instead, you bided your time by looking through the items, investigating and continuing your search for a weapon, smearing a little of your blood from your finger, which your cut on a ragged corner, on the boxes you deemed worthy of a least inflicting enough damage to give you time to escape should your search turn up entirely useless. As you continued to move forward, you were beginning to think that’s exactly what was going to happen. You were nearing the end of boxes when you came up a necklace that caught your eye. Looking at it, you idly wondered exactly what was so special about it. It was inlaid with millions of dollar worth of precious and rare gems like the other piece you’d come upon. Nor was it something anyone of note had worn, died in, or the like, making it precious for those reasons. No, as far as you could tell, it was quite unassuming compared to all the other items you knew were to be sold and that, in and of itself, made you move cautiously. The silver chain was nice enough were you any common person purchasing it from a jeweler and the stones that rested in a sort of star pattern were lovely but again, it perplexed you as to why it was here. 

Sighing, you placed the lid back down and moved onto the other boxes before coming up empty and with that you flopped down onto the ground, or what you assume was ground in this…where exactly where you? The only thing you had heard when everything happened was a swoosh like a bag…so maybe that’s where you were? Yuuto had made a comment about the Dons having special beings at their disposal, beings who were incredible nen users. So maybe who’d ever taken you was one of them. You weren’t entirely sure and as it stood, you didn’t want to risk the element of surprise you currently had on something that might be true. For all you knew, whomever had caused the stir-up the other night had been the person who’d taken you. And if that were the case…you had no way of knowing if they were friend or foe. 

Trying to run through a plan in your head of what exactly you would do when you got out where ever it was you currently were, your “world” began to shift and suddenly the abyss you seemed to be sitting in was brought back into the world of the living and you were among not only the items in your own void, but the other items that were up for auction as well, and there were voice, several of them and all of them foreign. 

“That was uneventful.” A soft voice spoke, seemingly to take breathy pauses between each word, almost like when a compute regurgitated what you’d typed but lagged a little. Male, older than you, but not by much, he was close to you but hadn’t seemed to notice you yet. 

“Yeah, yeah, we heard you the first dozen times. You didn’t get to torture the guy like you’d hoped. We got it.” Another male voice, this one more jovial spoke but clearly agitated with the younger male. “How long you think this is gunna take?” 

“Don’t know. The boss just wants it done, so we’ll get it done.” This voice is female and you think that maybe she’s around your age or close to it. She’s the closest one to you and drawing closer with every word she takes and suddenly you’re wondering if you’ve been caught and begin calculating what is closest to you and within your reach. 

You don’t get much further in your thought when you feel a presence come up behind you and a sudden pressure on your neck, nicking it slightly causing you to wince and let out a small hiss. You wonder how you missed this man sneaking up when you suddenly feel a spike of fear run through you veins. The man behind you is powerful, very powerful but his aura is also very sinister. Sinister enough to almost make you wish that you’d been left alone to be sold. 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? A stowaway? My, my little dove, what a peculiar place to hide. Hoping to catch a show?” He whispers in your ear and the whimsical way in which he speaks almost makes you forget that he’s holding something against your neck that’s sharp enough to slide the skin, but clearly not metal as it’s not cold. 

“Hisoka, what are you doing?” The female voice from earlier sounds again and some part of you hopes that, despite clearly knowing this man, she can be a friend in this situation rather than a foe…which this man seems to be shifting into. 

Nudging you forward with his other hand, keeping the weapon close enough to make his intention known but not enough to draw anymore blood, you begin to move forward, legs and heart heavy. Unintentionally, you’d gotten your hopes up when you’d been freed from the void and hadn’t been placed back in your holding cell, thinking that maybe fate had smiled upon you. However, now, you knew that maybe you’d been cast into an even worse situation than you’d been in initially. You couldn’t be certain that these people were going to be your end…but you also couldn’t say to the alternative either. 

“Look what I found.” The man named Hisoka says, amusement laced in his words as he brings you out of the proverbial shadows and into the light that is provided by the stage and you idly realize that the auction has started back up, meaning at some point your number will come up and your clock will run out. It’s also in this moment as you watch the stage that you realize that the people in front of you are staring, probably because someone has said something to you and you have yet to respond. 

“What did you do to her Hisoka?” Another man asks, he’s handsome with his blonde hair and green eyes, but there’s something about him that makes your skin crawl and a take a step back into the man who’s guiding you forward. 

“I didn’t do anything, did I little dove? I simply found her hiding in behind some boxes. Impressive abilities to have been able to hide from us, don’t you think?” Hisoka says, startling you slightly from his face being beside yours. Turning slowly, you look at him and find that you aren’t entirely wrong when the words whimsical and magical came to mind as he spoke. 

He’s clown yet mystical in his appearance, his pink/red hair plays right into that, as does the small amount of clothing you can see. But what makes it is the lime green tear and blue star that reside under his  eyes, like cards of a suit. It’s also then that you realize what he had pressed up against your neck was a playing card. What a peculiar man, you think idly before turning your head completely forward again. 

“Regardless of whether you did something or not to her, it doesn’t answer why she’s here and what the hell should be do with her.” The girl’s voice from earlier that you heard comes from a girl who truly doesn’t seem much older than you with pink hair and an outfit that reminds you somewhat or a nurse’s attire. As petit as she might be, she radiates with power, as do the rest of the people here, but in a quiet, probably underestimated sort of way. 

“Maybe…she was willing…to risk her life…to see…us.” The small man who walks forward does not match the face you had seen in your head when you’d heard his voice initially, not that you are displeased, as he too is quite attractive. However, the look in his eye and the clear bloodlust in them makes you want to run from where you stand. The other man earlier had said that this little one had been unhappy with the amount of torture he’d gotten to inflict on someone else. 

Was that to be your fate? 

“Maybe Feitan has a point.” And finally, the only other person you heard speak steps forward. This man is just as tall as the man behind you and just as intimidating, however, he looks far more normal. “Were you willing to risk your life to catch a glimpse of the illustrious Phantom Troupe sweetheart?” The way he says it is clearly mocking, like you’re some fucked up fangirl who’s come to worship her even more fucked up idol. 

However, to worship someone, you should probably have an idea as to who they are in the first place. And you don’t think you can make it any clearer as you furrow your eyebrows and look around at the small group of people before you wondering if this is a name they’ve given themselves or one that was given to them. Either way, you try your hardest not to laugh at the hilarity of the situation you find yourself in. Are you biting back a hysterical laughter because of the ridiculousness of the situation or because you’ve come to realize just how absolutely fucked you are? 

“I’m sorry, but…am I supposed to know what that means? Phantom Troupe? I take it that means you all, but…I don’t know exactly what that means outside of that.” You say thoughtfully, hoping that if you appear non-confrontational and innocent enough, these people, who clearly more foe than friend, will simply let you be. 

The man who spoke last goes to open his mouth again before another woman walks forward, holding up her hand and making her way closer to you. She seems the most normal out of the entire lot, dressed as the presenter for the items for the auction tonight, although that’s clearly a farce because you knew the woman who was truly supposed to be doing it was much different in appearance than this woman. 

“What do you mean exactly?” She asks you thoughtfully, watching you carefully and you can’t help but wonder if she has some sort of ability that lets her read your mind…or maybe between what you say. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause confusion. I mean…I don’t know who you people are. I don’t know what is or who is the Phantom Troupe? So that would mean no, I wasn’t risking my life trying to catch a glimpse.” You say and she looks to the others before nodding and looking back towards you. 

“If you weren’t trying to catch a glimpse at us…then how did you come to be here then little dove?” Hisoka asks and you blink, trying to decide how you should go about answering them before deciding that the saying “the truth can set you free” may very well prove true in this moment. 

“Same way the rest of the items in that area did, out of where it was they had been stored.” You mutter, looking around the group as they seem to parse through what you’ve just told them. 

“You were with the items over there?” The blonde man in purple says and you nod, watching as he looks to the woman who arrives late. She nods at him and the group seems to collectively be trying to decide if you’re an item or were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time when everything went down. “So if you were with the items, then it’s safe to assume that you are one?” 

You nod again and the group seems to pause for a second before the small man who you think had been called Feitan, steps forward and speaks up. “I think we should kill her.” 

Under normal circumstances, a normal person would probably lose the color from their face as those words were uttered. Instead there is an instant cleansed feeling that takes over you. While death certainly isn’t the choice you would have had for yourself in life…you don’t know what being bought and sold would entail. However, on the flip side, you also have no idea what being left to your devices with this lot will also mean. Maybe death is the best option you have, so long as it isn’t drawn out and torturous. And if the little one is who will be dealing the final card…you aren’t so sure you’ll get a quick end. 

“The boss said to make copies of all of the items here and to present them on stage and bring the real ones back to the hideout. You know that as well as I do.” The pink haired girl says and Feitan clearly does not agree with that as he makes a noncommittal noise that alerts you to his distaste. 

“Koropi can’t make duplicates that move and talk.” The final girl says. Her speech is childlike and she cocks her head as she looks you over, as though you are a puzzle to be solved. At some point, between when you’d been pulled out from behind the crates, when they’d first started engaging with you and now, a vacuum like thing had appear in her possession and the sight of it has you thinking that if they do decide to kill you, your death will not be quick and painless like you had hoped. 

The Phantom Troupe, not all of the members you deduced after listening to them go back and forth for a little while as to what to do with you, finally decide on calling their boss and having him instruct them as to what should be done with you. The answer is simple: make a clone and do what they had done with all the other pieces, place it on a cart and wheel it in. Koropi had stated that while in most instances, he could not create something that moved and talked, he could if it were just one and he had a little something extra. The extra being your blood. 

With that, he could create a clone that would last for a little while before the effects of the blood would wear off and your clone would become like the rest of the fraudulent items. But at that point…what did it matter, the Troupe would no longer be around. 

So as you watched the woman Pakunoda wheel your clone onto the stage, you and the rest of the real items were moved, Hisoka and Machi keeping close to you as you were moved into the back of another car and driven to wherever their “hideout” was. 

As you watched the scenery, you began to run through all of the possibilities of what could happen. They had given you no hints as to what their boss was going to do with you and you couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse. A blessing in that it meant if he’d decided that he was going to kill you, you would not be left to stew in it on your ride over, wondering endlessly in what way exactly he planned to off you. 

On the other side, however, was the fact that you had no idea what your fate was at this moment. Undecided if these people were going to kill you, keep you, torture you, or do god know’s what. That in and of itself was driving you mad. You simply wanted to know what exactly it was that you could expect when you got to wherever it was you were going so you’d be mentally prepared for whatever the outcome ended up being. 

“If you keep working yourself up like that, you’ll be in an absolute tizzy by the time we arrive. He won’t kill you…not right away anyway. And if he does, well…he won’t make it painful. He can be ruthless, but he’s not that evil.” Hisoka said and you looked at the imposing man beside you, wondering why he seemed to be trying to calm you down. 

From the short period of time you’d spent with the man, you had quickly grasped that he was most certainly the odd man out from the group, and by his own doing it seemed. Not only that, but it was evident that he didn’t do anything he didn’t wish too. He had motives behind every action he took and the way he went about things was with the sole purpose of achieving a goal that benefited him. If, by some chance, it happened to benefit the group as well, well then that was lovely for the group. 

So his concern caused you pause. What exactly was it that he saw in your that would benefit him? It made you question even more what was about to happen. What end could he see that you couldn’t? It wasn’t fair given that he knew exactly where, who, and what you would be up against when you go there, but still…there was just something about this situation that didn’t sit well with you, outside of the obvious reasons. 

“You seem very sure of that.” You say softly, looking out the window before turning back to look at him. You know they’re confident in themselves and their abilities, that’s evident by the fact that they have neither bound you nor covered your eyes or ears. They must know with absolute certainty that you either won’t try to escape…or won’t make it out alive. 

“I am. You pose not threat to us or him alone, nor do you have abilities that he would want—”

“Hisoka. Enough!” Machi, the pink haired girl, spits from her spot in the driver’s seat, eying you through the rearview window. “What Hisoka means to say is the Boss doesn’t kill without purpose. And your death would serve no purpose. However…that doesn’t mean you get to leave.” 

You take what she says into consideration and nod. That wasn’t anything you hadn’t already figured out. Regardless of who they were, all organized crime groups worked essentially the same. Mafia, Troupe, Gangs, ect. the thought process around them was same at the end of the day, give or take a few things, so you’d figured their own boss would run his ship the same way any other master would run theirs. Evidently, you hadn’t been mistaken in that thought process. 

The two seemed to realize they weren’t going to get much out of you after that and the car remained silent for the rest of the ride. When you pulled up to a lofty mansion with a gate and sprawling grounds, you were shocked to say the least. This was not what you had expected in the least. What you had expected was some rundown abandoned building on the edge of town away from everyone. This lavish grandeur was not it though. 

Leaning forward in your seat a little, Hisoka chuckles beside you. “Not what you were expecting little dove?” 

You didn’t bother answering instead, looking around at what you could. You didn’t see a single guard around, not that you had expected to. There didn’t seem to be any visible forms of traps or delays anywhere either. Again, they may just not be visible to you. The car pulls to a stop in front fo a set of double doors and two men walk out. One who is very large with scars on his face and the other who is tall, and just as imposing as the other, but carrying a katana. Hisoka reaches around you and opens the door, nudging you to get out as the two men walk further down the steps and closer to you. 

“Pretty sure the boss said to only bring back the auction items.” The larger man says as he eyes you carefully. 

“She was an auction item.” Machi says monotonously, coming around from the front of the car and indicating with her head to walk inside. “She’s the prize gem of the auction this year. The last item to be bid upon in the first round. You know what that means.” 

Both men seem to do a slow blink as you walk in between them and up on into the house. The entryway is beautiful, something that you would have done for your own home given the opportunity. You didn’t know if that would be an option in your future, but it was lovely to witness it nonetheless. As you walked further into the home, you highly doubted that they had decorated and then you wondered if they had acquired this home via legal ones…or by force. The thought alone dampened the beauty of the home and your internal smile fell. The look on your face remained neutral, giving nothing away and hopefully kept all of your fears and anxieties under wraps from the knowing eyes all around you. 

“I don’t remember saying anything about bringing a person back.” The voice made you stop dead in your tracks as it brought your focus to the other person in the room and your heart stopped before leaping into action. While you can’t see him, nothing more than the back of his head with his slicked back black hair, you can definitely feel him. This aura, this presence was familiar to you and the exact one you had hoped to never cross path’s with again. Sucking in a breath you hopelessly wondered what you’d done in a past life to exact this fate. 

“You said to bring all of the auction items…naturally…” Hisoka says, a smirk ever present in his speech, making you wonder if he has always been like this or if something in his life triggered this manic personality. 

The man they’re speaking to stands up and for a moment, you almost close your eyes, fear racing through your veins and irrationally making you think that if you don’t see him, don’t see his face, he won’t be able to hold that over your head; won’t be able to use that as a reason why he has to kill you. But you don’t, instead you stand stock still, like a prey praying the predator won’t snuff them out, and await a fate you doubt you’d have be able to change regardless of what you did. Instead as he rounds the sofa, you cast your eyes down, tilting your head slightly, like a submissive dog baring its throat to the alpha and hope by some miracle, this man will see you are no threat nor of any value you and let you go. 

You see feet stop in front of you and feel an ever perceptive gaze rove over your. You hold your breath and pray for mercy to any being that will hear your cry, good or bad. You don’t care, maybe even hope a little that it’s bad because surely…that would be the only type of being to defeat another of its own kind. Slowly a hand reaches out and you have to physically stop of nerve in your body from flinching. Two fingers press under your chin, the thumb resting on it as it corrects the position of your head and lifts it upwards, forcing you gently to look at the face and body it’s attached to. 

The man before you is much, much younger than you anticipated, no more than a couple years older than yourself. He’s attractive, very much so, with a prominent brow and perfect nose, large grey eyes and chiseled jaw and chin. When the members of the Troupe hadn’t spoken briefly about their boss, you had not pictured a man like this. No, initially it hadn’t been a man at all. But when they’d said “he” the vision in your head had mirrored much more closely to the man with the scars on his face and hanging ears. This man, young man, reminded you more of the grad students you saw on campus than the leader of a group of murders and thieves. 

“You know me…but did not expect me.” He voice flints about like it’s a question but their absolution in the way he says it, eyes calculative and ever watchful. 

“No, to both. I don’t know you, I have crossed paths with you before. You were in my city once, you walked by me while I was walking my sister home from school and I felt your aura. I felt crazy when the people around me didn’t seem to have a reaction at all but my entire being felt…dark.” You let your mouth get away from you before you realize it, remembering that day and how your parents had written you off. Strong Nen users weren’t common where you were from, or at least weren’t common in the fact that they flaunted their abilities. But you’d known this man was in a class of his own. Clearing your throat you blinked and cleared your eyes as you looked at him again. “And no, I didn’t expect you. Although…I’m not entirely certain what I did expect. I’m not entirely well versed in you and your ‘Phantom Troupe.’” 

The latter seems to take him and the new men by surprise. He masks his shock quickly, the other two seems to revel in it. So much so that the man with the katana begins to laugh. 

“You’ve never heard of the Phantom Troupe? Really?” He says in such an incredulous way that you almost begin to question the statement you’ve made before stopping yourself. 

“I lived quite a sheltered life so you’ll have to excuse my ignorance.” With that, they all seem to be appeased for the moment. 

The leader cocks his head to the side as he observes you before looking at the others in the room. “Help the others unload everything. While you all are doing that, I’ll have a chat with our…guest. Should you need us, we’ll be in the study.” He says and they nod, some of them grumbling as they move to go back outside. 

Although, as you are turned and ushered in the opposite direction, you notice Hisoka waiting and standing back from the group, eyes clearly on you as he watches his boss lead you in the opposite direction from them, him. There’s something in his eyes that you think resembles concern but wave it off quickly as you are certain you must be seeing things. 

Their leader was not kidding as he lead you into a large study, a room filled with books from wall to celling on one side and floor to ceiling windows on the other. There’s also a fire place, large desk and two sofas, with matching chairs and coffee table to round out the large room. It’s beautifully decorated and again, you wonder who this home actually belongs to. 

“This place isn’t your, is it?” You ask before you can stop yourself from biting your tongue and instantly feel the back of your neck heat up. 

Slip-ups like these had been common when you were younger, your natural curiosity getting the better of you. But your mother had beaten them out of you quite early on, as talking out of turn was undesirable in the wife of a high ranking man. Women were to be seen and not heard, is what you mother had told you prior to smacking you in the face. You’d learned quickly that you did not like the taste of blood in your mouth and your questions could be answered by other means. 

“It is actually. Not that it is used all that often. I bought this house some time ago. Why, did you think we had killed the people who did own it?” 

“Yes, that seemed the most logical give what little I have learned about you and yours.” He seems taken aback by your truthfulness but recovers quickly, chuckling softly under his breath. 

“According to you, you don’t know much about ‘me and mine,’ so how is it you’ve already deduced so much about us?” His question is simple enough, but there is a definite edge to it. Despite his relaxed demeanor, even as he leans back against his desk, arms slayed as if to seem nonthreatening, you can still feel the aura rolling off of him, ready to strike at a moments notice. 

“Because, for the most part, all organized crime groups run the same. Their motives might be different, and the way things are executed may vary too. But at the heart of it…there isn’t much difference.” 

“You speak as if you have experience?”

“Not quite, no.” Again, you are surprised to find that this man seems stumped by your answer but he smirks all the same, looking down at his crossed feet before back up at you from behind his fridge…and you can’t help but wonder how many women—and probably men as well, he doesn’t strike you as the discriminating type—have fallen prey to that look, they eyes, they posture and speech…like a fly in a spider’s web. 

“Care to enlighten me?” He asks gently and had you not been training for situations like this your entire life, you know you too would fall right into his web as well. 

“If you’ll pay me back in kind.” You are completely taken aback as the man laughs. It’s melodious and were you not in such a position as you were, you would have smiled and giggled yourself, ever hopeful to hear it again and again. It was a lovely sound and one you were certain he probably didn’t make often, and for that you became even more on edge. 

“Alright, consider my interest even more peaked. Who are you and why exactly has the mafia deemed you as such a valuable item to be sold?” His question shouldn’t stir-up so many emotions as it does, but as the saying goes, you are only human and the wave of emotional turmoil his question strikes in you leaves you almost gasping. 

“I’m nobody really and honestly…I don’t know what it is exactly that has everyone’s interest so peaked. Maybe my parents lied. I’m not entirely certain. All I can tell you is…is that I’ve been raised to be the perfect wife for a powerful man. My parents raised me for the sole purpose of elevating their status, their wealth, their power. You asked if I spoke from experience? While I obviously was never in a position as the wife of a crime lord, I was raised to be one and I prized myself on being an asset, not a burden. As for whether or not that alone makes me worth all of the money that the Don who bought spent on me and anticipated on being spent to purchase me…I could not tell you.”

After you complete your story, you look up from looking at your hands to see the man before you looking at you with an unreadable expression on his face, one that brought Hisoka to mind and you wondered why you kept envisioning these men to have forlorn looks on their faces. That was simply absurd and thinking like that was only going to lead you to getting seriously injured, or worse dead. No, you had to remind yourself their were worse fates than death and you had no doubt that the little one, Feitan, was more than well versed at serving that up with delight. 

He nods his head and rubs his chin, walking from his desk and over to the couch across from your own. Sitting down, he rests his elbows on his knees before looking up at you. “Tell me what you know about Nen?” 

His question throws you off a little and you furrow your brows, not entirely tracking where he’s going with this. “I know that it exists and that it has multiple subsections of it and that it’s predominately used to fit. But other than that not much.” 

“Can you tell when others have it? A strong Nen that is?” He looks at you intently as he asks and you wonder what exactly is this man’s capabilities. 

Hisoka made a comment about you not having “anything for the boss to take” and at the time, you’d given it no thought. Thinking maybe, Hisoka had meant it in a sexual way, thinking that at your age you were no longer virginal, which he was wrong about, that was one of the key selling points for you. Property to be completely dominated and never claimed by other man. Now, however, you wondered if it somehow was linked back to this man’s nen ability. 

“Yes, as I said earlier, I had felt your aura before. I can usually tell when people have a strong presence, or not. Even when it’s faint I can feel it. Usually that’s in children though or those who have no idea what Nen is. Might I ask why exactly?” 

“What about now? Can you still sense my aura?” He asks and you sit there, looking at him as though he has six heads. 

“Of course I can…why wouldn’t I be able to?” You ask him incredulously and the look of awe on his face is so prominent you know that you couldn’t have imagined it. 

“You can still see feel my aura?” 

“Yes, I’d have to be dead not to with how strong your aura is. I don’t like it.” You say, and wonder how you’ve managed to make two mistakes in the span of only a couple of minutes in this man’s presence. Deciding to go with it, as this may very well be your last day, you resolve yourself to say and ask whatever comes to mind. “I also don’t like that I don’t know your name.” 

If your first comment hadn’t thrown him, the second one certainly has seemed to and he looked at you again as if you are some wonder of the world. Eying you suspiciously before getting up and moving around. He says nothing as he walks outside the room and then comes back moments later, motioning for you to stand up. 

“If you can pass this test, I’ll tell you my name and much more.” As he says that he holds up a sash and proceeds to tie it over your eyes making sure you can not see before leading you out of the room. 

“Is this where I die?” You can’t help but ask and you can hear the breathy chuckle next to your ear. 

“No, it’s not. If anything, this may very well be the moment in which you start to truly live.” 

You continue to walk for a little bit, before he stops you, instructing you to leave the blind fold on and, probably, checking to make sure you can’t see anything. There are several people in this room, more so than earlier. And you wonder if this is all of the troupe. 

“Tell me…how many people are in this room?” He asks and you sigh. 

“Including you and I, there’s 15.” 

“And now?” He asks and this time you let a loud, exasperated sigh. 

“No one has suddenly dropped dead, so the number still remains at 15.” At that, the voices in the room seem to pick up. To say they seemed shocked is an understatement. 

“How is that even possible?”

“Has anyone like that ever existed?”

“I wasn’t…taking this…serious…let me have…another…go.” 

And so on and so forth. As more and more time seemed to tick by, the group seemed to become more and more in aw of what was going on. All the while, you were still confused and in the dark—literally and metaphorically—as to what had just happened that had them such in arms. 

“You still didn’t answer my earlier question.” You say softly, knowing he can full well hear you above all of his members questions. 

“Chrollo. Chrollo Lucilfer. That is my name kitten and you are far more extraordinary than anyone has ever given you credit for. I can’t wait to see just what it is you are fully capable of.” 

#Dancing with the Devil(s) #fic #hunter x hunter #Chrollo #chrollo fic #hisoka #hisoka fic #illumi zoldyck #illumi fic #reader insert fic #adult trio #adult trio fic

[reading-while-queer]

Ninth House, Leigh Bardugo

Rating: Mixed Review Genre: Fantasy, Mystery, Dark Academia Representation: -Bi/pan protagonist -Jewish protagonist -Latina mixed race protagonist Trigger warnings: Sexual assault (in scene), rape (in scene), CSA (in scene), graphic violence, murder, drug use, drug abuse, drugging of another person, overdose, domestic abuse, medical abuse, violence by dogs Note: Not YA

Why is it that every time I read Leigh Bardugo, I love the book with a passion...except for one thing that makes me want to tear my hair out?

Here’s what seriously impressed me about Ninth House, Bardugo’s entry into New Adult. The pacing was phenomenal. The measured, perfectly timed revelations of information had me finding excuses to listen to the audiobook - taking extra neighborhood walks, doing extra loads of laundry - because I was so hooked. Then, there’s the worldbuilding. Bardugo managed to walk a delicate line, successfully suspending disbelief while still asserting that eight Yale secret societies do secret magic rituals to the benefit of the oligarchical capitalist machine (we all kind of suspected this was the case, right?). But the best part of the book, the part that had me recommending Ninth House in more than one group chat, was, of all things, the point-of-view jumps.

Rarely are point-of-view switches the star of the show, but I was so excited to see a genuinely original, intrinsic-to-the-heart-of-the-whole-novel use of that technical tool. The point of view jumps crank the volume up on the theme of the whole book. We start with the main character, Galaxy “Alex” Stern; she is the point-of-view character for the present semester during which the principal action of the novel takes place. Her upperclassman and mentor Daniel Arlington (or “Darlington”) is the point-of-view character for the semester before - all because something happened to Darlington. Alex is telling people he’s doing a “semester in Spain,” and all the reader knows is that her explanation isn’t strictly true. The point-of-view jumps being so strict (there is never an Alex perspective chapter during last semester, and never a Darlington perspective in the present) serves to separate the two characters from each other with a really incredible emotional effectiveness. The heart of the novel, for me as a reader, was yearning for these two to be reunited - and all because Bardugo holds the two character points-of-view separate across an unbreachable temporal divide. It’s a powerfully effective technique.

But let’s backtrack. Alex is a 20-year-old high school dropout from the west coast. As the story progresses, we learn that Alex can see ghosts, which is why, despite never finishing high school or getting her GED - or even applying - Alex is a freshman at Yale - contingent on her joining the secret society called “Lethe House” as apprentice (“Dante”) to the current leader of the society, Darlington (the “Virgil”). Lethe House is the governing body of the eight Yale secret societies that practice the magic that keeps the elite in power. These secret societies make books sell, make T.V. anchors charming and compelling, and open portals to other parts of the world - when they aren’t throwing over the top Halloween parties with magic designed to alter one’s perception of reality.

Darlington, by contrast to Alex, seems to belong at Yale. He’s from an old family, and he’s preppy and well-read. Most of all, he loves Lethe House and its history of keeping the secret societies from harming people in their pursuit of magic and power. That is, until he disappears just in time for Alex, only half-trained, to investigate the murder of a girl on campus.

The first three quarters of the novel are fantastic for the reasons stated above. Bardugo’s approach to mystery writing is effective. We have half a dozen suspects, most of whom, as elite ivy league magicians, are at least guilty of some misdeed. Having all your red herrings end up somewhat culpable anyway is a good way to keep your mystery difficult to solve until the end. We were off to a good start.

Unfortunately, in the end, Bardugo made the all-too-common choice to value “surprise” over the most compelling, satisfying solution. So while the reader doesn’t see the ending coming, that is at the steep cost of the ending not being justified by the rest of the book. Bardugo even has to invent new rules of magic off the cuff to justify the ending. When the rest of the book so painstakingly developed the rules of magic in a way that made sense and never felt overly expository, undoing all that effort feels like a monumental waste. And for what did Bardugo undermine all her hard work? A mystery that the reader won’t have all the clues to solve? It’s really okay - in fact, good - if the reader can puzzle out your story. It means your story has symmetry, internal logic, or perhaps, some sort of message.

This is what had me tearing my hair out. I know exactly how I would have written the ending of Ninth House to be the perfect conclusion to a stunning book. I know exactly what the message should have been. Is it somewhat ridiculous to say that Bardugo misinterpreted the message of her own book? Perhaps. But given the out-of-left-field-ending, the theme of the book ends up being a rather cheaply bought “No matter how traumatized you are, you can be a girlboss” instead of the message that the very structure of the novel itself was pointing to since page one: one of companionship, trust, and restoration (frankly, a better message for a novel with a main character who suffers so much loss and trauma. But, sure, “girl power” is a theme...I guess...)

Here’s what I mean by the structure of the novel itself pointing to a different theme. (Spoiler warning for the rest of this paragraph). Because the point-of-view switches in the first two thirds of the novel were used by Bardugo like two magnets being held apart, the only way to create a feeling of resolution was, so to speak, putting the magnets back together: getting Darlington back into the “present.” The degree of disconnect between reader expectations and the reality of the book is comparable to picking up a romance novel only to have the two leads decide to just be friends at the end. Bardugo set expectations - akin to genre expectations - but unfortunately Bardugo kneecapped her first book in the service of the sequel.

And then there’s the trauma. Alex’s backstory wouldn’t be the same without some level of trauma; it’s an important part of her character arc. Even the explicit presence of sexual assault on the page was justified in the case of Alex’s backstory - and I think that is rarely true. But when it came to a side character’s explicit in-scene rape, which was used as a clue in the broader murder mystery rather than treated as a crime in its own right, that tipped me over into feeling the trauma in Ninth House was more excessive than necessary for character development. The resolution to that side character’s rape is oddly cartoonish - like an over-the-top prank rather than justice - and again, the only reason the rape happens to the character is to give Alex more information she needs to solve the plot. Maybe that wouldn’t bother some readers, but for me, a book has to bend over backwards to justify showing me a character being raped. Bardugo does well earlier in the book when depicting Alex’s assault; the assault is the explanation for why Alex doesn’t view magic with the same childish excitement as the rest of Yale, and it’s part of what holds her apart from the entitled secret societies. It needed to be in the book. Everything else was gratuitous.

That said, there’s one thing still to address in this roller coaster of a review, and that is: wait, is this a queer book? I had gone into it assuming that it would be, mostly because all my queer friends were reading it. And the answer is….kind of? Knowing Bardugo’s history with putting queer characters in her books, I’m going to assume she wasn’t baiting when she had Alex claim to have loved a girl in her backstory. Which, in the context of the rest of the novel, would make Alex bi or pan. As a book that a lot of queer fans of Bardugo’s YA have read, or will read, it feels appropriate to review it here.

This was a mixed review from start to finish, but to finish up: if you are thinking about reading Ninth House, go for it! There is so much to like about this book. Take to heart that if you read and liked Bardugo’s handling of sexual assault in her YA titles, you should be prepared to be surprised by Ninth House. It is not the same. I would not have called her handling of sexual assault in Six of Crows, for instance, restrained - but compared to Ninth House, it absolutely is. Despite my strongly worded feelings about the ending, Bardugo left room to redeem herself in the sequel (which, if you ask me, is why the ending was so bad in the first place...). I for one will definitely be reading the sequel the second it comes out.

#leigh bardugo #ninth house #fantasy #mystery #dark academia #not ya #mixed review #bi #reviews only #protagonist of color #jewish protagonist

[kkysolo]

Stuck On You / Prologue

Pairing: Ben Solo|Kylo Ren/Reader Setting: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, dystopia, modern, gangs. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, war, gang violence, emotional hurt/angst, codependent relationships (eventual fluff, smut, romance). 

Available here on AO3, and under the cut. 

Summary:  The year is 2084.

Despite its advances, society has collapsed on itself. The world is crooked, damaged, dying. Rezoned into new territories, separating the elite from the unworthy. Civilization is crumbling at your very feet, and in the midst of it all, your best friend, Ben Solo, has been missing for three years.  You desperately cling to what's left of him, hoping that he'll come home, praying that things will fall back into place. 

And then he does. And they don't. Because life is different when you're a scoundrel in the midst of a class war. 

A/N: Please don't mind me, posting another WIP.  I might continue posting this on here as well as AO3. 

This piece (particularly reader's experience of Ben being missing) is heavily inspired (and named after) Stuck On You by Failure. You can find it here if you want to give it a listen. 

This is just the prologue, and won't give much insight into the worldbuilding. That will come in the following chapters. Also, I'm writing this with the assumption that phones will still be a thing in 2084, though they're only still used by the poor.

Then: New Year’s 2083

The way you tore across the dilapidated bar, seething, irate - the force behind your movements astonished your friends as you shoved past them, beelining for the toilets. You hated the holiday season. It was New Years - it was supposed to be a good night, a fun night. But these fights, these senseless, petty arguments and drunken tears, they ruined it. Every single time.

You slammed the ruddy green cubicle door shut behind you, taking your phone out of your purse and sliding down onto the cool tile. It was wet, damp with fluid from the leaking lavatory that stuck to your dress. The tears came, then. Heaving, wretched sobs that ripped from your chest before you could stop them. You clawed at your knees, pulling them close to your chest as you felt that familiar crack in your lungs, that awful lump in your throat. For two years, you’d been numbly pandering through life with a canyon-sized gash in your chest - right between your lungs. A hole you couldn’t fix, a wound that wouldn’t heal. Always open, always weeping, always infected with ruminations of what could have been.  What would have been, if he hadn’t left.  Disappeared. Vanished. Gone. 

Everyone in town had bets down on when you’d get together. You’d been friends since high-school, completely inseparable. You clung to him - your world, your dreams, your future, it all revolved around him. Because to you, nothing was worth doing if he couldn’t come with you. If he couldn’t be a part of it, like he’d been a part of everything else in your life. An ever steady presence, calming and strong throughout the most turbulent of times. No matter the unrest, no matter how society changed and faltered, you always had him. And oh, how you loved him. How you dreamt of him. 

You’d still call him, sometimes. Just to hear his voicemail. Just to hear that casual, “Hey, sorry I missed you”. 

You're sorry, too.

His mother kept up his phone payments, just in case. Just in case he turned his phone back on. Just in case he needed it. Just in case he wanted to call. She couldn’t afford it, not really. No one had enough credits to just throw them at something that wasn’t even being used. But she paid it, all the same. 

You’d text him, too. Just little things, here and there. You’d never get a reply, of course. But you hoped he’d seen them. Hoped he’d seen your birthday wishes, your happy holidays and “do you remember when…?” messages. Whenever your hometown got rezoned, whenever you were swept along to another derelict flat, another house-share in ruins, you’d text him the coordinates. Just in case. Just in case he’d come home. Because where was home, really, to any of you? In a world where land and ownership was reserved for the wealthy, your only home was in each other. In your friends. In your family. In your sense of belonging, wherever it may have been.

And though you called and called and called, you’d never left a voicemail. You almost did, a couple of times. But never knew what to say. You tried, you really did try not to think the worst. You tried not to think of his towering frame withering away in a ditch somewhere, lost among the scrap metal and copper wires. You tried not to think of  his pale skin pulled too-tight over rotting bones, succumbing to maggots. No, you didn’t think like that. You couldn’t.

Your cracked and glitchy phone screen was barely visible through your haze of tears, but you didn’t need to see it. You knew his number off by heart, had done since you were a girl. He never changed it. He worried you’d forget it, if he did, wouldn’t be able to reach him if you needed him. 

The sad irony of that fact made your wails come harder. 

With trembling hands, you held the phone to your ear, shutting your eyes for a moment and relishing in the sounds of his voice as his voicemail greeting played. You sniffled, inhaling shakily in a poor attempt to control your ragged breathing. 

“Hey,” you whispered after the beep. “Hey, it’s um. Me, I guess,” you sniffled again, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks. Every breath was laboured, your lungs felt as though they were burning, like you were inhaling smoke. “I just..I wanted to hear your voice. I just…” you sobbed, then, unable to compose yourself. You’d been so good at that, before. Once upon a time, in another life. Or at least, what felt like another life. “Ben, I-I need you, I can’t do this without you, I-I’m so t-tired of trying t-to do this w-w-without you. I can’t, I c-can’t do it,” you took another unsteady breath, hoping, praying, that he’d hear you. That he’d find you. “Just...p-please, Ben. Please come home, I miss you”.

You dropped your phone back into your lap, letting your head fall into your hands as you let yourself fall apart. Your heels slid on the tile, your lungs crackled with effort as they desperately fought to breathe through your howls. You’d learned early on that the only way to manage the pain, the tears, the hurricanes that came tearing out of that trench inside you, was to let it come. Let it pass, let it wash over you in tidal waves. It would dwindle eventually. The storm would subside, leaving behind its wreckage, its carnage. You didn’t bother with damage control. There wasn’t much of a point. The next storm was never far off. 

As you felt yourself begin to settle, you heard a faint knock on the other side of the cubicle door. Your name was called softly, followed by another knock. You took a deep breath, yanking at the discoloured toilet roll to dab at your face and running nose.

“One second,” you called hoarsely, picking yourself up off the floor and straightening your dress. You’d ripped your tights somewhere in your frenzy, and you pinched absently at the ladder you’d created as you collected yourself. You had no idea how long you’d been in there, how long you’d been crying. But if the scratching in your throat and the pounding between your ears was anything to go by, it had been long enough. You took another breath as a poor attempt of maintaining composure before swinging open the door, revealing a concerned Rose. Glowing, ethereal as always, even in the darkest of bars. 

“You look like you need a hug,” she murmured, stepping closer. She held her arms out timidly. Bless her heart, she tried. Always, even when you pushed her away. You felt yourself well up again, blinking the tears away as you stepped into her embrace. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I know you miss him.”

She knew, she always knew. 

“I need him, Rose,” you whined, your words muffled as you spoke into her shoulder. “I need him.”

“I know, sweetie,” she hugged you tighter, “I know.”

You sniffled, pulling away as you reached for more tissue. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, dabbing at your eyes. “I’m sorry that I’m always such a fucking wreck when I drink.” 

“Hey,” she held your arm softly. “Don’t be sorry. No one can tell you to heal.”

You nodded, chucking the tissue into the toilet. “Christ, what a mess.” 

Rose smiled, tugging at your arm softly. “Y’know, Jon sent me in here,” she said, her tone subdued. “He’s worried.”

You rolled your eyes. Jon was jealous, always had been, of your missing best friend. A man he’d never met, a man who could well be dead, owned more of your heart, more of your soul, more of your attention than he ever could. And that was fair enough, you knew that. You couldn’t argue with his statements, or how he felt. But the way he’d yell, the way he’d cry when he sensed a storm coming, when he knew you missed Ben a little more than usual. The way he’d tell you to get over it, to let go, to accept that he was probably dead. It boiled your blood. He didn’t know Ben, he’d never met him, never saw that cheeky glint in his eye, never heard his airy laughter. He’d never been hugged by him, or sang to. He’d never gotten to know his stupid jokes, or his obstinate, mercurial attitude that could be so fucking frustrating but so inherently Ben. Most importantly, though, he’d never seen how Ben looked at you. How he held you when you fell asleep on the couch, how he’d carry you to your bed before hugging your mother goodbye. How he’d dance with you, how he’d laugh with you, how he’d just be with you. It infuriated you, when Jon would insist that you let all of that go. To accept that he wasn’t coming back. Because you couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t. 

When you returned to your group, you avoided his gaze, settling in beside Rose on the opposite end of the table. Never one to back down from a potential fight, Jon approached your seat, tapping your shoulder and eyeing you expectantly. He wasn’t a bad person, Jon. He was kind, and he loved you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to love him, you couldn't bring yourself to care for him the way he cared for you. And maybe you deserved this, all of this endless pain, for stringing him along for all these years, using him as a distraction to alleviate your ache. You lived with constant guilt, constant shame for what you were doing. But you couldn’t stop, couldn’t get out. You worried that if you did, you’d crumble completely. You wished you didn’t need a crutch, you wished you felt enough empathy for Jon to leave. But you didn’t. All you ever felt was Ben, remnants of him sticking to your bones like a thirsty parasite, draining you of all emotion.

“I need some time,” you said plainly. “I just...Please. Just leave me alone.” You shook your head, your eyes glued to your half-empty rum and coke. Rum and badly brewed beer was the only alcohol available in the rezoned land. It turned your stomach sometimes, but a drink was a drink, at the end of the day.

You didn’t look at him, didn’t meet his eyes as he left, only saw him slip out of your peripheral vision and into the sea of people around you. 

When you crawled into your damp bed that night, alone and still in your dress, you’d never felt so misplaced, so lost. So hollow. So full of nothing that it terrified you. But when you slipped into a dream, into a world far kinder, far simpler than your own, you swore you could feel him. Swore you felt his arms, his hair, his breath. So you clung to it, anchored yourself to his broad frame and allowed yourself to melt. At least, in your dreams, he still clung to you, too. 

#i know this deadass looks like i don't know what i'm doing #but i promise i do #at least i kind of do #ah no i do #i think #my writing #stuck on you #ben solo #kylo ren #ben solo x reader #kylo ren x reader #ben solo x you #kylo ren x you

[star-killer-md]

Dream a Little Dream of Me Pt. 5

oh MY GOD. I swear this update bent me backwards and fucked me harder than Kylo Ren ever could. Like dear sweet jesus I don’t know why it was so hard for me to get this shit out of my brain and onto my google doc but she really just wasn’t having it. Anyway, here it is. Not entirely certain if I’m all the way happy with it, but it what it is and hopefully the weird symbolism and imagery came across well. I’m an english major so I can’t like not input that shit into my writing even if its a Kylo Ren smut fic. I hope you all enjoy this mess of an update. You’ve all been incredibly sweet and supportive and like you’re just great people. My lovely coworker beta’d this for me and more than one old woman definitely overheard us talking about Kylo’s dick while at work. 

As a side note, I am new to the game of writing smut for the most part (and like long form fic) and I want to branch out Into writing more kinks and such, so if there is anything you want to see from me, please send a message! I need the practice 😂

AO3 Mirror

Part 4

Warnings: nsfw, violence against the reader, violence against Kylo, they may or may not have a physical altercation in this, minor blood mentions (like very minor), dirty talking, inappropriate use of the Force, lots of angst, like oh god so much, cockwarming if you squint, some amount of softness cause the author is a little bitch 

Ship: Kylo Ren x Negotiator!Reader

Word Count: 7.6K (buckle up babes)

He wasn’t looking at you. 

He hadn’t looked at you all morning. 

You were looking though, couldn’t stop looking. Ever since you’d woken to find your bed empty and the Commander sat on the couch across from you, scrolling mindlessly through his datapad. There was a plate with crumbs left scattered on its surface and cup on the nightstand beside him.

You thought it might have been coffee. It was odd to think of him eating or drinking, for some reason you’d assumed before he didn’t need too. That seemed foolish now that you knew just how real he was. 

How did he take it, you wondered. With cream? Sugar to ease the bitterness? Or did he like the way it burned and tingled without anything to numb its acidic sting. 

On the small table in the corner, a silver room service tray sat abandoned. The fresh fruit was growing warm, filling the room with a sickly sweet scent that couldn’t even begin to cover the stench of avoidance that hung in the air. 

He hadn’t spoken to you all morning either. 

You both had yet to speak. 

You might have asked about the coffee, but then you noticed the very clear indent of a head on the pillow beside you. A few black hairs stood out starkly against the cream colored sheets. 

And then you remembered. 

Someone’s breath washing warm over your face, the glimpse of him bare from the waist up, your favorite mole, the shower water pounding over pink skin, his name in your mouth— 

And it became clear why he wasn’t saying anything. 

Because he knew what you’d done. 

And you knew he knew. 

And he knew that you knew he knew. 

It felt horribly awkward breaking the stillness of the room, so you didn’t move from the bed. Just sat up, letting the covers pool in your lap as the fruit slowly rotted and neither of you spoke a word. Once you thought he might have glanced at you from the corner of your eye, but when you turned, he quickly looked back down at the glowing screen in his lap. 

Eventually, you’d had enough. Throwing the sheets off your bare legs, you climbed out of bed and padded quietly into the refresher. You shut the door with a click and heard the immediate shuffling of fabric from outside. Soft footsteps and the sound of pouring liquid filtered in from the main room, but the extra clink of a spoon stirring or the dripping of cream was decidedly absent. 

He drank it black, then. 

The thought settled heavily in you. 

Your reflection in the mirror was pitiable, puffy, tired eyes staring back at you blankly. You ran the water, splashing some on your face and tried not to think about what you’d ‘seen’ the Commander do in the shower behind you last night. 

But one look at the slate gray tiles had images of his hand curling against them, the other wrapped around— 

You buried your face in one of the hand towels and groaned into it. Was he staring at your empty bed and thinking the same thing? Were scenes of you writhing on the sheets playing themselves on loop in the Commander’s head? Could he feel the lingering want for him in the air around you?

Outside the door, you heard something that sounded suspiciously like Ren choking on his coffee. 

Staring down into the basin, you felt a terrible realization cresting over the horizon. He knew about last night—that was a given. You had heard him, seen him, felt him in some ethereal way you could not explain. He’d been in you too, a presence in your head, an audience to all that you thought of him. 

But was that really the first time?

Because—now that you thought about it, really stopped and breathed it all in—the empty, lonely, half-filled and never completed feeling that sat deeply in your bones was only ever gone when he touched you—only ever relieved when he visited you in your sleep. 

And you had been blessedly free of it last night, when you lay breathless and trembling with a pleasure that did not belong to you. 

In fact, you did not feel it even now.

You thought of his face. Too identical, every mole and freckle right down to your favorite of them in the same place. The same eyes, same angle of his teeth, same ears just a bit too big and hair that fell in his face. The same baby curls by the crown of his head. 

It was simply impossible for your mind alone to have crafted such a perfect replica. 

There was no denying it. 

And it was only now dawning on you—that, in fact, it had always been him. 

The Commander Ren who drank black coffee and did everything in his power to enrage you at a moment's notice was one and the same with the Kylo who had plagued your mind for months. Whom you had not so secretly craved like he was ambrosia and you, a starving mortal at his feet. 

Your breath shook as it filled your lungs and clawed its way back out like the secret of it was trying to burst free from its prison in your ribcage. 

Outside, the Commander was moving again, and you listened, feeling the pull in each step—like he was walking through honey. 

The soft swish of his pants was the only sound apart from your shallow breathing. There was something alive in the air and it was waiting. 

The shadow of his feet came to a halt outside the door and you heard the soft thump of his hand resting against it. You were compelled by a force—the Force maybe—some unknowable tugging in your veins. Your feet found their way to stand toe to toe, palm to palm with Kylo Ren, nothing but the thin wood of the door between you. 

There was a stillness settling in the room, and when you closed your eyes, you could see it. 

He was there, clear as the void of space and twice as lovely—standing, staring through the barrier between your bodies. And you felt him see you too. Felt yourself full to the brim and fantastically whole. 

You wanted to touch him. 

Needed to touch him. 

And you knew he would let you. 

Because he always had before and you couldn’t stop your hand from pushing against the wood, prying it away to reveal Kylo, your Kylo, your Commander to you and then— 

Then it all shattered. 

The door between you was flung nearly off its tracks as someone rapped twice loudly from the hall. You barely had time to register the awful sinking sensation, like a knife carving you in two as the Commander met your eyes for the first time that morning and you felt nothing.  

The knocking came again and you gazed at him frantically. 

“Get in,” you hissed under your breath.

He stared at you with his pretty brown eyes, frowning like he always did. The man before you was simply your uncooperative Commander who could do nothing but cause unnecessary inconvenience. There was no more glimmer in his gaze to tell you the last few minutes hadn’t been just another dream. 

Your eye twitched as you stepped out past him and gestured towards the empty space left behind. 

“I’m sorry, would you like to be found out?”

The tapping on the door repeated itself and you pointed harshly at the bathroom until he finally slipped inside, knocking his shoulder into you as he went. You shut the door a little harder than strictly necessary.  

A familiar voice called to you from outside. 

“Miss Negotiator?” 

When you’d opened the door, Lem Alba was standing in the hall just outside. In his hand he held a small package. 

You apologized politely, “I was just about to get in the shower.” 

“Ah,” he nodded. “I won’t keep you too long then, just came to deliver this and to let you know that Representative Gahl has invited you to travel with his personal security team tomorrow morning.” 

“Oh, right,” you tried not to sound disappointed that he hadn’t forgotten your conversation, and took the parcel from his hand. 

It wasn’t that the gesture was entirely unusual, but Gahl didn’t exactly strike you as someone important enough to warrant a whole team of guards. You thought anxiously of Atreus. 

An example. 

“Why with his personal team, may I ask?”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this” Lem looked up and down the hall before leaning in conspiratorially, “but one of the staff was found dead a few hours ago, so we’re increasing protection to some of the more high ranking individuals.”

The shock on your face was mostly genuine, “Shit, that’s horrible.” 

Lem nodded and sighed, leaning up against the door frame, “Yes, well that’s what we’ve been dealing with all morning.” 

You chuckled, “Don’t you just love doing jobs that aren’t yours?”

That’s why I’m here, you almost said but thought better of it. Something told you your audience wouldn’t appreciate the comment. The hard, invisible pinch on your thigh confirmed your suspicions. 

“You got that right,” he mumbled and stood up straight. “And I should get back to it.” 

“Of course,” you gave him a thin smile and moved to close the door but Lem’s hand caught it at the last second. 

“Let me know,” he cleared his throat, “if that’s not the right fit. I can have another sent up.” 

Glancing down at the package in your hand, you felt your face grow hot, “I will.” 

You meant to shut the door quietly, Lem still smiling at you from the other side, but the knob was ripped from your hand and it slammed closed with a bang. After a few seconds you heard the bathroom door slide open revealing Kylo Ren, taking up the entire archway. 

His size might have intimidated you if you hadn’t been so angry. 

“Care to explain yourself, sir?” you’d asked, all mercy and craving for him dying away as he stared at you blankly, jaw set on edge. It really was so amazing how this man could flip your moods like a switch. Night and day. Your hatred of him was forever inevitable. 

“I should ask you the same, officer.”

Outwardly he looked unfazed, eyes flicking to the package in your hand, but you’d seen him like this back on the Finalizer. The eerie calm before he snapped like a bowstring and left destruction in his wake. Before the bodies of officers who wronged him littered the floor and you were left to clean up the rubble.

You were walking on thin ice and it was cracking. 

You took another step. 

“If you’re insinuating that I’m the one jeopardizing our position here, then you are sorely mistaken,” your voice came out in a harsh whisper and grated your throat. 

The coffee cup on the nightstand rattled. 

“Remind me,” he took a menacing step towards you, “who here was it that agreed to leave the district with a group plotting against the Order?”

You met him head on, “I’m sorry you’re so woefully ignorant of diplomatic proceedings, but it wasn't exactly as if I had a choice.”

Cracks skittered up the porcelain as Kylo’s hands flexed, curling into fists at his sides. A rush of slick warmth flooded you at the sight. You tried to beat down the rising wave of sick arousal, but truly you couldn’t help it. Not when he looked at you with those pretty eyes blown wide and black with some dangerous suggestions. Not when his fingers were biting into his palms and you were imagining the marks they could leave on you. 

“Watch your mouth,” he gritted out each word, perfect teeth flashing behind his pink lips. 

You didn’t. 

“At least I know not to leave a body for them to find!”

The slight twitch of his eye was the only warning you got before the cup across the room splintered. Shards sharp as knives exploded out in an arch catching on your clothes and littering the rug. In the same split second Kylo Ren pounced like a predator on the hunt. His fist connected with the wall next to your head, dusting the side of your face with paint chips as it crumpled under his hand. 

You stared, gaze flicking between his shaking arm sticking out of the newly formed hole in your wall and his wild eyes—feral, lovely. 

For a minute, neither of you moved, just stood breathing each other's breaths and waiting. Again, he was only inches from you and you wished that you’d gotten to glimpse him before. That you could have slid the barrier between you aside and seen him soft and melting instead of untamed and steel hardened. 

But it seemed neither of you could let go of this savage security blanket of rage for each other. 

And if this was the closest to him you could get, that would have to be enough. 

You felt yourself draining, deflating, shrinking and cast your eyes down in surrender. Kylo pushed off the wall a second later, turning his back to you and burying his hands in his hair. He folded onto the sofa, legs spread and elbows on his knees. 

You’d seen him like this in a dream once, held his face in your hands and begged for him to take you. 

His eyes flicked to you still standing against the wall. 

“You’ve done this before,” he mumbled into his palms. 

You gaped. 

“Um, could be more specific, sir?” 

The look that comment elicited nearly turned you to stone. 

“Oh, if you’re talking about the strategic murder of political elites,” you let out an uneasy laugh and moved to perch on the edge of the bed, “then yes, I’ve arranged them.”

 You weren’t exactly proud of that, but it came with the job description. Par for the course as they say.

It was a dirty thing to do in the world of politics, and you felt much more satisfied when you had properly manipulated your opponent into submission rather than just killing them off. Your throat began to grow tight at the thought of yourself, shot in the back walking away from the mediation table. Just like the man who had this job before you.

Everything in the First Order came stained with blood and you were being called to pay the piper. 

What goes around comes around...as they say. 

“And?” his short tone brought you out of your stupor. 

You furrowed your brow, “Commander, are you asking me how I’d plot my own kidnapping and murder?”

He waved his hand for you to continue as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be asking. You supposed, in this world it was. 

“Alright then,” you sighed and flopped back on the mattress. “I would do it somewhere big, somewhere with an audience so the message gets across. Instill fear and go out with a bang.” 

Kylo’s head shot up, “They're planning on broadcasting the campaign announcement and the Order’s endorsement.”

“What?” you lifted your head off the pillows. “Did the dead body tell you that?”

“He wasn’t dead at the time,” Ren clapped back and pushed himself up in one smooth motion. 

He reached for his helmet sitting by the arm of the couch and slipped it over his head without a word. You watched him replace his layers, clipping the large belt in place and tugging on his boots. 

“Well, if I was going to kill me that’s when I’d do it,” you said, rolling on your side to watch him tighten the laces. 

Kylo didn’t say anything to that. Just stood and marched his way past the hole in the wall and stopped by the door. 

“Don’t—”

“Leave this room,” you interrupted. “I know.” 

The Commander huffed once, nothing more than an exhale of static and let the door click shut behind him. 

*** 

That was almost two days ago, and you hadn’t seen him since. 

Well, he’d certainly been there—the warm spot on your bed told you as much—but he was gone by morning and you’d left with the Representative and his team not long after. 

Currently, you were lounging in one of the large, soft chairs on your private balcony watching the waves and enjoying your first moments alone since arriving at the villa. Most of the day had been filled with hours upon hours of dull discussions where no one really wanted to hear what you had to say, but expected you to say something anyway. Finally, you’d been able to slip out while the rest of the staff sat down for drinks in the drawing room. 

The sound of the sea drifted up from the shore and settled around you, blanketing the small deck in a layer of artificial calm. The sun had begun its descent, and the water glimmered golden in it’s dying light. 

Now, there was just you and the ocean and your thoughts. 

Which, if you were honest with yourself, wasn’t that much of an improvement. 

Because you were thinking of him. 

Because that’s all you ever did anymore. 

Thinking of how you wished he was here and how you never wanted to face him again. Thinking of how you wished everything was simpler. 

And how you didn’t wish that at all. 

It was true, at first Kylo Ren had been nothing to you. His existence was more of a myth, a legend that you heard whispered, but was easy to disbelieve. How could a man like that exist, you’d thought. People didn’t live off of blood and waves of rotting bodies, they didn’t feed on power or bend the very fabric of the universe to their will. 

But they did drink coffee, and brush their teeth, and sleep beside you when they thought you wouldn’t remember. Real people tied their shoes and put holes in your wall when you talked out of turn. 

You thought of your first dreams of him, when Kylo was still soft and kind and not wholly himself—warm and gentle and lacking. You thought of him filling out around the edges, becoming clearer and sharper in words and reality. You thought of him cursing you, of holding his touch hostage and making you come apart cruelly empty of his skin. It was as if you were summoning something old and dark, drawing him more completely to you with each ritual. Everytime you came with his name in your mouth, another hook sunk and dragged him in. 

As if whatever had placed him there had taken its time, pulling pieces of him into your head until even when you were conscious, it was impossible to keep him from slipping into the forefront of your mind. 

And now that you’d been given a taste of it—of relief from the awful pit that drained you dry and was never satisfied—you were shaking again, ravenous like a starved animal with the loss. 

You got the distinct feeling there would always be something standing in between you and the Commander. Always something, always something, always something keeping you just a hair's breadth apart—making sure your palms never quite touched. 

It wasn’t enough to just hate him anymore, to feel your bones shake with the need to make him feel the same pain he inflicted on you. 

In your desperate attempt to craft something to fill the void in your small existence, Kylo Ren had become the tendons and threads which knitted you together into one, cohesive whole. 

You needed all of him, unencumbered, uninterrupted, raw and real with his teeth sunk into you. 

And really, how wrong was that?

Well, you knew the answer was most likely very wrong. But there was a reason you were good at your job and it wasn’t because you were in possession of a perfectly functioning code of ethics. 

You breathed in the salt spray off the sea and let it coat your lungs. The crashing of the waves rumbled in your chest like a drum beat, steady, sure, and comforting. No matter what, there would always be other worlds, other oceans, other lives that kept going even when yours did not. 

You were falling asleep, eyelids heavy and dropping every few seconds. 

And soon, you would dream. 

*** 

He was standing at the end of a dark hallway, just barely silhouetted by the strips of moonlight filtering through the windows.  His back was to you, so you called his name softly. When he turned, his face was blessedly bare and pale and shocked. 

“What are you doing here?” Kylo hissed. 

You stared in confusion as he moved swiftly down the hall, grabbing your arm and tugging until you stumbled behind him into a side passage. 

The second he stopped you wrenched your hand from his grasp. 

“What are you talking about?” you snapped and he whirled on you, massive, gloved hand clamping down over your mouth.

“Keep your voice down,” he said, caging you against the wall. 

The tip of his nose brushed against yours as he spoke. Your cries of protest were muffled by the soft leather, its smoke stained taste invading your tongue when you tried to speak. Shaking your head in his grasp, you manueved one of his fingers between your lips and bit down, hard. The fabric caught on your teeth as he ripped his hand away and cursed. 

“Fuck, you—!” a small trickle of blood dripped from the hole in his glove where your teeth had torn at the flesh. His eyes were venomous, “I told you not to leave your room.”

“I didn’t—” you were cut off abruptly as voices began to echo down the abandoned corridor. 

You both stared wide eyed at each other as the sound of footsteps approaching grew louder. Quickly, he stepped forward, pressing both your bodies flat against the wall. You didn’t dare breathe as two figures passed by your hiding spot in the shadows and entered the door at the end of the hall. 

Kylo was so close you could see his throat move as he swallowed, his chest right up against your face, the scent of him washing over you. Something hard was pressing into your thigh. You convinced yourself it was just his saber, despite the warm pulsing you felt every time you twitched against him. 

He was looking down at you, lips parted as though he might speak, but the voices filtering out from under the door drowned anything he might have said.

“Representative, we can’t be too hasty.” 

Each word dripped down your spine leaving a viscous and greasy trail. You knew that voice. 

An example. 

But why would you be dreaming about Gahl and his so-called advisor? 

“You aren’t dreaming,” Kylo whispered, exasperation clear as he spoke. His eyes bored into you, leaving behind painful trails wherever they darted across your skin. “Now shut your mouth before you get us caught.” 

His hand found your mouth again, his fingers prying it open and pressing hard down on your tongue. You gagged around them, the iron of his blood coating your teeth as he pulled harshly down on your jaw. It ached and popped but no sound escaped. 

You’d read somewhere before that you can’t feel pain in your dreams, but you certainly felt that. 

He was right. Not a dream then. 

You swallowed around Kylo’s fingers, hints of metal and smokey leather dripping down your throat. His eyes were fixed on your lips as they stretched around him. The warm, hard presence at your thigh ground into you by an almost imperceptible inch. 

“You said if we took the girl, he’d come.” 

It was Gahl this time, his voice rougher around the edges with age. You found yourself letting your hips curiously rock up just a hair while you listened for the slight hitch in the Commander’s breath you knew so well. 

Your heart nearly stopped at the sound—not his saber. 

“Ren will come sir,” Atreus purred. “I’m sure of it.” 

“How can you be so sure?” Gahl sounded unconvinced. 

You sucked lightly, letting your tongue trace a slow line in the gap between Kylo’s fingers. He growled low into your ear, “Behave.” 

Yeah, you thought, it’s really gonna be me who gives us away.

“I saw it sir, when he was here before, the girl was in his head.” 

That gave you pause, and you narrowed your eyes searching his face for any reaction. He remained blank but for the slight crease in his brow, and the shaking of his breath. Your mind raced at the implication. You’d certainly been aware that the Commander was constantly in your head, but you were almost entirely sure Kylo Ren hadn’t given you a second thought until very recently. 

“I still don’t understand what is so remarkable about that woman,” Gahl grumbled from behind the door. 

Well you certainly weren’t going to argue with him on that, although it felt a little unnecessary to keep bringing up just how expendable you were. 

“I can’t explain it either sir, but he’ll come for her. And if he doesn’t, her death will prove to be more than motivating enough to draw him in.” 

You felt like gagging at every word leaving that man's mouth. Kylo’s fingers in your mouth turned sour the longer you listened. 

“You had better not be wrong, Atreus,” Gahl warned, his tone darker and sharper than you’d ever heard from the old man. “I want that masked idiot dead and the First Order at my feet by the end of this election cycle.”

Every muscle in your body was tensed, clenched and pulled taught like a coil, your jaw clicked as you worked against the intrusion in your mouth. Suddenly the scent of him was too much—the air hanging heavy in your lungs and never quite exhaling fully. 

Gods, Kylo Ren really was the source of all your turmoil. 

Your tongue and teeth and lips pushed and bit against his fingers until he finally pulled them from your mouth. 

You were going to die here—you were going to die here and it wouldn’t mean anything. They were right, you were unimportant and your death would be nothing more than a blip in the First Order’s radar. And somehow Kylo Ren had managed to put you right in the middle of the crossfire. 

You needed to get away, couldn’t bear to hear whatever came next. 

“Get off me,” you hissed, wrestling against his hands trying to keep you in place. 

“Stay still—” His voice was sandpaper on your skin and you needed to leave, had to leave, had to get as far away as possible— 

“I said,” you managed to position your hands squarely on his chest and shoved with a surprising amount of force, “get off me!”

Kylo Ren stumbled, actually stumbled back and stared at you with an awful, bitter cocktail of shock and anger and something else you didn’t have the time or patience to place. Father down the hall, a door was opening and voices approached from the hall. 

Everything faded to black far before you ever heard what they said. 

***

You were on your feet before you could even open your eyes. 

The sea was calling and you were going to listen, the small stones of the shoreline sinking between your toes as you rushed down the small path from your room. Waves were crashing in pairs when you finally made it to the water's edge, stripping your evening clothes off piece by piece like shedding skin, needing to be free. 

Free of nothing. 

Free of everything. 

The salt spray churned and rolled over your ankles and calves as you waded out into the sea. Something was pulling you, stronger than the currents, tugging you out into deeper water and you let it until your head sank below the surface and the sound of muted thunder waves roiling was a cacophony in your head. 

You were drifting, mind and body being tossed about. 

Confused—reality doesn’t have a clear border anymore and you couldn’t be sure what had happened and what hadn't, what should have happened but didn’t. 

Scared—you didn’t want to die, it wasn’t something you’d thought of before despite the nature of your employment, but you realized now that it was never your strength or wit keeping you alive, just luck. 

Angry—boiling inside at the thought of your unshakeable insignificance.

Angry—unwilling to die over the wounded pride of men who constantly underestimated you.

Angry—at yourself for inexplicably wanting one of them anyway. 

You let out your breath and screamed. Let the bubbles leave your mouth in a rush of air and pent up frustrations. The rumbling shock of diluted sound waves reverberated in your chest. You shrieked until your ears popped and your lungs were empty and water rushed to fill the vacuum left behind. 

And for a few moments, when nothing remained inside you and the world was in a strange, unbalanced limbo, you felt it. Inside that crater within your soul that wept and lamented its lacking, there was a spark. Something bright and firecracker red like a lost ember which had forgotten the fire of its youth. 

And you knew what you needed to do to feed it, to let it burn, to fill yourself to the brim and overflow with totality. 

Your head broke the surface like an eggshell, water streaming into your eyes as you gasped in lungfuls of wind off the sea. Someone was shouting for you. Far on the shoreline, a massive black silhouette stood bathed in starshine and the moon.  

It took a moment for you to realize he was yelling at you.

“What are you doing?!” 

His voice barely carried over the rushing water and the sound of your arms splashing to keep you afloat. 

“None of your business,” you called, turning to swim farther out into the depths. 

You could hear his frustrated shout as the waves kicked up over his boots. 

“Get back here,” he snarled. 

You weren’t able to make out his face, but you were sure his lips were pulled back, bearing crooked teeth ready to rip your throat out. 

He might do just that with a little coaxing. That was fine with you. Your anger was one meant to be shared. 

“Make me.” 

You could feel him snapping even as you drifted deeper out to sea. He was fraying, about to break and you wanted it. Wanted him drowning in the same turmoil as you. 

“You want me to make you?” he was raging now, hands tearing at his clothes, “You want me to fucking make you?”

You watched as he was revealed to you and tumbled into the surf, incoherent fury sapping all the grace from his steps—demise personified parting the waters.  

The moon glinted off Kylo’s skin and he practically glowed with it. In spite of yourself, you thought he looked every bit a prince, so painfully handsome in his own, strange way–inimitable and all the more lovely for it. Inky black water swirled and the breakers crashed against the bare expanse of his chest, like the sea itself was desperate to steal a taste of him.

Something within you–scarlet and glimmering–stirred. 

Something that ached. 

Something that yearned. 

Something hungry.

You watched him wade towards where you were floating, felt the current shift and draw you to him like a sinking ship. In his eyes you saw that same spark, red and crackling and alive. There was a beast in his bones and it smiled. 

And you knew, you would let it take you. 

But not without a fight. 

You kicked and struggled against the Force pulling you to him, not certain if he was the one controlling it or if it had its own mind and movement. But it was a futile effort either way. He was on you in seconds, fingers like claws grasping your ankle and ripping you through the water to him. 

He growled and grabbed a fistful of your hair, dragging your head underwater without warning. But you flailed and felt your foot connect with the hard plane of his stomach and his grip on you slipped. 

“This is your fault,” you screeched when you came up again. 

He was heavier than you, larger and sunk faster in the deep water. You maneuvered your hands into his hair as well while he tried to stay above the surface and yanked him down—shouts turned to bubbles—until he raked his nails across your bare chest and the sharp pain made you let go. 

Kylo’s head connected with your jaw as he came spluttering to the surface and your mouth flooded with the metallic taste of blood. It dripped from your lips in a stream and you spat out a mess of red stained sea water, watching it splattered over his handsome face in rivulets. 

“You brought this on yourself, you arrogant little slut,” he roared, shaking your shoulders in his hands until the back of your hand cracked across his face. 

“I’m the slut?!” you shrieked. “You can’t even be in the same room with me without your dick getting hard!”

He was right now too, you could feel the prominent, warm pressure of his cock slotted against your stomach. And whether or not there was a heat building between your thighs at the thought of it was neither here nor there. 

Blood still dripped down your chin as you both ripped at each other's hair, slippery with sea salt and plastered to your skulls. 

“You think I can’t hear you begging for me,” his face is so close you can see all the hairline scars that ran through it, connecting the dots between his freckles. 

Your nose brushed against his, “I’m not the one avoiding the subject!”

His knee slipped hard into the space between your legs and you yelped. 

“You have no idea what’s at stake here,” he gritted through his teeth. 

“My life, asshole,” you bristled. “I’m gonna die here trying to fix the mess you started!”

Neither of you spoke after the words died on your lips, just floating and gasping with the exertion of staying afloat. In the following silence, with the adrenaline pounding behind your ears, Kylo’s eyes were locked onto yours—black pools like the dark water. 

Seconds passed and you let whatever dying flame was inside your chest grow until its heat under your skin was blistering and driving you forward into the only thing that would offer any relief. 

Kylo’s lips were plump and soft under yours as they crashed together, your teeth clacking with the impact. It didn’t matter, not when his tongue licking into your mouth was the most soothing sensation you’d ever felt. 

His hands were frantic, grabbing fistfuls of your flesh and pulling you as close to him as possible, leaving no inch of skin untouched. Your legs wound around his hips, locking ankles just above the lovely curve of his ass. He groaned into your lips and you felt it in your bones. 

Tell me, he spoke in your head, and it felt as though he had always belonged there. 

Your ribs were cracking open to let him spill in, to fill in all the holes that riddled you. 

Tell me, he repeated again and it sounded like praying. 

His teeth caught your lip, sucking blood into his mouth so you could be inside him too. And he was so hot against you, all pale naked and sinful. You’d never realized someone could feel so solid, so painfully real and not just a trick of the light in your mind. Arms of pure, corded muscle locked around your back and crushed you to him as his feet found purchase on the soft sand. 

The sea was spitting you back onto the shoreline, waves crashing over your entangled limbs. It was no longer clear where you ended and Kylo began. 

It was not close enough. 

Kylo, you whimpered hoping the connection went both ways and he would hear you too. 

I’m here, you felt the pebbles of the beach kick up as he stood out of the surf and walked you up the beach. I’m here, tell me. 

His mouth never ceased to move against yours, biting, sucking, drinking you down to soothe the burn of the salt. Between your bodies, his cock was twitching. And now that you were blessedly free of the water, you could feel yourself dripping with need for him. 

You’d been this close once before, but it hadn’t felt anything like this. 

Kylo walked you up the beach, kneeling down in front of his pile of discarded clothes and landing in a heap on top of you. He ground his hips down, the tip of his length catching on your clit. The sound you made was inhuman, pure desire. 

The rocks of the beach bit into your back through his cloak, but you hardly noticed when his lips wandered down your neck. He growled and sunk his teeth into the flesh between your shoulder and neck, sucking a mark into your skin you would never be able to hide. 

You reared up, ready to paint more bruises on his skin when a hand closed around your throat and slammed you back into the earth. 

Tell me or you can’t touch, he groaned. 

You huffed and whined when he pinned your wrists in one hand above your head. No matter how hard you pulled, you couldn’t break his grip and you knew before he must have been letting you hit and kick and scratch at him. Must have liked it. 

You squirmed at the thought. 

His lips ghosted over your collarbone, other hand skimming up to palm at your breasts. Kylo’s mouth closed over a nipple, rolling it on his tongue and nipping when you bucked your hips into him. 

You watched him lap at your skin, loving the wet streaks he left behind. 

I hate you, you shot back. 

He smirked against your chest and moved on to torment your other breast, all the while grinding his cock between your soaked lips, coating himself in you. 

Lying won’t get you anywhere, he punctuated the statement with a particularly hard thrust over your clit. 

The slide of it was delicious and maddening and you needed more. 

I’m not lying, you said, although the string of moans leaving your mouth when he circled the tip of his dick over your entrance was not at all convincing.He pushed in just barely, never hard enough to actually grant you any relief. 

I know a lie when I hear one, his voice was velvet and it was driving you off the edge. 

But you would fight till the very end. It was one of your few redeeming qualities. 

Fuck you. 

That’s a bit more accurate, yes. 

He chuckled darkly resting his head on your sternum so he could watch as you helplessly rolled your hips while his cock remained frustratingly not in your pussy. 

Fine, you signed and he flicked his eyes back to your face. 

Kylo’s movements stilled and he pulled his hands back, leaning down to rest on his elbows above you. Some of his pretty sea-curled hair tickled your nose. 

“II wantwant youyou,” you whispered feeling it echo through whatever presence was allowing you to transfer your thoughts without really speaking. 

His breath hitched in that beautiful way that you loved. 

And then you were screaming—really truly screaming—his hand clamping down on your mouth to stifle the noise. 

But the wave of otherworldly pleasure and searing pain that washed over you when he thrust his hips, cock sinking into your cunt to the hilt in one swift motion was entirely too much bare. 

Though, Kylo was not faring much better. His face fell into the crook of your neck and he groaned into the skin. He didn’t move for a few moments, and you felt your walls tighten around him. He was massive, you’d known that, but never had you expected to feel so full.

You cared very little then, about whether or not you were going to die on this godforsaken planet, not if he could fuck you like this. Not if you got to feel Kylo Ren in every conceivable part of your body. 

He let out a shaky breath into your neck and pulled himself up. 

“I’m going to ruin you,” he gasped, drawing his cock out of you until only the tip remained sheathed in your warmth. “Ruin this pretty little pussy for anyone else.” 

Kylo slammed back into you, making your tits bounce as his hips slapped against your ass. You knew he was right. There would be no coming back from this—for him or you.  

“No one will ever feel like I do,” you retorted, clenching harder around him as he worked up a steady rhythm. 

You watched the muscles in his abdomen twitch as you tightened yourself and he reared back on his knees, grabbing your waist with his massive hands and hoisting your lower body off the ground. 

The new angle stretched you even more and every thrust caught that elusive spot inside you that had your thighs trying to snap shut against his hips. 

“Fuck, Kylo!” you cried, as shameless as always. 

“What?” he grunted. “You want it harder? Want me deeper?”

“Yesyesyesyesyes,” you babbled, needing anything he would give you. 

Kylo delivered on your request. You felt him in your stomach, each thrust was quick and sharp and angled just right and you had never felt anything like you did now. 

He was in your head still, his presence was warm and glowed a dim, sultry red that made your mind hazy—illuminated parts of yourself you’d thought were forgotten. Passion, that’s what he felt like, deep and forbidden. Delicious truth. 

“You keep saying you aren’t a whore, but look how well you’re taking my cock,” Kylo mused. 

You knew you were in his head too, could feel yourself leaking in through the cracks. He was thinking about how magnificent your pussy felt swallowing his length, how badly he wanted to cum in you, claim you and make you keep his release inside. 

There was fear there too. 

Longing and something darker. 

You wanted to take it away. 

“Only for you,” you muttered between thrusts, crying out when the Force loosed it tendrils over your skin. A shapeless finger rolled and teased your clit while two others kneaded at your chest. 

“You’re a whore just for me?” he was coming unhinged, you could sense it in the way his cock was pulsing in you. 

You nodded, bringing a hand to rest over his on your waist.

“Good girl.” 

He threw his head back, and you admired the lovely angle of his throat against the night sky. The Force on your clit was unrelenting and you wouldn’t last much longer, the tight coil of pleasure was building in your gut and spreading through your veins like quicksilver. 

“Kylo, I’m gonna—” you were cut off by his hand grabbing you by the hair and crushing you up into his chest. 

He sat your ass on his knees and lifted you up, dragging you back down onto his cock. You were like a rag doll in his hands as he wrapped his arms around your back and slammed you down. There was no space left between your bodies, nothing but the slide of your sweat slicked skin and his breath on your face. 

Even surrounded by the scent of sex and the sea you could still smell fresh mint lingering on his tongue. 

That might have been what finally sent you toppling over the edge. Or maybe it was the look on his face—brows furrowed and lips parted in a pleasure only you could bring him. Or maybe it was just the finality of it all. 

That Kylo Ren was unequivocally and irreparably linked to you now in some way. Be it through the blood in your mouths or his cock painting your insides with cum as you sobbed and clenched around him, circling in a feedback loop of each other’s orgasm. He was panting in your ear, spewing curses you couldn’t comprehend and fucking you through your release and his. 

This was something bigger than it seemed, you knew it when you heard him grunt your name while his mouth latched back on to the mark on your neck. Knew it when the glowing red presence in your head didn’t fade and the empty feeling you’d called friend all these years didn’t return. 

Knew it when he let you stay wrapped in his arms for a few precious seconds, his softening length still filling you with its pleasant, stinging warmth. 

Knew it when you felt the softest press of his lips to your neck when he lifted his head and pressed yours to his chest with a massive hand. 

His heart beat steadily under all the bone and sinew. 

It wasn’t until then that you became consciously aware he had one. 

“You aren’t going to die,” he whispered. 

And you wished you could believe him. Almost said so, but the words never came out, got lost somewhere in between your lips and how his skin was so much softer than you ever imagined it would be. Then he was pressing two fingers to your temple, a wave of unwilling sleep falling over you in a lovely, red blanket. 

And this time, you didn’t dream.  

----------------------------------------------------

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